French Camp Red (Brad Smith)
Earl's Back from Elko

Michael "Coyote" Schroll
The Cowboy Poet

"California Steve" Dirksen
Get Back Mr. Black

Darryl Clark
The Storyteller

 Don Gregory

Mark Black
Poets of the Cowboy Persuasion




Page Four of Seven



Earl's Back From Elko
(Of Poetry and Beans)

Giddy-up ol' timer -
Get back in the saddle.
Get back to work now,
It's time to skedaddle.

Poetry's fine if you
Know what it means,
But it don't make no money
And it don't buy no beans.

If you're out ridin' fence line,
Or helpin' brand cattle,
Or jus' lookin' busy so's the
Foreman won't tattle,

You can rhyme all you want
'Bout them cows bein' smelly,
But them fancy-pants words
Won't put beans in your belly.

So you sit by the far'
At the end of the day,
And you're eatin' them beans
After earnin' your pay,

And them cattle, like you,
(So you're finally thinkin'),
Are out there lowin' poetic
While you're sittin' 'round stinkin'.

Brad Smith
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Read more of French Camp Red (via Brad Smith)'s poetry here.



The Cowboy Poet

He stood there, shakin' in his boots
That, Cowboy Poet Man.
Three hundred eyeballs starin' back
Not knowin' if he can.

The first ten words out his mouth
Was three full octives high.
"I'd like to tell a story here,
About Wyomin' sky."

His nerves was tangled, tense and stretched
His vocal cords was raw.
Wished he'd used that restroom more
Them folks'es eyes he saw.

He'd done these poems a hundred times,
"Was good ones." Most had said.
He felt his neck a warmin' up
His skin was gettin' red.

"Wyomin' has the finest skies
Won't tell you no dang lies.
I've sat there on my horse at night
And heard them Coyote's cries."

Somehow there was a diff - er - ence
When talkin' to the mirror.
Havin' "real" folks watchin' now,
Had brought on such a fear.

"They're blue with lots of clouds sometimes.
Pink and orange they be."
(He wished he'd used that restroom more,
He REALLY had to........... )

"Wyomin' has the finest skies
I watch the sun at rise.
It gets real warm and hot to boot
And that brings out them flies."

A tiny laugh he heard from far
A giggle now and then.
Maybe he should do that one
About the "toothless hen."

"Wyomin' has the finest skies
At moon and stars demise.
The sun comes up and heats the land,
Ah . . . Wyomin' Skies."

His first one done and over with
He started buildin' steam.
Confidence was growin' strong
His poems was good, and clean.

As time went on, relax he did
And told a couple more.
Heard 'em sigh and even laugh
He liked this stuff for sure.

A Cowboy Poet's what he was
Up on that stage so big.
"What nerves"" he says, "I ain't got none,
Now . . . find me my next gig."

  Michael "Coyote" Schroll 1/99
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Read more of Michael "Coyote" Schroll's poetry here.



Get Back Mr. Black  

I did not steal this Baxter Black, these words are mine, I'm a cowboy hack
I wrote some poems in a cheap motel, just some toilet paper and I couldn't spel
printed them up on a copy machine, sent them in to a magazine
they didn't use em they sent em back, said "Sorry pardner, we got Baxter Black"
today you're sellin books and tapes, while I'm at Dennys' flipping crepes
or crackin my bones sailin off a horse, there's no more fun then writin' of course
like that time when I was lost in a storm, froze three fingers n still wrote a poem
I'm a writin fool and someday soon, me and you will meet at noon
maybe then you'll explain to me why a writer like me is writin for free
but watch out pardner cause I got rhymes, about those heartfelt cowboy times
like who I'd like to give a chance . . . American Cowboy or the BAR-D Ranch.

Steve Dirksen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Read more of "California Steve" Dirksen's poetry here.


