Named
Western Music
Association (WMA)
Top Female Poet
2006 and 2007
Academy of Western Artists' (AWA)
Top Female Poet
2005
About
Yvonne Hollebeck
Poems
Books and Recordings
Contact Information and Web Site
About Yvonne Hollenbeck:
Yvonne Hollenbeck is a Clearfield, South Dakota rancher's wife and that is the side of the fence her writing falls on. While helping her husband Glen tend to the cattle or registered quarter horses they raise, she often finds humor in the everyday duties of being a rancher's wife and quite often writes poetry or stories about this subject matter. She also has a few extracurricular activities, as being the daughter of a National Champion Old-Time Fiddler, she grew up in an environment that nourished her to become an accomplished musician. Another hobby, in which she has won many awards, both State and National, is designing and making beautiful hand-made quilts. Her favorite hobby, however, is writing and performing poetry.
A native of Gordon, Nebraska, she likes calling South Dakota cattle country her home and feels very much a part of the State as she is the great-granddaughter of Ben Arnold, a well publicized old-time Dakota Cowhand who came to the State with the Texas trail herds and led quite an adventuresome life as a South Dakota Pioneer. The book, Rekindling Campfires, a biography of his life published in 1926, received its title from one of the many poems he wrote depicting his life as a cowboy, so cowboy poetry and writing is indeed a part of her heritage. (Incidentally, this book was recently republished by the University of Oklahoma Press under the title The Exploits of Ben Arnold and is on the store shelves today.)
The Exploits of Ben Arnold: Indian Fighter, Gold Miner,
Cowboy, Hunter, and Army Scout
See the Amazon description and U. of Oklahoma description
Yvonne has been a featured poet at many gatherings, including the 2001 and 2003 National Cowboy Poetry Gatherings at Elko, Nevada, and keeps a busy schedule entertaining.Her poetry is included in several anthologies and a part of the four-poet CD, Where the Buffalo Rhyme. She has published four books of poetry: Blossoms Beneath the Snow, a Tribute to the Pioneer Ranchwomen; Where Prairie Flowers Bloom, which received the Will Rogers Medallion Award; and From My Window, which also received the Will Rogers Medallion Award, She has five CDs, My Home on the Range, Prairie Patchwork, and Winter on the Range, What Would Martha Do? and Pieces of the Past.
Read about all of these books and recordings below.
Yvonne Hollenbeck was named the Top Female Poet in 2005 by the Academy of Western Artists and named the Top Female Poet by the Western Music Association in 2007 and 2008. She's received numerous other awards.
Rancher and roper (and Yvonne's husband) Glen Hollenbeck
in Sterling, Colorado, 2005
The Little Red Geranium
The Auction Sale
Give Your Horse His Head
A Windmill on the Prairie
The Truth About the Bra
How to Cut Taxes
Why Jane Left Ted
The Fiddler
Nature's Church
The Rescue Unit
As Birds Fly from the Nest
Rancher Wannabe
Calving Time
The Making of a Cowboy
Beat By Old Hands
Branding Time
I'd Like to be in Texas (When We Round Up Cows Next Spring)
Poems, Page 2
Father's Boots
Cuttin' Kate
The Waitress
A Plain Ol' Ranch Wife
The PETA Reporter
A Good Name
Old Folks RodeoAn Old Fashioned Christmas
The Annual Christmas ProgramSaga of the Dust (by grandmother Blanche Hanson)
The West (anonymous)Roundup Day (to Kyle Evans)
Where the Sweetest Grasses Grow (to Kyle Evans)
Saddle Tale (in a feature about Jean Prescott feature)
And other poems posted elsewhere at CowboyPoetry.com, noted below.
The Little Red Geranium
Women who lived in sod houses often said that the only color, or item of decoration, was their red geraniums. I was thinking about that when I wrote the following poem:
THE LITTLE RED GERANIUM
The church that day was crowded,
it was filled clear to the brim;
the organist was playing
her favorite old hymns.
I thought how folks would miss her.
For the most of ninety years
she'd been doin' things for others,
and the thought brought me to tears.
Pretty flowers lined the altar,
but among the large bouquets
sat a little red geranium
and it looked so out of place.
I wondered how it got there
but I didn't wonder long
for the service was beginning;
first a prayer, and then a song.
Then the pastor started talking
and he left the Speaker's Stand;
he picked that scraggly plant up
and held it in his hand.
