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Amber Twilight

By Sara Donnelly

There is a certain smell to this place at dusk
A sort of sagebrushed, dusty musk
And I will be here 'till I die.
And I cannot tell when or why
I fell in love with the cowboy way,
Or the burnt-red harshness of a cowboy's day.


My name is Sara Donnelly, and I am a 17 year old student at Hunterdon Central Regional High School in Flemington, New Jersey. I hope that you enjoy this poem!
Sara's Email address is tigerbritches@hotmail.com

A Recipe for Country Fun

By Sarah Barlow


Take a couple big trucks,
a field of mud,
a bunch of good friends,
and a bottle of Bud.

Add a dash of Country music,
Lots of bar-b-q sauce,
Throw in a good 2-step or swing,
and kids in overalls by Osh-Kosh-B'Gosh.

Scatter some animals,
a few big dogs,
a couple of barn cats,
and maybe some hogs.

Mix and cook to perfection,
give a bowl to every-one,
serve with a side of love.
Now that's a recipe for country fun!

My Dream of the Perfect Cowboy
by Jacqui Smith

The handsome cowboy gets off his stallion,
And kisses me gently,
During our kiss I feel no sorrow,
For my heart is bursting with joy,
We ride his mighty stallion,
And I feel my face has a glow,
He tries to bring the stallion to a halt,
But doesn't so he mutters an intimidating "Whoa!"
After he gets off he grasps my hand,
And I walk along beside,
He shows me his barn,
He shows me his ranch,
But all I remember is our ride,
He takes me home and my heart wants to leap for joy,
But my dreams are interrupted when I hear,
The bell ring!

Jacqui Smith
2906 Nottingham Lane
Missouri City TX 77459

Wide Open Spaces

by Bobby Allison Gallimore

I've been across the United States,
Seen a million different faces,
But I always love to come back home
To these wide-open spaces.

Yes, I've been where the Mississippi rolls,
And the Colorado races,
But still my favorite place to be
Is in these wide open spaces.

I've seen the splendor of the Rockies
And heard people sing their praises,
But I sing for joy when I'm walking
In these wide-open spaces.

Though I may travel to distant lands
And journey to faraway places,
My home shall always be right here
In these wide-open spaces.

If you would like to visit Bobby's site CLICK HERE,

Old Cowboys Belong to the west
by Jesse Colt

I still marvel how fate, arranged our first date,
Though I try not to dwell in the past.
Any damned fool could see, cepting maybe for me,
Was a romance that just wouldn't last.

We met in a bar in old Montreal.
I swear I was just there for fun.
A graying Cowboy from Alberta
And a pretty French girl on the run.

Where I come from you don't push a lady,
But her boyfriend was playing the fool.
He would not let her be, then he came on to me,
So I knocked him plumb off of that stool.

Well her hair was as black as a Mount Allen coal seam,
That's been cleansed by a cold mountain mist.
Her breath was a treat, pure mowed clover sweet,
And those red lips just begged to be kissed.

I spoke to her, but I ain't no Frenchy
And her English would not fill one line.
So I hung around that bar until midnight
Then left with her soft hand in mine.

Well the days just pushed past; soon vacation was done.
I had burned all my time and my luck.
So I packed up my gear and I headed back West,
And left her, asleep, in my truck.

Any damned fool could see, she was too young for me,
We're most a full generation apart.
And my head said, "Danny, you best let her be!"
But there's no account books in the heart.

Well she cried when she first saw them Rockies,
Then she laughed when she helped birth a foal.
Her soft hand was warm as a puppy,
And my heart was still empty and cold.

Winter nights we'd just sit by our fire
And I'd brush her dark hair with my hand.
She'd sing soft as them sparks carried higher
French love songs, I could not comprehend.

She gave me two winters, one spring and one fall,
One summer all filled with pure bliss.
And we learned to say love without speaking at all,
While she melted my soul with each kiss.

Well, she left me her picture and that silver hairbrush
And she wept when she said her goodbye.
I just leaned gainst my truck as her bus headed East
And I cussed, cause I'm too old to cry.

She still writes me, of course I can't read it
And maybe, that's all for the best.
For pretty French girls belong to Quebec.
Old Cowboys, belong to the west.

Copy.Right 1999
Do not use without permission.
Jesse Colt
PO Box 25, Site 4, RR1,
Priddis, Alberta, TOL 1WO.

Jake
by Bacroper Barney

The canteen was refreshing, each swig at a time
For me and old Jake, plumb tuckered from the climb.
Now we hiked up this here mountain, just to see what we could see
The beeves were a'grazin' and we had no place else to be.

