Featured at the Bar-D Ranch

Photo by Stuart Johnson


About Andy Nelson
Some Poems
Books and Recordings
Contacting Andy Nelson


Andy Nelson is the recipient of the
Western Music Association (WMA)
Top Male Poet of the Year Award
2006 and 2014 and 2015

Andy Nelson was named
Top Cowboy Humorist, 2009
The Skinny Rowland Humor Award
by the Academy of Western Artists


About Andy Nelson

Andy Nelson is a modern day cowboy with a somewhat twisted funny bone! Not a somber poet by any means, his poetry is more befitting the stockyards than the courtyards. His extraordinary original writings combined with his unusual facial expressions and body language leaves audiences holding their sides and trying to catch their collective breath! Andy travels the west goofing off for everyone from poetry gatherings, to old west celebrations, to lunch room lady conventions.

Andy grew up in the small town of Oakley, Idaho, where he spent most of his formative years learning to shoe horses at the hand of his father, Jim. Traveling all over southern Idaho, northern Nevada, and northern Utah plying the farrier trade with his father, allowed Andy the best education possible in the cowboy school of hard knocks! Now living in Pinedale, Wyoming with his wife Jaclyn and their children, he no longer makes his living as a farrier, but the cowboy way of life is forever branded on his hide.

Andy and his brother Jim Nelson  broadcast Clear Out West (C.O.W) weekly throughout the West, bringing "News and Entertainment of the Cowboy Culture" to a wide audience.  See our feature here and visit their web site: http://ClearOutWest.com


A Few Poems

No Man's Land
Only a Cowboy Knows
(with Don Kennington)
Bovine Converging Stabismus (The Cross-Eyed Bull)
Max's Last Ride
Just a Cowboy
Cowboy Poet (separate page)
Ridin' with Jim (separate page)
I Sold My Saddle
The Cat Wrangler
The Box R Cavvy
The Old Crockett Spurs
Thank You for Your Support
The Worst One to Buck

Mud Season
My Shoeing Rig
How I Taught Bruno a Lesson
Santa Must Be a Shoer
Santa's Hired Hand
Feedlot Abbey
What They're Thinking

No Man's Land

The day thus far was uneventful, Not a thing to make me bitter;
All the cattle were behaving, Except for that one bunch quitter.

If she breaks and runs again, I'll dob a loop around her neck;
I'll jerk her tight and tie her short, Don't care if we have a wreck!

So I punched a hole in my rope, Ready for the next time she broke;
The sun was sinking in front of us, The dust was making me choke.

An awful haze hung in the air, She bolted with a "9" in her tail;
I snapped in right behind her, With a loop that couldn't fail.

Both of us runnin' faster than, Chain-lightning with a busted link;
I knew the high desert ground well, But it didn't occur to me to think,

About new hazards that now lay, In the brush since the last rain;
Cloud bursts carved new washes, And altered the sagebrush terrain.

I saw nothing but her head, I'll fix that old hide by gosh;
Then the ground suddenly quit us, Me and Buck headed over a wash.

Even as hard as Buck jumped, I knew we couldn't span the gap;
So I braced myself for impact, Wedged the swells into my lap.

We hit half way up the other side, And that is all I can remember;
When I woke the sun was gone, And it was darker than December.

Buck's body lay lifeless by me, But I'd escaped injury or pain;
I pried my hat from over my brow, And stroked Bucks black mane.

I wasn't scared and I wasn't hungry, I wasn't tired nor chilled to the bone;
But for the first time in my life, I felt lonesome and all alone!

I decided to leave horse and tack, And search for a place to bed down;
We were miles from the bunkhouse, And no where near close to town.

I remembered a sod roofed hut, Over the next sagebrush ridge,
A Squatter family lived there now, Across the Goose Creek bridge.

There was a strange feeling that eve, The air was hanging dense and still;
An eerie silence deafened the night, As I crested the top of the hill.

A light glowed out of the window, As I made my way to the door;
I heard voices coming from within, And footsteps on the wooden floor.

A wind gust blasted the shack, As I raised my arm up to knock;
Then coyotes howled like banshees, And something spooked the stock.

I was crying out to those inside, They acted like they were scared;
I didn't mean them any harm, but They just stood there and stared!

Now, I'm not one to grow roots, When I'm not welcome somewhere;
So I'll just head back to my horse, And I'll spend the night there.

They were kinda unneighborly, But I imagine it's for the best;
Daylight will be breakin' soon, And I don't seem to need the rest.

The sun is on it's way up now, As I wander back to be with Buck;
But as I draw closer to the wreck, I begin to question my luck.

For there beneath my loyal pard, Lay a crumpled, mangled waddie;
Wearing my clothes and my boots, There lies the remains of my body.

It was me that spooked the stock, It was me that scared them folk;
Them coyotes were howlin' at me, Egged on by a bodiless poke.

