Welcome To The Bullpen
Cowboy Poetry Section
The Bullpen is the arena where amature western authors can submit Western Short Stories and Cowboy Poetry, and have the opportunity to receive feedback from you, the readers.
This is the poetry section of the Bullpen.
For the most part, these authors are greenhorns and this is a forum to help them improve their craft. Feedback is very important to the continued growth of any writer so please give them the courtesy of CONSTRUCTIVE criticism and also let them know when they’ve done well. Please keep in mind this is a family oriented website and these authors may not yet be the professionals they hope to become. Your feedback should reflect that. But then again… you can be constructive and still be tough; after all, this is the BULLPEN.
Black Stetson
Cherish Tuttle
Old tattered boots polished black,
wranglers worn and frayed,
western shirt light-blue, pearl snaps,
leathered cuffs and cow hide chaps.
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HERDERS ANTHEM
Floyd Henderson
They rise to the sounds of cow camp awakenings
After a night of soft winds and coyote serenades
Drifting across the moonlit prairie and their dreams
But not invading the waddies' bone-weary slumbers
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Fury so hot, Hate so black
Tim Tobin
By night I stood, Did my job
And watched over
Rachael and Margaret
My wife and daughter, you see
Oh Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord
Thank you for my gifts
Rachael and Margaret
My wife and daughter, you see
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Blood on the Green Prairie Grass
C. J. Edwards
The warning about galloping the horses
Blew fresh in my mind as I leaned
Forward on the saddle
Wind roared in my ears
The animal’s mane whipped my face
The other riders spread out to either side
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"Cowgirl's Prayer"
Carol Ann Lyde
Once upon the land down South
'neath the Lone Star sky,
a lonely cowgirl rides
as she hangs her head to cry.
She removes her hat in honor
in her native untamed land,
looking over the canyon
a yellow rose held tightly in her hand.
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COWBOY JUNKIES
Floyd Henderson
Walkin' the prairie with boots all torn
Since the rope broke off his saddle horn
And let that steer jerk him through air
To land face down, cussin' something rare.
The waddie swears to himself never again
Will he let an ornery critter post a win
From trusting too much in worn out gear
That has needed renewal for many a year
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THE PONY RIDER
A.R. Matlock
A Tribute to the Pony Express Rider:
The word went out in 1860, ‘looking for wiry boys and men
Who can dust a bronco and ride him until we say, when!’
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PUNCHERS
Floyd Henderson
Wearing fatigue like their shrouds
But stiffly sitting saddles proud
Endlessly riding with dust and heat
That pounds on heads, trying to beat
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FINAL CHORES
Floyd Henderson
Crisp and bright breaks the mornin'
Out here on these panhandle plains
With dark norther clouds just formin'
And winds whistlin' around the wains
Forecastin' a bitter winter season
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SUNSETS
Floyd Henderson
He never saw the flame split night's black
Nor felt the bullet as it entered his back
Only sensing the stars wheeling overhead
As he fell to the dust with arms outspread
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BANDIT WAGES
Floyd Henderson
He prowls the border this bandit bold
Robbin' honest folk of hard-won gold
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THE OLD HANDS
Floyd Henderson
They stare without seeing from old rheumy eyes
Past decades to the days of their young glories
That all these young smart alecks call lies
And snort with laughter at all of their stories
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IN THE LIFE
Floyd Henderson
Rollin' out of blankets at break of day
For biscuits, beef, beans and gypy coffee
To cut sleep from bodies stiff with cold
From their prairie beds in the cowboy way.
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Texican Entrepreneurs
Floyd Henderson
Morning rolls as thunder over the plain
Pushing me to waken from night's refrain
Of cattle lowing and coyotes serenading
That low-hanging harbinger of autumn
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FAREWELL COWBOY ©
By John Fazio
Last of the singing cowboys,
A heart dancer heaven held close,
He dared living the dream of dreams,
Sending vibes, everyone knows
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The Barrel Race
By D Moreau
Out of the gate with a thunder of horse
Crowd cheering as rider takes the course.