So I sat myself down with the makings of a smoke
And asked my pard Jake if he'd like to hear a good joke?
I reckon he wasn't listening, so again I prodded
At first he shook his head, but then finally he nodded.

Heard some news last week 'bout friend in west Texas
Word was lately he'd been down, from missin' all his exes.
I decided that I'd let him know, in a brief letter
That we would be prayin' for his aim to get better.

Now it would be a shame, if he had to do some time
'Cause he was just not the kind to ever commit a crime.
It's true though that cowboy didn't take kindly to rejection
But I'm sure the gals were just targets of his affection.

Now I forget old Jake doesn't share my sharp wit
You see he never, ever laughs a single bit.
But the real joke, this time, was on me of course
'Cause Jake's not only my best friend, he's also my best horse.

If you would like to visit Barney's site Click here!

THE URBAN COWBOY IS CRYING INSIDE

As I drive along busy highway 51
I long for the days when I could
run naked, willy-nilly, for the brook
and know only squirrels had a look.
But those days are gone and I fight
with traffic, my t-shirt getting stained
the pain in my heart just getting deeper
and more swollen every moment.
I think of how my truck used to get filthy
with the dust of the dirt roads. I miss that.
And these flirty city women think
they got me all figured out.
Well they don't know about my digging
history. How early mornings all hung over
and sick I would walk into dawn clover
with my pick axe and dig ditches all day
long under the hot Oklahoma sun. Someday
when God's hand pulls the life from me I
want to be buried in one of those ditches,
so I can curse through eternity at the city
rabble throwing garbage onto my grave. My ghost
dogs will kill them for me - all those city folks.
The spokes of God's wheel will break into flame
and their skyscrapers will crumble, tumbling chains
of buildings pulling these modern towers of Babel
into the sewers where they belong.
I honk my horn
and light a cigarette and think of a honky tonk
night out at the roadhouse, where I could drink
a pitcher of beer and drive straight, empty,
county road 45 to my little home nestled up on
the bluff. I've had enough of city life. All
strife and misfortune. I don't want the sun
setting on me in my dingy old apartment, with
empty bean cans covering the table, and neighbors
beating their kids and throwing up in the hallway.
I want my own kids to throw up, outside in the moonlight
where it's proper, and good, and truly American.

Tim Carnahan
Tcarnahan@macalester.edu

Riding Drag

by Bob E Lewis
All Rights Reserved

When we drove cattle to the pens
Beside the railroad tracks,
We'd ship about three thousand head.
Then ride that long trail back.

To move those cattle to the rails
And load them on the train,
We worked in weather good and bad,
In hot sun or pouring rain.

We'd start them out at the crack of day.
We'd string them in a line.
Ole Johnny he would ride the point,
The rest would ride behind.

Joe and Boots, they took the wings.
Joe and Bill the flanks.
The rest of us would ride the drag,
For we were the lower ranks.

But I'll tell you now, those boys were wrong,
For thinking things that way.
For without us boys a riding drag,
The cattle, they'd all stray.

It's like a box of dominoes,
When they're laid end to end.
If you pull on the front one first
No message to the back they send.

But if you push on the last in line,
And push real hard you see,
You'll move them all along together,
Like the boys on drag and me.

Tho we may eat most of the dust
And ride hard all the way.
We're more important than the rest
And we sure do earn our pay.

So in my mind we're Generals,
Controlling all the rest.
The other men just ride along,
But us drag men are the best.

If you would like to visit the Rafter-L Click here!

The Old Man
darchors@televar.com

We was pickin' up strays up on the 36 North
about a 2 day ride I suppose,
Now I hate to admit pard, but I'd lost my way
and was somewhat just faller'in my nose.

When I trailed this old heffier to an old broke down barn
set deep in a stand of pine trees,
So I stepped of my pony to give him a rest
and to shake out the stiff in my knees.

And that's when I here'd it, twas' a soft muffled cry
like that of a babe in distress,
I mounted up fast and spun him around
there was no time to spare I had guessed!

I found an old man sittin' on a broke down porch swing
just a cryin' and baulin' a draw,
With a tear in his eye he spoke this reply
Dad just whipped me for sass'in gram-pa.

Daddy?....Gram-pa?...These two words mixed round in my head,
I figured he must be bout 80, so I figured the other two dead.

I said "I'd like to meet yur ol' grand-dad",
He said sure, he wouldn't mind,
But you'll need to stand near cause he can't hardly hear,
and for the most part he's pretty well blind.

When I stepped in that dusty old cabin
his grand-dad was sittin' right there,
But he couldn't stand to shake on my hand
cause he'd set so long he'd grow'd to the chair....

