Cowboy Poetry and Music and More at the BAR-D Ranch

Rawlins, Wyoming 
About Timothy Carrier


A Cowboy's Prayer 

Lord Bless this ole cowboy,
as he sits in the saddle,
while mending his fences
or just tending his cattle.

Lord Bless this ole cowboy,
as he lives by the code,
though you may never see him,
he's just off of the road.

Lord Bless this ole cowboy,
and the bay that he rides,
from sun-up to sun-set
through the meadows they glide.

Lord Bless this ole cowboy,
cuz he'll never get rich,
with worn out jeans
that needs more than a stitch.

Lord Bless this ole cowboy,
as he rides in the rain,
who is always so faithful
and who never complains.

Lord Bless this ole cowboy,
thru all kinds of weather,
from his hat to his boots
and his chaps made of leather.

Lord Bless this ole cowboy,
who is showing his age,
as he rides on the prairie
all covered with sage.

Lord Bless this ole cowboy,
as he sits by the fire
cup of coffee in hand
as he dreams with desire.

Lord Bless this ole cowboy,
as he lays down to sleep,
and when breathing his last,
his soul You Shall Keep......Amen

 Timothy Carrier
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without permission.


The Buc Stallion

It was down in Texas
guess it was 'round El Pas'o.
There was a young black stallion,
I would later git to know.

I could see him from a distance,
run'in thru the jasper trees.
Leading a herd of outlaw mustangs
with their tails in the breeze.

He was quicker than the light'in,
he was faster than the wind.
As he thundered thru the canyon,
I wuz hop'in to see him ag'in.

When I woke up next morn'in,
I couldn't help but stare,
he was stand'in at a distance
right beside my buckskin mare.

I didn't have my lasso,
and I knew I'd have to wait.
He took off like the light'in
as he galloped out the gate.

This stallion loved his freedom,
I knew he had his pride.
Cuz a few had tried to rope him,
others said they did and lied.

It wasn't till months later,
when ag'in I saw that steed,
I swore that he was different,
than any other mustang breed.

He stood at least sixteen hands,
and maybe even more.
I knew I had to tame this buc,
not think'in what's in store       

I started racing towards him,
he snorted and paw'd the ground.
In an instant he had vanished,
he wasn't seen for miles around.

I went back and started work'in
trying to mend that darn ole fence.
When I realized it was him or me,
who didn't have any sense.

The fall had already started,
the harvest moon was shining brite.
I could see this huge black stallion,
silhouetted by it's light.

As I reached to pour some coffee,
with a tin cup in my hand.
I looked back seconds later,
he disappeared from his noble stand.

As I layed upon my bedroll,
I prayed my soul to keep.
As I dreamn't about that stallion,
thru out a good nite's sleep.

As I got up that next morn'in,
after get'in much needed rest.
I didn't know it'd be later,
it would be me put to the test.

I drank my cup of coffee,
as I put the campfire out.
I saw this buc of a stallion
running toward me without a doubt.

So I climbed upon my buckskin,
as he was pacing fast towards me.
I knew this time I'd rope him,
no more would he run free.

As I flung my lasso,
I couldn't believe my eyes,
I had roped this young buc stallion,
and much to my surprise.

The rope I threw around him,
fell to the ground to say the most,
It was then I knew this stallion,
was nothing more than just a ghost.

This story I've told is ending,
and before they say I've died.
It was true about all the others,
who claimed they roped him, hadn't lied....

 Timothy Carrier
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without permission.


The Working Cowboy

I am just a simple cowboy,
I know the cowboy ways.
The sage brush is my legacy,
out here is where I'll stay.

I've done my share of branding,
and strung a fence or two.
Now sitting by the campfire,
writing a poem of love to you.

You know I love my freedom,
you know I've got my pride.
No matter if you love me,
you can't come for the ride.

This life I chose is lonely,
it's not for everyone.
The work I do ain't easy,
and seems it's never done.

As I lay upon my bedroll,
I gaze up at the stars .
Thanking God for all His blessings,
and know'ing He isn't far.

Some folks say I'm a poet,
and others don't really care.
Guess it's just Ole Red and me,
and the cowboy life we share.

Before I get too sleepy,
I'll say a prayer or two.
I'll say one for my horse, Ole Red,
and I'll say one just for you.

If I die before tomorrow,
I'll know I've done my best.
I died a working cowboy,
that has been put to the test.

2002, Timothy Carrier
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without permission.

The Outlaw

His eyes were red from sleepless nights,
his shirt was soaked with sweat.
From all those lawless endless flights,
the law hadn't caught him yet.

His name will personified,
throughout the years to come.
The way he robbed and looted,
and even killed him some.

He was a friend of Garrett's,
though their friendship was in vain.
Garrett was a lawman,
and Billy he robbed trains.

The lawman swore he'd get him,
though it just might take some time.
Billy, he had vanished,
as he hid out in a mine.

It wasn't til' weeks later,
when they both met in that town.
The town folks all had placed their bets,
on which one would go down.

Billy left to drink a shot,
or maybe it was two.
While Garrett waited in the street,
figuring out what next to do.

The sheriff didn't want to kill him,
he just wanted to bring him in.
Then Billy stepped outside the bar,
as he stood with a smartly grin.

! Then Billy walked into the street,
with both six shooters at his side.
Now facing the lawman Garrett,
there'd be no place left to hide.

Garrett told him to drop his guns,
and to come along peaceably.
That's when Billy cleared leather,
and shot Garrett in the knee.

Grarett then drew his six gun,
and his shot echoed in the street.
He knew he killed his outlaw friend,
as Billy laid at his feet.

There's a moral to this story,
that each of us should know.
If you have a friend like Billy,
he should be the first to go............

2002, Timothy Carrier
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without permission.

Read Timothy Carrier's The First Christmas, posted with other 2002 Holiday poems.


About Timothy Carrier:

I come from a town about thirty miles south of Green Bay Wisconsin. It's where a lot of paper is made. I have always loved the western way of life. I would just about give anything to live in Wyoming, Montana or Idaho. I came down here and got hired on at General Dynamics back in '85 and after the "BIG" layoff, I worked here in Fort Worth Texas in the Sheriff's Dept. in confinement. So I've seen the good, the bad and the ugly you might say. [In November, 2001 Timothy moved to Rawlins, Wyoming.] I have done my share of traveling with my sidekick Samantha. She's my lil black Lab and she likes riding with me where ever it takes us. My journeys are part of my poetry.  I write all kinds of poetry, but like cowboy poetry the best. It tells about a way of life, when things were simple and what living by the code was all about. I like to keep things simple. Besides all the others, John Wayne, James Arness and Clint Walker were and still are my heroes. My Stetson is off to those men, even though one isn't here anymore.... God Bless



 What's New | Poems | Search

 Features | Events  

The BAR-D Roundup | Cowboy Poetry Week

Poetry Submissions 

Subscribe | Newsletter | Contact Us

  Join Us!


Authors retain copyright to their work; obtain an author's
permission before using a poem in any form. is a project of the Center for Western and Cowboy Poetry, Inc., a Federal and California tax-exempt non-profit 501 (c) (3) organization.  

Site copyright information