He said he went to see her
just before she passed away,
and she gave that plant to him
with instructions for this day.
She first told him a story
that he'd tell to us today,
'cause she asked him if he'd share it
just before she passed away:
Her folks came West to homestead
when she was just a girl,
And her mama got so lonely
in this strange and foreign world.
But one day a kindly neighbor
brought a red geranium.
She gave it to her mama
...and that was to begin
a long and lasting friendship;
then every year towards fall
her ma would take starts from it
and she would share them all
with others that were lonely,
or sick, or needed care;
she would take a red geranium
and leave it with them there.
She said her mama told her
it reminded her of God,
how He made us in His image
from a little clump of sod.
And with a little kindness
and a little bit of care,
plants, like His love, could multiply
and grow for us to share.
She said when she was living
in a soddy in the hills,
she always had geraniums
blooming on the big wide sills.
Red was the only color
in her drab and dingy home
reminding her that God was there
and she was not alone.
Then came those awful thirties
when the hills were parched and brown;
those pretty red geraniums
were the only things around
that seemed to keep on growing,
and how she loved them so;
and kept right on a-givin' them
to visitors when they'd go.
Then wartime came and took
her only son, so brave;
it was a red geranium
that she planted at his grave.
Now her life on earth is over,
but before she went away,
she started many little plants
to give to you today.
Just little red geraniums
descended from her mother's;
through years it's been her joy
to share with many others.
She hopes you all will take one
and you'll have it in your home;
then when you're feeling lonely
you will know you're not alone,
'cause flowers fade and wither;
seasons come and seasons end,
but your plant will live and grow
if you share it with a friend.
We all were taught a lesson
at the funeral that day:
the greatest love we can receive
is the love we give away!
© 2002, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.This photo accompanies "The Little Red Geranium" in Yvonne Hollenbeck's book, Where Prairie Flowers Bloom:
L. to R.: Gladys & Eleanore Klein; their Grandmother, Flora Hobson; and their mother, Coral Hobson Klein, in front of their Sod House door. Reprinted with permission.
This additional interesting photo appears elsewhere in Where Prairie Flowers Bloom:
One of Andrew Hollenbeck's sons cutting sod for a new dwelling. Reprinted with permission.
The Auction Sale
After sixty years of marriage, our neighbor passed away,
and when they had his auction 'twas a nice and sunny day.
I suppose because it was so nice the crowd was fairly large,
but I finally found a place to park and walked up to the yard.
Their yard was full of furniture and almost everything,
as the auctioneer, his helpers, and the bidders formed a ring.
I was wanting nothing special, but I thought perhaps I'd buy
just some kind of memento if things didn't go too high.
Then I saw her in a lawn chair in the shade beneath a tree,
and I went to say hello and hoped that she'd remember me.
When she saw walking towards her broke out in a smile,
then took my hand and asked if I would sit with her awhile.
Of course, I had intended to get in the bidding war,
but the lonely look upon her face I'd never seen before.
So I took the other lawn chair and I asked her how she'd been;
She said that she was pretty good, but my, how she missed him.
Then told me how they came here when they were newlywed
and she pointed to a dresser and a pretty iron bed,
saying: "That was our first purchase, and that old cast-iron range."
Then she started telling how things were, and how the West had changed.
Next she pointed to a feed bunk full of harness, nets and hames;
and in it were his saddles; she talked of horses he had trained.
The afternoon went fast. We both shed several tears
as she told me lots of stories of their many happy years
a-building up this ranch, how she had made a home,
but today it all is auctioned off 'cause she can't stay alone.
She asked if I'd come visit her; of course, I said I would
but it seems I keep so busy and don't do the things I should.
A lifetime full of memories were shared with me that day,
and I hoped that just by listening it'd helped her in a way
to ease the pain she felt inside as all her things were sold,
while she recounted happy times back in the days of old.
I didn't buy a thing that day and didn't even care
'cause I got something one can't buy while chatting with her there.
See, I took home something special as I headed on my way...
... the blessings of a friendship from the auction sale that day.© 2001, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
Give Your Horse His HeadHe would saddle up his pony
and bundle up real good
then load his gear, check the cinch
just like every cowboy should.
Then he'd climb up in the saddle
...feeling happy, as a rule,
then down the trail you'd see him lope
a-headed off for school.
His mom would gladly drive him there
but he did not want that;
he liked to ride his pony
wearin' boots and cowboy hat.