The clock's pendalum moved each way slowly
and cast a shadow so long and so tall,
The shadow of gold was so very old
it wore the paint clean off the wall.

So if you see an old man a cryin,
way up on the North range
Just step on in and visit his kin, but remember
Life can get pretty strange......

darchors@televar.com

King David
by David Kelley
4/97 All Rights Reserved

He was seated like a sultan in that
beat up straight-back rockin' chair,
A venerable patriarch intent on
surveying his inner lair.

Tattletale lines around his eyes
alluded to the fact he was tired.
The strong angular jaw still framed
the cowboy still very much admired.

A broken neck at The Matador Ranch
caused his gray head to tilt left.
The two missing fingers there, evidence
of a dally none too deft.

His pelvis crushed bad at The Spur,
resulted in his ponderous limp,
And his old Stetson, disheveled and soiled,
told that he'd long ceased to primp.

The Pitchfork damage was knees,
adding to an already gimpy gait.
Before he busted up his body, his walk
was regal, proud and straight.

"M.L. Leddy" zippered his high top boots,
just so he could wear 'em still.
Usin' his old cane, he thought
demeaning, like wearin' a lacy frill.

His strength certainly wasn't what
it was, but embers smoldered midriff.
He was constantly hurtin' but a
toothy grin always gave a lift.

He'd completed the itinerary,
with his last roundup rode well,
Any who rode with that cowboy
had no untoward stories to tell.

There sat a bonafide cowboy folks,
and we were proud to call him ours.
I remember my Grandpa, cowboy
'extraordinaire', King David Myers.  

Visit David's site Click here!

Parson Brown
By Faye Masters Bainbrick

Whistle me back across the years, and I'll tell you a story of yesteryear
When all the world was bright and gay, as three little girls went out to play.
Down the trail to the buffalo wallow, with a happy song
For they were to be baptized, and that could not be wrong.
Parson Brown, with twine string tie, stood in water up to the thigh
Following Jesus's command, I baptize you
in the name of the father and the son
And in the hole you go
beneath this muddy water flow.
Now your sins are washed away,
for in this mud they could not stay.
On the scene, Mother came, but not in Jesus name,
Homeward bound and dripping wet,
poor Parson Brown, I see her yet.
Pigtails all caked with mud, Mom had nipped a dream
right in the bud.
And there was nothing else to do,
but just pretend it wasn't true.
She knew she had followed God's command
in baptizing her little band
And what the fuss was all about
She somehow couldn't figure out.
But looking back it's plain to see,
It's now a childhood memory.
One to hold and pass along,
For Parson Brown has long since gone.
But I guess the moral here,
Is be sure the water's nice and clear!

Dick Warwick is from Oaksdale WA and is a top notch poet, this poem is from his book, Fence Rhymes.

The Brutal Boss
By Dick Warwick

I'm going to get right to the point-
I'll admit my nose is out of joint,
And the reason that I'm chronically cross
Is that I have a brutal boss.

I've rarely seen him satisfied
When a day of labor I've applied
And an irksome task I've finally finished-
The list that's left is undiminished.

Many's the time I've heard him repeat,
"A rancher's work is never complete."
There's no time off even to fish
And vacations remain a distant wish.

He'll play on my sympathy to the hilt,
When that's exhausted he'll try guilt
Or else he'll make me feel disloyal,
And it all boils down to endless toil.

The hours are long and the wages are short,
A seven day work week he does support;
If he needs me on a holiday
I work dawn to dusk for no extra pay.

You ask why don't I just resign
from such a boss- if he's such a swine?
Well, that's what has me so annoyed-
I can't-
you see, I'm self employed.

Email Dick at rwarwick@ior.com

Bud Stewart lives around Royal City, Washington. He is a pleasure to watch perform and I have had the privilege of sharing a stage with him in the past.
I stole this little Hen out of Bud's hen house so if he comes looking for it just point to me and say, "Talk to that old boy over there! Of course I doubt he can answer you with a mouth full of feathers!"

Just Three Words

An old cowboy I know won't hardly talk
Less he's had a drink or two
But I know a story about this old boy
So I'm gonna share it with you.

He was sitting in the back of a pick-up truck
Parked close to the arena gate
He'd come to watch the team roping
He is to old to participate.

Beside him lay a dingo dog
He had scars all over his head
The movement of his breathing
Was all that showed he wasn't dead.

They'd both worked hard in their time
And most of their jobs were rough
Not an ounce of fat on either one
One look would tell you they're tough.

The old man watched through squinted eyes
His hat was pulled way down low
This was the run he wanted to see
It was his partners turn to go.