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DEAR LORD, THIS AIN'T FUNNY
Floyd Henderson
Poppin' that brush morning 'til night
Huntin' mean steers who just wanna fight
Or toss horns and flip tails before flight
Throws dust in our eyes and blurs the sight
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UNREQUITED LOVE
Floyd Henderson
She hangs on that corral fence all the day through
With wistful looks and eyes shiny with tears
And turns with a sob she hopes no one hears
As someone else rides out on her horse Baby Blue.
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A LIFE COURTIN' DEATH
Floyd Henderson
The old waddie rolls out to a frosty floor
And the coffee in his pot is too icy to pour
'Til he fumbles awake the sleepin' fire
He banked in the stove before he retired.
Then he fries up some eggs and reheats
Last night's biscuits then sits and eats.
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Ridin' Out
Floyd Henderson
Rollin' out of blankets at break of day
Is custom for junkies of the cowboy way.
Takin' our nags to the stream for a drink
Before mornin' coffee is the way we think,
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Mountain Ride
By D Moreau
A climb through brush and fading trail
Rider and Horse determined not to fail
Loyal friend beneath leather and strap
Strong of Heart that age could not sap
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Spirits of the West
Robert Blankenship
The old cowboys spirit still remains
Across the western lands
Where he laid the trails for all to see
And where now his spirit stands
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10 Days
D. Lea
10 days in the saddle and I'm runnin' out of grub
No one sees me suffer but the vacant sky above
the coyote close behind me and the lonesome mourning dove
10 days in the saddle and I'm runnin' out of grub
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Saddle Up
D. Lea
Saddle up the old brown bronco
I'm workin' cows up on the middle Concho
and I need a horse that goes wherever they go
So saddle up the old brown bronco
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Clementine
Frederick J. Ide
The old man turned his collar up to cheat the chilly air
He rode upon old Butterscotch-his all time favorite mare
The aspens were droppin leaves today-"how fitting" he thought
Soon snow would come and cover them, and all would be for naught
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Asa Waters
By Frederick J. Ide
Hard as a rock- and often twice as cold-
He said he hadnt cried since he was 6 years old.
Forged on a farm in southern Ohio
Tempered by a battle they call Shiloh.
Longish dark hair--streaked with grey-
Blue eyes that were gazing far away.
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The Ride
Tyler Guy
Ever rode through the dust,
As you feel the suns blistering heat?
Had your lips so dried and cracked,
Searched for words but couldn't speak?
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The Dash
Tyler Guy
I’ve spent most of my day in the saddle,
Busting brush throughout these hills.
Fighting the wind, rain, hot sun,
Even them cold winter chills.
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The Advise
Tyler Guy
Sit down; I’ll take back to the days of just a kid,
Hard to believe I’m now turning 88.
O’ them were the good old days a busting broncs,
Wash board roads, riding there were no gates.
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Cheyenne
Tyler Guy
As you stair through the windshield,
All the Miles of open road.
200 miles behind ya,
You still have miles to go.
Every mile that passes,
Thoughts run through your mind.
All the ones you drew,
The one you’re about to ride.
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A place I called home
Tyler Guy
Passing through this town,
A place I called my home.
Now it's all filled in,
There’s nowhere left to roam.
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Seat Belts and Saddles
Tyler Guy
If seat belts were placed upon saddles,
Cowboys would still have their pride.
Never worry of blowing the swells,
Hitting the ground or losing some hide.
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Tornados My Name
Jim Liles
There’s a chill on the morn, and a bit of frost,
as I walk around planning my day.
The first performance is still some time off,
I’ll soon be able to play.
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One Man
Tyler Guy
One man calls it desolate,
One man calls it home.
The one will build a fence,
The other lets it Rome.
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“Ghost of the Ol” vaqueros
Tyler Guy
When the wind blows the Sage in Nevada,
as the stars shine into the night,
The cries from the “Ol “Vaqueros,
can be heard, their just out of sight
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"OLD JIM, A WANTED MAN"
Robert Blankenship
He rises up early in the morning
Round the crack of dawn
He saddles up his horse
And then he moves along
He is moving on not because he wants to
But because he wants to live
He is pursued by the law
And a dead mans brothers that will not forgive
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FLY’N HIGH
Jim Liles
Now and then, we had a chance,
to leave the truck at home.