He loved the birds and animals
he'd watch for on the way;
besides it did his pony good
to ride him every day.
Then one day, during recess time
the sky got dark and gray;
a call came that a real bad storm
was headed out that way.
The teacher let the children out,
Little Cowboy headed home;
but soon the snow was blinding him;
he was out there all alone.
He had soon lost his direction
and thought he'd got off course,
and knew the only chance he had
was to trust his little horse.
His mom and dad were worried sick
all they could do was pray.
Where could their little cowboy be
as the blizzard raged that day?
They hoped he'd found a neighbor's home
where he'd be safe and sound;
perhaps he'd stopped at Father Doyle's
but phone lines were all down.
It seemed like an eternity
when suddenly they heard
what sounded like a horse outside
they could neither say a word.
They opened up the back porch door
and shed some tears of joy;
when they saw that dear old pony
and their precious little boy.
Now many years have come and gone;
the little cowboy's growing old,
remembering still that frightful day
...the wind...the snow...the cold.
And as we go through life it seems
there's things that blind our way;
and why we take a dead-end road
is sometimes hard to say.
But we are all aware that life
is full of things we dread;
instead of pulling on the reins,
just give your horse his head.© 2001, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
(from a true story about my husband, Glen, when he was a 10 year old boy and got caught in the Blizzard of '52 which was one of the worst in South Dakota history)
A Windmill on the Prairie
If I could paint a picture of the finest place on earth,
it would never be of buildings, pay no matter what they're worth.
There'd be no canvas covered with a village, neat and quaint;
...a windmill on the prairie is what I'd choose to paint.
Now, you may think it silly that anyone could see
beauty in a windmill, but they mean a lot to me.
Like a lighthouse to a sailor, they're a symbol of the West
of life that's free and easy, a lifestyle that's the best.
To me there's nothing better than to be out there with God,
smell the clover-scented grass, or raindrops on the sod;
to hear the rustling of the trees, the lowing of the herds;
and watch a hawk a-circlin', then be chased away by birds.
A friend to man and beast alike, they never cease to work,
bring forth the fresh cold water from far beneath the earth.
When evening shadows lengthen, like a tower in the night,
a windmill in the sunset is such a wondrous sight.
You can have the Eiffel Tower or the Vatican in Rome;
sky scrapers in the cities, or the fanciest of homes.
The simple upright beauty that will put them all to test
is a windmill on the prairie when the sun sets in the West!
© 2002, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
Anyone who has been to a Cowboy Poetry gathering has probably heard Bill Hirschi's legendary poem, "The Bra." (Read more about it in our Who Knows? feature). Yvonne Hollenbeck says "Here's my answer to the bra poem (it's nothing I'll do unless necessity calls for it)."
The Truth About the Bra
I was workin' in the dress shop when a dude came in that day
and we were quite amused at him, that's one thing I will say.
It was about the strangest thing I think we'd ever saw
when he told us he had come in there to buy his wife a bra.
Now, I have heard some windies and been told a lot of lies,
after all, I raised teenagers, and dated cheatin' guys.
He wasn't buying no brassier to take home to his wife;
it's obvious he's one of those who lives a double life.
I doubt he even has a wife, and if he really does,
she must be quite a looker if she wears that big 'a-cup!
And did you ever know a woman that would ask a guy
to go to town and buy a bra and not give him a size?
I wasn't born just yesterday...I've been around the block;
and I can spot a liar when he first begins to talk.
He might look like a cowboy as he dishes out that line,
but a sales clerk in a dress shop can spot one every time.
Some are wanting dresses and some want underwear,
and always say "it's for my wife," but we are all aware
that these items they are buying are really for themselves
as they eyeball lacy garments on the racks and on the shelves.
And when you ask for sizes you can always bet those guys
will answer quick: "I do not know, but she's about my size."
But to come into a dress shop just to buy his wife a bra
and use a hat for cup size...that's the worst I ever saw!
© 2004, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written
permission.
How To Cut Taxes
DEAR MR. PRESIDENT:
There are aliens here by the millions - illegal, and they're all around;
the Border Patrol is out searchin' but hardly a one's ever found.
The CIA and the Army, Marines and the Air Force too,
have been combing the hills of Afghanistan, while "Bin" just keeps slippin' on through.
There are thousands of folks that are wanted by the police and of course, F.B.I.