A dude from town came walking by
Straw hat perched high upon his head
He stopped to look at the old cowboy
And the dingo that looked like he's dead.

You could tell the dude wanted to talk
For they were an interesting sight
He smiled as he pointed at the dingo and said
"Howdy - Does your dog bite?"

The old cowboy stared straight ahead
For it was his partners turn to rope
His expression changed not a bit
And all he said was, "Nope".

The dude reached down to pet the dog
As his hand moved there was a growl
And the teeth marks on his hand showed plain
And he let out a painful howl.

"I thought you said he didn't bite"
This dude's mind was sure in a fog
The old man explained with just three words --
"TAINT MY DOG"

This next poem by Sam Webb from Nine Mile Falls WA is from his book, Older Than Dirt and Still Digging It.

The Old Man
by Sam Webb

The old man stood at the bar alone
And stared at his empty glass.
Wondering why his hopes and dreams,
Went down the drain so fast.

His wife had passed on years ago
And left him with four kids.
After that it was all down hill,
His life had hit the skids.

His oldest son was a shiftless bum,
That started stealing steers.
Now his address is the Deer Lodge Pen,
And he'll be there for years.

His two girls grew up fast and wild
And thought they should get paid.
So they went to the Tinsel Town,
To ply that age old trade.

His youngest son got hooked on drugs
And took to robbing banks.
Till he ran into a hard nosed cop,
Who wasn't shooting blanks.

He packed his lower lip with snoose
And he brushed away a tear.
Said, "Thank God none were lawyers,
That was my greatest fear!"

I Never Did Like Him For His Brains
by Hilma "Volcano" Volk, from her book Manure Happens.

It was our High School reunion -
My gawd the years fly quick -
An old memory walked through the door,
And he was lookin' kinda sick.

I'd studied the old yearbook
Memorizing each forgotten name.
Could it be? Nawh! It must be him.
There he was, my teenage flame.

Oh, he was a handsome devil then,
Cocky, bold and strong
A junior rodeo champion,
Oh my gawd we got along.

But I went on to college,
Missed him less and less each day.
While he took the rodeo circuit -
Rode rough stock in the P.R.C.A.

Now twenty years later there he stood
Lookin' twice as old as most
A bent up man in a bent up body
That could be giving up the ghost.

He told me how good I looked
As he flashed a toothless grin.
And I wished I could say the same.
I blurted, "You stayed thin."

His left eye was kinda droopy,
And the right one wore a patch.
His nose faced northeast when he faced north,
And his ears no longer matched.

One elbow didn't bend quite right,
And that shoulder rather sagged.
When I asked him how he'd been
I couldn't tell if he bellyached or bragged.

He said, "Every rib's been busted,
An' my skull's been fractured twice.
Let's sit down while we talk,
I'm s'posed to keep this knee on ice.

"I split my spleen in Abilene,
Broke my elbow up in Pasco,
My collar bone in San Antone
Crushed each toe in old El Paso.

"I broke my jaw in Wichita,
Lost six more teeth in Tacoma
Then in Medford, man I was gored
And spent three months in a coma.

"I don't let 'em know I'm hurtin' so
(A cowboy ain't supposed to complain)
But my muscles cramp when the weather's damp
Or when someone even mentions rain.

He said, "Heck," as he cracked his neck,
"You know, I'm still decidin',
But it may be true, in a year or two,
I just might give up bull ridin'."

Want to visit Hilmas Website?
Manure Happens click here.

Oh It Weren't Mutton!
by Rudy Gonzales (c) Copyright 1988

Big Ben was a serious cowman, but he ran a bunch of sheep.
He did it for the money, cause his ranch he' like to keep.
He kept his cattle to the front, for the whole wide world to see.
But kept the woollies to the rear, it was their place to be.


His cattle brought him respectability, this is the cowman's way.
The sheep they made the money, so they were here to stay.
He had some vicious sheepdogs, so the coyotes wouldn't eat 'em.
when them coyotes came for lunch, those dog's were there to greet 'em


He had a little woolly lamb, who'd bark just like a pup.
It really was the darnd'est thing, how would this lamb grow up?
He took to running with the dogs, he was getting kind'a mean.
It really was the darnd'est thing, that I have ever seen.


But Ole Ben he had to shoot him, he went and killed him dead.
He did really hated for to do it, here's the last words that he said.
"The little lamb could bark like a dog, but this one I could not keep.
'Cause that little woolly rascal, took to eatin' up my sheep!"

Click on his name to visit the website of

Rudy Gonzales "Idaho Cowboy Poet & Western Humorist".

Due to the great reader response, we have had to start a new poetry page to keep up with youall! CLICK HERE!