About
Jack "Trey" Allen
Poems
Recordings
Contacting Jack "Trey" Allen
Photo by Lloyd Shelby
About Jack "Trey" Allen:
Trey Allen has been writing and reciting cowboy poetry longer than his two year old daughter can remember. He began memorizing and reciting poems as a means to entertain himself, then a few friends suggested that he attend some gatherings and the rest has been. well, let's just say it's been a work in progress.
Trey rodeoed and day-worked in high school and college and gained a few "truths" to share in his writing. He prefers poems to tell a story but says that the term storyteller may imply that a feller might tell outside of the truth so engineered the phrase "Quality Truth Improvement" to better describe any work that may seem far-fetched. Although he does not currently draw cowboy wages he still likes to start colts, day-work for neighbors and sit and visit, always in search of material. As one of his "good" friends put it, "Nobody's safe when he's around."
Cowboy poetry has given Trey the opportunity to do the one thing he enjoys most; meet people. From the gulf coast of Alabama to Salt Lake City, he has attended many gatherings and made many friends and it is his hope that perhaps he has made an impression on some them as well.Although a native Texan, Trey has made his home in the Oklahoma Panhandle where they have a saying, "You can always tell a Texan, you just can 't tell 'im much."
What It Is
"What is this cowboy poetry?"
the lady asked of me.
"It must be more than stories
Whether rhymed or free."
"What makes it so intriguing,
reels you in and gets you hooked,
it must be something simple."
I jist give a sideways look.
"You're right, ma'am, it's kinda simple
but it's complicated too,
but if you've got time to lend an ear
I'll share some thoughts with you."
You see the written word is simple
But the complicated thing
Is understanding the life behind the words
So I'll tell you what I mean.
It's the greenin' of the grass in spring,
The first frost in the fall,
The dreary doldrums winter morns,
The summer shadows tall.
It's the smell of mornin' coffee
'fore ol' Sol has blinked an eye
and the million twinklin' star aglow
in the pitch black predawn sky.
It's the jingle of a much worn spur
Upon a rundown handmade boot,
The snort of a coldbacked cayuse
And the silent prayer he don't leave you afoot.
It's the catch rope hangin' inside the door
Of a rickety ol' saddle shed
And the wariness of the pony
Who knows jist when to drop his head.
It's the colt you traded for last fall
And started late this spring
That's proved to you he's worth his salt
And you wouldn't trade him for anything.
It's that motley face calf there on the scale,
He don't look half as big as when
You had to flank him solo
Last spring in the brandin' pen.
It's the tangy scent of wood smoke,
The washtub by the wagon wheel,
The patched and worn out cookfly
And all the stories it could tell.
It's a herd of unbroken saddle mounts
Strung out steppin' single file
Through a sage covered Utah mountain pass
For near three quarters and a mile.
It's the old man outside the brandin' pen
Watchin' the goings on
And the look in his eye that says loud and clear
"I'd like to see one more 'fore I'm gone."
It's an old cow sucklin' a newborn calf,
A foal on wobbly legs.
It's a seventeen hour day with nothin' on your stomach
But bitter coffee dregs.
It's the old kack you use to start a young colt,
Holds in for the bad storms you weather.
It's the pride displayed in a new handmade rig
And the creak of the well tooled leather.
It's the antiquated wage he draws
Despite the Hollywood label,
It's puttin' life and limb on the line
To put a tasty beef steak on the table.
It's the Sevier River Valley and the Wasatch Front,
The Muggyown Rim in the spring.
The Canadian River breaks, the Chisos and the Davis
And a thousand other places I've never seen.
It's the labor of love you choose for life
Workin' from can 'til can't.
Maam, I could go on for days 'bout what it is
And probably a lot of things it ain't.
So in short, ma'am, what I'm sayin' is this
Cowboy poetry ain't jist in the words you read,
The poetry of the cowboy
Is in the life he leads.
© Jack "Trey" Allen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
You Ain't Sittin' Bull
Frustrated, she tore a check from the book
Then inquired as to my need
I waited 'til she finished her signature
Then boldly mumbled "Horse feed."
Now, if looks could kill, I's mortally wounded
Therefore I dared not hesitate
Just picked up the check an' give her a peck
Said, "Gotta go dear, I'm runnin' late."
All day she must have stewed on this
'cause when I reached home that eve
she sat me in a chair, eyed me up square
said, "Something has got to leave!"
"Why, my love, whatever do you mean?"
says I, trying to divert her courses.
"What I mean is something has to go!
Me or better yet, you could get rid of some horses.
"You've got umpteen of the coin burnin' bastards
and try as I may, I can't understand why so many.
The kids need some clothes and groceries are nice
And I'm certain two horses are plenty."