I think those departments are useless, and a big waste of taxes, here's why:
When one Holstein cow met her maker at a plant up in Washington State,
in no time they knew where she came from and the source of the feed that she'd ate.
They found where her offspring were grazing...solved all this in less than a day!
They got lots of press and instilled lots of fear in a story that won't go away.
So, I think if I was the President of this "home of the free and the brave"
I close up all those departments and think of the money I'd save.
I'd hire a few veterinarians...a few that would work for short pay;
and call it the "Mad Cow Militia, a branch of the U.S.D.A."
I'd sic this new branch on Bin Laden, and give them the run of the Hill;
this could create more excitement than when Monica visited Bill!
Just imagine how good you'll be lookin' with election time comin' this fall;
by closing these other departments, you'd have refunds galore for us all.
They'd be carving your face on Mt. Rushmore; you'd be leading the list of "who's who;"
Nader and Kerry would not have a chance, as the nation all rallies 'round you.
With the state of affairs all in order, and allies a-wondering "how"
with one explanation you'd tell 'em: "it's the result of a single mad cow."
This nation would once again prosper with very few taxes to pay,
and we'd credit the "Mad Cow Militia, a branch of the USDA!"
© February 2004, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Why Jane Left Ted
I know you've seen the tabloids...don't believe what all they said;
I think I know the real scoop as to just why Jane left Ted.
This was overheard in Elko by a coffee drinkin' crew;
by the time it got to my house, you can bet the story's true.
See, Jane was getting restless, said her life'd become a bore;
with all her wealth and luxury, she wanted something more.
So, Ted with all his billions thought he'd give her back her life
and thought just what she needed was to be a rancher's wife.
He'd seen 'em in the movies in their homes out on the range,
and thought that his dear Janey could use this kind of change.
So, he bought a bunch of ranches, put together quite a spread;
the "biggest rancher in the West!" ...at least that's what they said.
He stocked his range with buffalo, red fox, and prairie dogs;
to heck with raisin' cattle, sheep, or horses, corn and hogs.
His Jet brought her to Omaha (the place her dad called home)
from their they drove Hummer out to where his bison roam.
And just like every rancher does when driving with their mates,
they always do the driving while the ranchwife gets the gates!
In spite of her aerobics, her body was not fit
for a ranch of fifty townships and all its gates to get!
Jet lag mixed with blisters, by the time they made their house
had started causing stress upon this wealthy rancher's spouse;
The next day was pure hell on earth, at least that's what she said
...the day the cookie crumbled and the reason Jane left Ted.
And what she hadn't planned on, something city gals don't do,
she had to rise at 5 a.m. and feed a ranchhand crew.
Ted said to be a rancher's wife she had to look the part;
he handed her an old wool cap and tattered old carharts.
Next came yellow work gloves, and knee-high rubber boots;
he showed her where the buckets were, the log chains, and the scoops.
And on that frosty morning when she'd plan to sleep in late,
he had her in the muck and mud sortin' bison through a gate!
Do you 'spose that bison prolapse? Did she have to lance a cyst?
With those big front ends and small behinds do their calves stick at the hips?
No one knows what happened...at least no one will say,
but she went back to Georgia, and left poor Ted that day.
They claim the West is hell on horses, hell on women too;
the breakup of this marriage is just proof that theory's true.
She said to be a rancher's wife, she'd rather be caught dead;
and now you know the truth about the reason Jane left Ted.
© February 2004, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Fiddler
In the fall of 1997, I was asked to entertain at a Cowboy Poetry Gathering
at Devils Tower. I took my dad, Harry Hanson of Gordon, Nebraska (a many-times
Champion Old Time Fiddler) with me to help entertain the folks. I
wrote this poem to introduce him:
There's been lots of stories 'bout days long ago,
of cowboys and roundups and such;
and one thing we've learned from those stories of old
is folks then were rugged and tough.
We know that the life on those big cattle drives
was hard on those men on the trail;
but they ended each day in their own special way
with good entertainment, they'd tell.
They claim they would gather 'round the campfire
as some cowboy strummed a guitar;
they'd sing songs of women and horses and wars
and fights they had won in a bar.
But the best entertainment them cowboys would get
was when one to the wagon would fetch
a fiddle and bow, and every boot toe
would start tapping, and 'twas a sure bet
that you'd hear lots of hoe-downs and waltzes and songs
that would take their minds back to their home;
some guys would get up and jig 'round the fire
while others would sit all alone
just remembering the time when a pretty young gal
was a-dancin' with him way back home,
while a fiddler played all those tunes of the day
as they danced to the Strawberry Roan.