To rodeo without the drive,
that wears you to the bone.
It’s not so hard, to complete this feat,
if your nerves are made of steel.
But listen boys, to this tale,
then tell me, how ya feel.
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MEMORIES
Jim Liles
There comes a time, when cowboys will pine,
for the times , that used to be.
The memories reflect, what they recall best,
gold buckles, good times and tight jeans.
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Empty Saddle
Jim Liles
It’s a cold and blustery, snowy morn,
as I walk out to the barn.
It’s that time of year when calves are born,
and the work is hard and long.
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Roany
Jim Liles
When ya go to the pen, with reatta in hand,
to sort one out for the day.
Youd be well advised, to think more than twice,
about which bronc, you might want to take.
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The Cowboy Way
Jim Liles
Cowboys are known, to have a way of their own,
to sort out a sense of fair play.
You ride for the brand, or a shake of the hand,
that’s always been The Cowboy Way.
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Springtime on the Rocking 3R
Harold Ratliff
Fire in the stove crackles as the coffee starts to brew.
Darkness outside, Daylight hasn’t busted through,
You can hear my boots clacking as I walk across the floor,
time to feed the horses as I head towards the door.
Today is sure to be a long one, with lots of work to do.
I’ll have a cup of coffee while waiting on the crew.
Four hundred head of black baldies, we’ll bring em’ to the pen,
to cut, brand, and doctor, fore we sort em’ out again.
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Western Pride
Liera Kay London
Come join the lands that lure a man;
That hold a tex and steed,
Where riders roam with a .44,
And a love for the land of the free.
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THE BRONC RIDERS DANCE
Jim Liles
This ain’t no Texas two-step,
and it ain’t for city cats.
This dance requires some grit and growl,
and a feather in your hat.
You ease down in that bucking chute,
first one pedal, then the next.
Screw yourself down in that Hamley,
lift on that rein and nod your head.
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SEE YA IN THE FALL
Jim Liles
We started out at Denver,
and Odessa worked right in.
Didn’t draw real good at either one,
that white line fever’s settin in.
Those winter rodeos pay a bunch,
you can’t afford to miss’m.
You gotta hit’m everyone,
or you’ll wish you had come December.
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DUSTY REVENGE
Liera Kay London
Clayton Oakes slept in peace. His casket laid down.
But his legends ‘n’ soul never left that ghost town.
Instead they lived on, just to haunt ‘n’ to tell,
The tales of his life, of the west ‘n’ it’s hell.
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COLD WESTERN WINDS
Liera Kay London
Many a man has tried to withstand
The cold whipping western white winds,
But each time has failed, the cold has prevailed;
And led the harsh gale to the wins.
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BUCKAROO
James J. Liles
What pieces make up a cowboy?
What staples go in the pot?
There must be garlic and onion,
and probably something hot.
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Pendleton 100 YRS
James J. Liles
The year is coming to an end,
and what a year it’s been.
The Stock Show up in Denver,
made a 100 more since then.
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Voice of the Wild Ones
by Mike Massey
There comes a voice that speaks to us of things we may not see,
Of that which threatens who we are, our freedom, and liberty.
Our icons of the lands we love, our spirit of the west,
The ones who’ve thrived without man’s help, the ones who’ve stood the test.
The ones who ask for nothing, but to just be left alone,
To continue their existence in the places they call home.
To carry on their legacy, with each late spring foal crop,
Is all they ask of those who think this cycle must now stop.
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The Ballad of Cowgirl on Coffee
Mike Massey
One late October evening, Ol’ Devil Spawn and me,
Were ridin’ on the hoot owl trail, all steeped in misery.
We were sittin’ around our campfire, sippin’ horseshoe branded brew,
He called it his original from a heel-bar he’d once threw.
I Allowed as how I’d noticed, his concoction lacked some kick,
Then he blew a snort and offered, “Cayenne will do the trick.”