So, that was the problem, at first I was worried,
Appalled that she might even suggest,
But she was a woman, comprehension impaired,
So I felt to explain it was best.
"I can appreciate your concern, my sweet,
but if you'll give me a moment dear,
I'll explain to you a philosophy
that has endured for thousands of yearsand is best exemplified by the Indians.
Now listen, I ain't talkin' for my health.
Horses are a symbol of honor
And by number a status of wealth.
Why, back when the Indians roamed these plains
In search of the great buffalo
The horse was the only means by which
They had to just up and go
Whenever the great warriors rode out from their lodges
Fully intent upon counting many coups
Not only did they take the lives of their enemies
They took their horses too.
And in this way great herds were amassed
In the final culmination
To be used as tools and tender
In this land we now call civilization
And I'm only trying to perpetuate this legacy
Though no one has been killed over my equine pets."
I thought detected a bit of grin
As I heard her mumble "Not yet."
"I'm only trying to prevent a sad state of affairs
where horses become relics for some museum.
Matter of fact, I traded for two more today.
They're sure dandies hon, you oughta see 'em.
I thought I saw a gleam of pride in her eyes
As she leaned over and gingerly gave my mustache a pull,
But she said, "Paleface, these aren't the days of yore
And you ain't Sittin' Bull!"
Now fellers, if you're interested at all,
There's a moral to this little tale.
If you're lookin' for some good, young, using type ponies,
I now have several for sale.
© Jack "Trey" Allen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
No Loop Limit
Or Rope-O-matic
We call him Rope-O-matic,
his given name is Whit,
An' one thing you can say for the lad
Is he never will show quit.
He's a hand for sure we give 'im that
Though not without his flaws
An' he's sure a persevering cuss
With all our gees and haws
Ya see it all started one night in Beaver
At the annual ranch rodeo
We'd showed up in fine fashion
All set to win the show.
And things went good in the cow milkin'
We'd finished near the top
Team brandin' was the next event
We's sure of the number one spot
Cuz with Rope-O-matic heelin' the slicks
Our time sure couldn't be beat
Why our only concern was he didn't catch 'em all
And prohibit other teams their chance at the feat
So strategically we positioned ourselves
Round our makeshift brandin' pot
An' as the first victim slipped the loop
Rope-O-matic says "That was just a warnin' shot."
Thus primed and ready and with mathematical precision
He builds his loop anew
And fires it towards some motley brute
For warnin' shot number two
shots three thru sixty still netted no calf,
This can't be happening we thought
We held our breath on shot one-o-eight
But alas, no heels were caught.
The muggers and the brander lounged by the fire,
Obviously not amused,
an' Rope-O-matic became the focal point
Of their sarcastic verbal abuse.
And they weren't alone for the cows stood in awe
Of this well oiled ropin' machine
One cow muttered from the edge of the bunch
"That's the damndest thing I ever seen."
Another ol' brute showed some compassion
When she nuzzled her calf at the flank
An lifted both its hind feet for an easier catch
But the loop still come up blank.
But Rope-O-matic's determination grew with each loop
He felt confident something would get caught
But when the judge called time an' the dust settled down
He'd fired some three-hundred warning shots
So Rope-O-matic and disheartened crew
Exited the arena like so many scolded pups
And even his horse had to laugh when he said
"Damn, I's jist getting' warmed up."
Now the moral here, if there is one,
An' the previous lines haven't abused it,
When the rules say "NO LOOP LIMIT"
It doesn't mean you have to use it.
© Jack "Trey" Allen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Cowpoke
Includes:
What It is
Cowpoke (Lyrics by Stan Jones)
You Ain't Sittin Bull
Semi-Retired
Alone (by Bruce Kiskaddon)
Nintendo Poker
The Man from Snowy River (by A. B. Banjo Paterson)
50-50 Split
Rope-O-Matic
The Red Flannins (by Bruce Kiskaddon)
'Twas the Night Before Christman The Cowboy Version
Pairin' UpCowpoke CD $15.00 Cowpoke Cassette $10.00
Add $3.50 shipping per order
Trey Allen
1601 Knox Lane
Manhattan, KS 66502
BITS-n-SPURS of Cowboy Poetry
Includes:
A Cowboy's Best Friend
The Old Nighthawk
Story with Several Morals
Ruben
The Wager
8 to 5 & Livin' in Town
Cheap Entertainment
The Pits
Jose "The Mediator"
A Rough Stock Toast
Silver Bells
Charlie & the BrownBITS-n-SPURS Cassette $10.00
Add $3.50 shipping per order
Trey Allen
1601 Knox Lane
Manhattan, KS 66502
Contacting Jack "Trey" Allen:
Trey Allen
1601 Knox Lane
Manhattan, KS 66502
The BAR-D Roundup | Cowboy Poetry Week
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