So I brought this here fiddler for you folks to hear
some songs that came up on the trail.
It's a story that no one can write in a poem
and no writer of stories can tell.
© 2004, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
This poem is included in our collection of
poems about Cowboy Dads and Granddads
Yvonne had told us previously about her father, whose music is featured on her CD, My Home on the Range, which was named the Academy of Western Artists' Best Poetry CD in 2003:
He's won over 200 first place trophies at contests in the past and won the National Championship at Weiser, Idaho, in 1967. He was born in a sod house in a Norwegian settlement in northern South Dakota (real near the North Dakota border) where he was raised. He started playing for house dances when he was 7 years old and would stand on a chair because he was so small, and from what I was told many times by older relatives and neighbors, was as good or better than any of the men fiddlers. He's the kindest, sweetest person the sun ever shown on and we have had a lifetime of fun together. He taught me to chord with him when I was little (he says I was 4) and we've spent many hours making music together.
And she sent us the photo above and this one:
and wrote that it was taken ....
"...10 years ago on Mother's Day (hence, the blooming lilacs in the background). He hasn't aged a bit since then, but I certainly have. He will be 90 on August 23, 2004 and stands up straight (he's a little over 6'), doesn't have an once of fat on his body, and his fingers are as nimble as a youngster's. He still plays that fiddle so well and as the cowboy poet and musical entertainer, Howard Parker says: 'Harry Hanson has the keenest knowledge of old-time tunes of anyone I know. If you want to know how a tune goes, he knows it and knows it right.'"
Nature's Church
Did you ever see the mountains that are covered up with snow,
or see a sun set in the West with purple afterglow?
Have you ever seen a newborn calf a-wobbling to its feet,
and though it's only minutes old it knows just where to eat?
You can't climb upon a saddle horse and cross the prairie sod,
or see an eagle on the wing and not believe in God.
A cowboy doesn't worship in a building made of stone,
but worships with his Maker out with nature all alone.
His church is in the great outdoors; the valley, heaven's gate,
his favorite hymn's a coyote that is calling to its mate.
He makes his own communion as a choir of songbirds sing,
as he cups his hands and drinks the fresh cold water from a spring.
With the budding of the springtime and with autumn's goldenrod
a cowboy lives with nature and the wonders of his God.
So, when you hear a meadowlark that's singing from his perch,
he's inviting you to worship with him there at Nature's Church.
© 2004, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Rescue Unit
He's been a rancher all his life and was born there to the land;
...made a big name in the rodeos and for sure was one top hand.
There's a real nice herd of cattle that are grazing on his range,
'though the road was sometimes rough, and you might think that this is strange,
but this cowboy's first to tell you that it's been a rocky road
and to keep it all together was at times a heavy load.
Remember in the '80's when the cattle market died?
A lot of farms and ranches also made their final ride.
But to keep from losing all he had he lost a lot of sleep
but the thing that pulled him through it was, my friends, a herd of sheep.
© 2006, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Yvonne writes: Many ranchers in the Great Plains have raised sheep from time to time to help supplement their income. Our ranch is no different. In the early 80's the cattle market was very bad and many places were lost because of the economy. We were able to weather the storm due to the fact that we had approximately 500 ewes which provided us with income, both from the sale of the lambs and from wool, to support our family of six as well as help soften the loss we were experiencing from our cattle. We no longer have sheep on our ranch, but we will never forget how they helped us out.
As Birds Fly from the Nest
You'll miss those muddy footprints or small feet tracking sand,
You'll wish for smudges on the glass left by a little hand.
You'll find yourself just wishing for a broken window pane,
or wagon or a ball glove that's left out in the rain.
'Cause when those days are with you and you long for peace and rest
you'll find too soon you'll have it just as birds fly from the nest.
You'll wish for little kids to beg for cookies or for pie
and wish for candy traveling from the cupboard on the sly,
you'll wish for dressing him all up in clean and ironed shirt
to only find it covered with a fresh supply of dirt.
And then that little girl, with her doll and pretty smile
will only be around you for a tiny little while.
Too soon her heart is taken, and on that I can attest,
she'll be someone else's darling just as birds fly from the nest.
Take some time to smell the flowers as you often hear folks say
'cause all too soon you're wishing for what you once had today.