I said I wasn’t too dang sure that’d be the way to go,
“Cause ya’ know how I’m particular ‘bout the way I like my Jo.”
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Bunkhouses, Cow Camps, and Other Institutions of Higher Learning
M. D. Massey
It was on a sunny Saturday when our son earned his degree
From a well known eastern college, in the state of Tennessee.
His Mom and I were very proud of this boy who’d earned his way.
He’d worked real hard, and punched his card, with his diploma that fine day.
We’d gone to the reception, for the grads and all their kin.
Enjoyed the fancy finger food, the bourbon, beer and gin.
We met our sons professors, his pals and lady friend,
Their names were real familiar, from the letters that he’d send.
I was feelin’ kinda out of place cause I darn sure couldn’t find,
Another soul in western hat, nor boots of any kind.
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The Bronc Buster
Rebecca Rose Taylor
The bronc buster’s been thrown
More times than you can count.
Often times they become
Fixtures in the bunkhouse,
For all their broken bones
Don’t permit them out.
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The Visit
Mike Massey
I saw the old man sitting there, had seen him once before,
All stooped and rangy lookin’ just starin’ at the door
I wondered what the old man saw, or what he hoped to see,
Just sittin’ in that train depot, seemed kinda’ strange to me.
He wore a beat up cowboy hat, sweat stained and dusty black,
And tall stack well worn buckaroos, with heels wore down in back.
A dirty old bandana rag that’d sure seen better days,
And faded denim wrangler shirt with cuffs rolled down and frayed.
His hands were old and weather worn, all cracked and scarred and bent,
Which told of how he’d earned his keep and how his life was spent.
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A Cowboy’s Last Request
Mike Massey
Lord, when I die don’t bury me beneath the ground so cold,
Just strip my hide and tan me up, then carve and tool me bold.
Slick and dye my edges, then roll and tuck me neat,
My shoulder hide to cover swells, my back for on the seat.
Use my ‘ole neck leather, to wrap around the post,
A three-inch slight-pitch cap, dear Lord, is what I’d favor most.
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The Old Trails are Gone
Robert Blankenship
Has it been so long ago
When dust filled and choked the air
And the cowboy rode sitting tall
While driving cattle there
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IF A COWBOY YOU WANT TO BE
Robert Blankenship
If it is a cowboy
You truly want to be
Here,s a scribbled list
Of some things that you will need
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Marshal Dillon
Robert Blankenship
From old Dodge City
To Old Fort Hays
Marshal Dillon travelled
In the Gunsmoke days
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A Cowboys Day
Robert Blankenship
He’s up early in the morn
Rising way before the dawn
He wants to git out and git to workn
Lord knows, He’s got a lotta work to git done
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"A Few Precious Acre's"
Delia J. Fry
Who chose this trail
These endless miles
Promising not to fail
With fear in their smiles
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Broken
Bro. Brad Curtis
There he stood as if chiseled in stone with nostrils flaring
With a stance that seem to say, who will be so daring
Who would climb upon his back and try to ride
This mighty steed of such power and kingly pride
For one could see he was master of the brood
He offered protection and capture had been his job to allude
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From Dark to Done
By Harold Ratliff
Up before the morning sun,
a full days work, so much to be done.
Feed the horses before your own,
grab a bite to eat, then get going.
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Don't Cry For Me
By Wanda Stevens
For I have watched the morning sunrise from the top of Utah’s tallest mountain,
saw the early rays of first light paint the desert landscape with an incomparable beauty that cannot be reproduced with camera or paint brush on film or canvas.
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Two poems by Wanda Stevens
Pryor Creek Rodeo
By Wanda Stevens
I can remember back when I was young
There wasn’t many places to go,
so we would all look forward to a happy event
the Pryor creek rodeo
LEROY & WANDA AT 60 BELOW
By Wanda Stevens
We are sitting here, wrapped in all the clothes that We own
Listening to the cold winds blow
You will shiver and shake in whatever you wear
When the temperature is 60 BELOW
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The Roan They Call the Outlaw
By Malcolm Davey
I’ve seen him around at the big rodeo,
Everyone loves him; he gives them a show.