The Storyteller

He wore his best gray Bailey
Though it was a bit battered
His Saturday night denim shirt
the sleeves just slightly tattered

His jeans were tucked in knee highs
the boots hand made and tooled
he wore his spurs to this event
cause town folks think it’s cool

He swaggered to the microphone
and tipped his hat with flair
He announced to the crowd loudly
"This one’s about Mary, so fair"

"Now", he said, " she was my true love"
"as refreshing as a western morn"
"I could love no other girl"
"pretty as any that was ever born"

"But in the end, it could never work"
"our love was forever damned"
" I’m a cowman you see, my friends"
"and she always had that little lamb"

The crowd roars it’s appreciation
and he bows low at the waist
"I’ve got more," he bellows
Never one to leave the spotlight in haste

For the next hour he recites
tales of horses, guns and fights
and makes the sponsors reconsider
the idea of the open mike

He left the stage to much fanfare
and reveled in the new found fame
certain all that attended that night
would remember his family name

He got in his pickup to take his leave
knowing he had left an impression
The ladies were surely swooning
and the men battling depression

"I’ll be back" he vowed quietly
I’m on a historic mission
The legend needs to stay alive
and I tell of the cowboy tradition

  Darryl Clark, December 1997, Ducktown, Georgia
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Read more of Darryl Clark's poetry here.



   Why do I write cowboy poems?
   The question has been asked.
   The query hangs there in my mind,
   So I've taken up the task.

   Sometimes my writing's just a way,
   To keep some things alive.
   Honor,  integrity, and hard work,
   Things for which we strive.

   Where can you find these values?
   Why they're all o'er the place.
   Just find one, who sits a saddle,
   And look into their face.

   The words and phrases, punchers used,
   I hope to capture in my pages.
   Just maybe, I can, in some small part,
   Help them last, down thru the ages.

   The romance of the open range,
   Pushin' longhorns, through the dust.
   Western life was strong and pure,
   We now hold a sacred trust.

   I've never made my living,
   Owning or working cows.
   But still, I write about it,
   And some folks wonder how.

   Where do I seem to find the words,
   To write these things for you?
   I can't answer that, myself,
   I simply have no clue.

   Someone is providin' them,
   Of this, I have no doubt.
   Cuz, when I take my pen in hand,
   The words just tumble out.

   Mayhaps a ghost from long ago,
   Creeps into my mind.
   And drops a few things now and then,
   Just for me to find.

   Perhaps that kindred spirit,
   Gives me verse, and line.
   I just roll them 'round a bit,
   And somehow make 'em mine.

   If this is true, and it might be,
   He's a right persistent cuss.
   Cuz sometimes he wakes me in the night,
   And raises such a fuss.

   The words he sometimes drops on me,
   Just won't let me sleep.
   And I get up to write them down,
   As if they wouldn't keep.

   The pictures formin' in my head,
   Of happenin's long since gone.
   Are just as vivid, as if they was new,
   And equally, as strong.

   Sometimes I see a herd of steers,
   Grazin' a valley, far below.
   Or maybe just a line shack,
   Isolated, in the snow.

   Or maybe cowboys, playin' pranks,
   On a compadre, drunk in town.
   Sometimes its cowboys, hats in hand,
   Cuz one of theirs went down.

   All these things come to mind,
   When I sit down to write
   Verses, made from pictures,
   I hope I get them right.

   Cuz that spirit friend of mine,
   Tho, I know not his name.
   Has left a mark on me, so deep,
   I'll never be the same.

   I hope the words I write,
   Honor the life, I've come to love.
   And I hope they give some pleasure,
   To that spirit up above.

   I'm awful proud, I've had the chance,
   To share those words with you.
   Until, that spirit rides, into my mind,
   I bid you all. Adieu

   2001, Don Gregory
   This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Read more of Don Gregory's poetry here.



Poets of the Cowboy Persuasion

Cowboy poets are my heroes,
And I'm sure you're wondering why.
We'll I guess its it's cause they make me laugh,
And then sometimes they make me cry.

They have a way of makin my old brain wake up it seems.
To make my mind's eye see the horses crossing clear blue mountain streams.

They can make my mind's nose smell a thing or two as well.
Like horse sweat and wet leather on a day that's hot as hell.

They can make me feel the snowflakes as they sting my ears and face,
As I'm bringing in a calving heifer to the barn at the Old Home Place.

They just up and lift my heart and soul to a place they call the West.
And there is just enough cowboy left in me to know that place is the best.

2002, Mark Black
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Read more about Mark Black here.




Page Four of Seven



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