As the evening shadows lengthen and the sun sets in the West,
you'll find that time has flown away like birds fly from the nest.© 2006, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Yvonne told us: Jean Prescott and I were visiting about how fast our children grew up and now they all have children of their own. The conversation led to the ideas for this poem, which I wrote for my daughters.This poem is in our collection of poems about mothers.
Rancher Wannabe
So you want to be a rancher, well that's an easy thing to be,
you just marry it, inherit it, or win a lottery.
It will take at least a million for a little piece of land
and to buy a hundred cows you need at least two hundred grand.
You will need to buy some bulls if you want those heifers bred
so you'll shell out several thousand for each and every head.
Then a whole lot of equipment is something you will need
'cause you will have to put up hay and raise some cattle feed.
Of course you need good help, like a real hard-working wife,
for you can't afford a hired man since ranching is your life.
"Good fences make good neighbors," and that saying isn't wrong
but it costs a pretty penny if you want those fences strong.
You need corrals and working chute, a shop with every tool,
a good warm barn, a calving shed and gas tanks full of fuel.
You'll never see the end of all the things you need to buy;
and the fact you want to ranch makes a sane man wonder why.
It will be several years before you start to see return
and a dollar for each thousand is the most you'll prob'ly earn.
Your income's from the calves you raise and sell in early fall,
but you never get to spend it 'cause the banker gets it all.
So, unless you are a doctor that is much too over-paid,
or perhaps a shady lawyer, then you just might have it made.
But to just become a rancher is a challenge as we know it,
or you can just pretend you're one and be a cowboy poet© 2006, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Calving Time
The days are getting longer, early spring has shown its face;
the mud room's clean and orderly, supplies are in their place.
Then suddenly it happens on a crisp and chilly morn;
excitement builds in all of us 'cause our first calf is born.
It's calving time!
Two weeks have passed and all is fine, we've only lost a few,
but when that blizzard hit last week there's not much we could do.
The mud room needs a scrubbing, nipple bottles fill the sink,
and after all those calves brought in this place begins to stink.
It's calving time!
Another week has passed us by, I've nothing to report
except that sleep and patience are both getting mighty short.
You can't get in the mud room, the whole place is one big mess.
Why anyone would live this way is anybody's guess.
But it's calving time!
And now just like those calving cows, we both are slowing down,
I'm gonna watch the place today 'cause hubby went to town.
He went in to a bull sale, it is like an endless chain;
we'll breed those cows for next year and we'll do it all again.
When it's calving time!© 2006, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Calving time coincides with Cowboy Poetry Week. For 2008, Yvonned shared her plans for Cowboy Poetry Week, with her signature humor and a good dose of reality. Read about them in the 2008 Cowboy Poetry Week news here.
The Making of a Cowboy
From the time he was a button she always kept him sound,
tending scrapes and bruises from encounters with the ground.
She'd chase away the boogie-man and tuck him in at night
and with her there to guide him he was bound to turn out right.
She bought him his first stick horse and a little pair of boots
and dressed him like a cowboy in his Roy Rogers suits.
She walked a million miles leading him on dad's old mare;
when he'd accidentally rope her, she didn't seem to care.
She watched him 'round the men folk so he'd not get in the way,
and dropped what she was doing when he needed her to play.
When he became a teen, a lot of prayers went heaven bound
until she heard his footsteps knowing he was safe and sound.
She pressed a lot of wranglers, starched and ironed every shirt,
...made sure he wore clean underwear in case he might get hurt.
She hauled him and his horse to many junior rodeos
or horse shows and gymkhanas and those Little Britches shows.
Now the little lad is all grown up, her job is now complete
as she proudly sits up in the stands just watching him compete.
He's now a top-notch cowboy and each time a buckle's won
his dad swells up and proudly boasts: "I sure turned out quite a son!"
© 2007, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Beat By Old Hands
(or, "Ode to Chip")
Retirement can be boring
so he asked if he could go,
and just for old-time’s sake
he entered St. Paul’s rodeo.
They said that he could ride along,
and thought it was joke
but what the heck, he’d buy the gas,
this aged old cowpoke.
It didn’t bother them too much
and it didn’t make them sore
that he’s only roping calves now,
not like in the days before.
‘Though he’s won his share of buckles
at most every rodeo,
in dogging and in saddlebroncs,
as record books will show.