He’s a rugged old roan with plenty of will,
To stay on his back would be such a thrill.
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A Century Ago
By Harold Ratliff
As a child growing up in a town so small,
I often dreamed of being a cowboy riding tall,
In the saddle, on the range riding herd,
just me, my horse, and the songs of the bird.
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What's in a Hat
By Herold Ratliff
I’ve been wearing a hat since knee high to grandpa.
In my little world, a bare head was a flaw.
Growing up with brown felt, always on head.
I could roll the thing up, used for a pillow in bed.
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The Old Red Barn
By Daniel R Miller
When I was young and just a boy
I used to watch when riding by
The Old Red Barns in farmers fields.
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Willy Bocain
By Patty Juliano
It was the fifth of December when he rode into town,
The new powdered snow was a covering the ground.
And he was big and rough.
And he was mean and tough.
And everyone ran when they heard that the name,
Of the mysterious rider was Willy Bocain.
You can’t depend on your name.
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Two poems and a short story by new author Scott Biddiscombe.
I think he has a future, what do you think? Let him know.
In These Wilds
By Scott Biddiscombe
Dancing embers float above
The crackling fire’s glow
While gently falling to the earth
The first glimpse of winter snow
Once More, Tomorrow
By Scott Biddiscombe
Upon these sing-song winds we ride
Across majestic plains
Beneath a million diamonds overhead
Until dawn first breaks the day
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Uncle Earle
By Dixie Elder
Found him leanin' against a fence post
head tilted back, like he was star gazin'
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Montana's Waitin' for Me
By Brendan Booher
(at age 11)
When I'm a man I'm gonna wear chaps,
I'm gonna be a cowboy, perhaps--
'Cause right now I'm thinkin'
Of where I'd like to be . . .
Montana's waitin' for me!
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Run
By Laura Finlay
When your soul cries out
And your spirit’s spent
And those mountains start callin’ your name,
Strap on your spurs
And cock your hat low,
Just grab on to her mane.
You ride that horse like you stole it.
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The Grocery Line
By Joe Owens
Standin in the grocery line
that weaved back 40 feet,
I just kept on remindin me
a person's gotta eat.
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Birth of a Gunfighter
By Joe Owens
Through bat wing doors he entered,
a boy of twenty-one.
His youthful features contradict
twin tie-downs filled with guns.
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I Still Smell The Smoke
By Delia J. Fry
I remember when on the mountain
The sign, large puffs of white smoke
The silent language of my ancestors
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The Blessing
By Delia J. Fry
Looking through the wagon's dust
I can see a lone rider approaching
A silhouette in the midst of sundown
A single blur, shimmering in the heat
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Whisky Joe
By Shirley Utting
Sitting in the corner
Of the buffalo saloon
Is an angry old man
His name is Whisky Joe
He once had a wife
And two young boys too
There cabin was burnt to the ground
But only two bodys were found
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Like Father, Like Son
By Delia J. Fry
I read your last letter home
The paper yellow with age
I can feel your desperation
In the words "Love, Murphy"
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The Aging Cowboy
By Delia J. Fry
Creaking wheels in the dust
The runaway wagon bounces
The cattle in a blind stampede
"Catch it, it's all the provisions"
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Rodeo Show
By Shirley Utting
The rocky mountain rodeo
Is on the road once more
Giveing an amazing show
As lassoing bronco boys
Twirling guns from holsters
The crowd whistle and applaud
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Cowboy
By Shirley Utting
Cowboy boots
And cowboy guns
Galloping horses
Outlaws on the run
Cowboy hats
And cowboy buckles
Fighting with fists
Getting sore knuckles
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OK all you poets out there. Samantha is looking to improve her craft and wants your feedback, but be nice, she is a lady after all.
Where is Cowboy Heaven?
By Samantha Stollar
When cowboys cross over, where is their heaven?
when all of their lives their engines were revvin.
Dark Mornings for a Rancher's Daughter
By Samantha Stollar
I'd waken to the morning sky still in the dark
to throw on my boots and then to embark
on a trek to the barn to awaken my steed
and saddle him loosely for his strong back I did need.
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