Horse Feathers

Welcome to the best free western poetry site on the net! If you've been here before and know where you want to go. You can now select a page from poetry submissions or my on line book by clicking on the Indian Head. The online book has been changed to large letter format for folks with eyes like mine and the pages are now black lettering on white background. Thanks for coming back.

If You like western poetry without all the hype, you've come to the right place! You will not be offered anything for sale on this site, by this site, or for this site. What you will be offered is the chance to read the poetry of people much like your self. Some of it is great, some of it is good, and some of it just is. Submit your own work and get a link to your page or your Email address, or if you just happen to be borrowing a friends computer, get a link to your snail mail address. By the way, please write Poetry Submission in the subject line so our junk mail scrubber won't think your another adult site spamming and dump your letter unread! As a further note, please submit your poem in the body of your email and not as an attachment. Due to the virus problem our scrubber will automatically delete any email with an attachment. So that's it Pard! Kick your boots off and stay a spell, follow the links to a few sites and have a good time. Scroll down to the Often Equaled, Never Imitated banner and read a few of my own poems from my book, (Poetry For Cowboys). Copy them, recite them, or just collect them. I have included a new submission page for the latest poems.
These poems will be relocated into the archives at about one a month.
Thanks for visiting,
Ben Mc/Kenzie

RIDIN OUT

Out past the sage brush, greasewood and the prickly pear.
Rode an old cowboy on his horse a piebald mare.
His manner was attentive, his eyes was on the ground,
He was looking for the happiness in life he'd never found.
He spurred his old hoss gentle as he clumb a distant hill,
He had no prime direction he was traveling most by feel.
His weary bones had told him that his time had come to die,
He was riding out to sign on with that round up in the sky.

The clouds began to rolling, the rain began to fall,
He rode on through the lightening fed sky oblivious to it all.
His slicker rode the cantle, he didn't seem to mind,
He was traveling the switchbacks of a different place and time.
And as the storm swirled round him he began to sing a song,
As if to calm a spooky beast or move the herd along.
Move on there little doggies, now don't you move so slow,
We're headed to the railhead and we have a ways to go.
The trailboss is a rounder, the hands are always green,
And I've got a gal who waits for me way back in Abilene.

Was then he heard another voice cutting through the rain,
he strained to see the cowboy who was singing the refrain.
Move on there little doggies now don't you move so slow,
Were headed to the railhead and we've got a ways to go.
My brother's riding drag, my pard's a riding flank,
And when we get to old Dodge City you'll be money in the bank.

Now one by one in the darkness cowboys joined the mournful tune,
As thunder crashed and lightening lashed out at the moon.
My rigging all needs mending, the pay is always late,
I think I see Saint Peter out standing by the gate.
So let the wild winds rag me and chill me to the bone,
I hear the lord a calling me and I'm a headed home.
Come on you little doggies and let your wild hooves fly,
Cause all brands run together in that round up in the sky.

Sometimes late of an evening when a storm is rolling in,
You can hear the bawling of the beefs in the howling of the wind.
As is some spectral cowboys was hurrying them along,
And if you listen close enough you can hear them sing this song.
Come all you little doggies, now don't you move so slow,
We're headed for the railhead and we have a ways to go.
The trailboss is a rounder, the hands are always green,
And I have a gal who waits for me, way back in Abilene.

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