But those cowboys were in shock
when he up and won the go
…he didn’t have to go that far
to prove he’s still a pro.
Those guys with fancy buckles
that he’d traveled with this time
were just a tad disgusted
‘cause they hadn’t won a dime.
That ol’ truck was pretty quiet
as they headed on their way;
the road home seemed much longer
than the drive up yesterday.
They acted pretty sullen,
feeling like an endless pit
so he thought a stop for food
might just cheer them up a bit.
They started feeling better
‘till the waitress brought her book,
then started taking orders
and you should have seen the look
they gave that poor old cowboy
as their stares all turned to ice
when he got the senior discount
and they had to pay full price.
We know that there are ropers
that are real tough acts to follow,
but getting beat by “old hands”
is a little tough to swallow.
© 2007, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Yvonne, who ranches in South Dakota with her champion calf-roping husband, Glen, told us about the inspiration for this poem: "Glen was visiting on the phone with one of his roping buddies, Chip Whitaker. Chip was one of rodeo's greats, but like the rest of us, he is getting older and now limits his activities to calf roping. After all, he has had open heart surgery as well as many broken bones and face reconstruction (from a kick in the face). His son, Kyle, who has been the Bill Linderman award winner in the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association the past three years and who is also a professional cowboy, was going to St. Paul to the rodeo with some of his buddies. Chip went with them and entered the calf roping, as he is still a member of the PRCA. The result was fuel for the poem."
Branding Time
It happens mostly in the spring,
when all the calves are here;
excitement builds as plans are made
for branding time each year.The rancher calls a list of names
he’s jotted in his book,
the wife starts making plans
for all the things she has to cook.He lines up all the vaccine,
she bakes a dozen pies,
the day before they set up pens
…she feeds a dozen guys.Then finally branding day arrives,
he’s lined up quite a bunch
she’s lined up dinner, supper,
and in between, the lunch.The more help that the rancher has,
the more she has to do.
It takes a lot of beef and beans
to feed a branding crew.(Did I mention that one feller
who brought along a brat?
He said his wife could use a break;
she wished she’d thought of that!)After hauling chairs and tables
and cooking several days,
the big day’s finally over
as she goes to bed and prays:if she should die before she wakes
she hopes she never has to bake
another cake, another pie
in that big ranch up in the sky.But soon the rooster’s crowing
as another day begins
and she’s making plans for next year
when it’s branding time again.© 2007, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
I'd Like to be in Texas (When We Round Up Cows Next Spring)
There’s been a lot of poems and songs about those cattle drives,
but I’ve never heard a poem or song about those cowman’s wives.Did you ever stop and wonder about how those guys get fed?
Who boils that brew and cooks the stew and bakes up all that bread?Well, I know who and so do you, so I wrote this little thing
‘bout why I’d like to be in Texas when we round up cows next spring.IT GOES LIKE THIS:
In a kitchen in an old ranch house on a cold and autumn day,
sat a bunch of fellers telling yarns about the cowboy way.They tell of places they have been and country they have seen.
One prefers the Badlands where the grass is never green,while others tell their windy tales of Sandhills, lush and wet,
as they eat their eggs and pancakes ‘cause it soon is time to getoutside and saddle up their mounts and ready for the ride,
for the roundup is about to start. I too must get outsideand load up all the food and drink and pack it in my truck,
then find a place along the trail where they can stop for chuck.I’m soon unloading food supplies …it’s not an easy deal
to feed those men while on the trail and plan for every meal.And when the noon meal’s over, the work is never through;
you have to clean and pack and move the meal site all anew.They’ll stop the drive at sundown and again they have to eat,
and then I start all over and I’m really getting beat!They set up camp and bed ‘em tight, some men stay with the cattle;
I head on home to pack more food, for eating’s half the battle.And while the men are fast asleep, I prepare tomorrow’s menu;
just two more days of rounding up and then this job will be through.So when you hear those poems and songs about those cattle drives,
just think about the “unsung” ones…about the cowman’s wives.With that I guess I’ll bid “good-bye” and say just one more thing:
I’d sure like to be in Texas when we round up cows next spring!© 2008, revised, Yvonne Hollenbeck
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
This is page 1.
See more of Yvonne Hollenbeck's poems on Page 2.
Read Yvonne Hollenbeck's
Sammy's Misunderstanding in our Art Spur Project
A Great Day to be a Cowboy in our Art Spur Project