Now I understand the loneliness, No pain, hunger, chill, or fear;
The silence and the darkness, The confusion that I felt here.

Those feelings have left me now, I no longer have the urge to roam;
We leave behind our mortal shells, And Buck's spirit takes me home!

© 2004, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Only A Cowboy Knows

It's been pourin' rain for days,
Like heaven's punched full of holes,
Your cold, wet and miserable
From checkin' calves and foals.

You're finally headed to the barn,
Home's just over the distant hills,
Then you spot a hungry doggie,
With a nose full of porcupine quills.

The bunkhouse is dry and warm,
Supper's probably ready to eat;
A full belly sure would feel good,
And you can almost feel the heat.

No one would know the difference,
If you just passed that doggie by.
But if you don't pull the quills out,
You know that little feller'll die.

So your cowboy instincts take over,
And remind you of the reasons why,
You'll stop and help that critter,
'Cause real cowboys can't live a lie,

Cowboyin' isn't just a paycheck,
Until something better comes along;
It's integrity in a way of living,
Wrapped in an old cowboy song.

So you dob a loop on him,
Grab your knife and fencin' pliers,
Go to work, get the job done,
Then head back to the home fires.

And when you sit around the table
You can smile in silent pride
Thugh you didn't tell the others,
You know you saved that doggie's hide.

And that night in the bunkhouse
There'll be some who toss and turn
But you sleep in peace and comfort
Cuz your conscience doesn't burn.

And you feel good in the morning
Knowing that you did your best,
Your chest swells with satisfaction,
Like buttons poppin' off your vest.

There's a comfort that you're feeling
Knowin' a cowboy reaps what he sows.
There's another tally in your daybook,
That only a cowboy knows.

© 2004, Andy Nelson and Don Kennington 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the authors' written permission.

This poem took second place in the Academy of Western Artists 1st Annual Cowboy Poetry/Songwriting Team Roping Challenge


Bovine Converging Stabismus

It wasn't long after, the guys at S rafter,
Sold me a new bull for my herd,
I detected that he, couldn't hardly see,
And that his vision was being obscured.
Little by little, they met in the middle,
See, his eyes crossed more every day,
And with each blink, my spirits would sink,
And I figured this wasn't goin' away!
This bovine sire, I'd have to retire,
Cuz he would often miss his mark,
He couldn't tell now, a steer from a cow,
And at best he'd just take a shot in the dark.
But I knew a vet, that hadn't failed yet,
Providing that I had enough cash,
So I gave him a ring, he said, "I got the thing,"
That'll straighten them eyes in a flash.
When he pulled in, he started to grin,
At my bull with converging strabismus,
He  tipped back his head, and quietly said,
"Let's just get right down to business."
He pulled out a case, that reflected his face,
It was stainless steel with velvet lining,
My curiosity arose, as he pulled out a hose,
And I couldn't help but start whining.
Now you're telling me, with that thing I see,
You're gonna fix whatever crossed his eyes?
Well, I'm a thinkin', that you been drinkin',
And your brains are all full of cow pies!
Just watch he said, you've nothing to dread,
I'll have his eyes straight in a hurry,
It aint real tough, and I've done it enough,
So you can be the judge and the jury.
He grabbed the tube, and applied some lube,
And what he did next was quite heinous,
The sire turned pale, as he siezed his tail,
And shoved the hose up his anus!
The ol' bull's eyes, are now dollar sized,
But they were still crossed in the middle,
Your treatment has failed, I repeatedly wailed,
And your vet skills aint worth a diddle!
He said, "Just relax, here are the facts,"
"My therapeutic plan is not yet finished,"
With his lips to the hose, and holding his nose,
He blew until his lungs were diminished.
Much to my surprise, it uncrossed his eyes,
And his orbits moved back to their centers,
Now he sees straight, and again he can mate,
And can differentiate between the genders!
I was totally amazed, and partially dazed,
At the miracle performed there that day,
But the magic abated, and I wasn't elated,
When he said, "$500.00 you must pay!"
I was aghast, when my breath came at last,
And I checked to see if my wall was full,
He took every cent, alla my money was spent,
But it was cheaper than buying a new bull.
The vet quickly left, as I accused him of theft,
And back to the pasture went my friend,
This should be it, this poem should now quit,
But this story is far from it's end.
It wasn't a week, when this bull's technique,
Seemed to be lacking a bit in accuracy,
So I brought him in, cuz I was a wonderin',
If his eyes hadcrossed back, ya see?!!
I took a good look, and in my boots I shook,
As I noticed his eyes were crossed again,
I jumped up and down, and pounded the ground,
And threw a tantrum right there and then.
I bowed up my neck, and I said, "By heck,"
"I aint payin to have his eyes uncrossed,"
I figured that I, could surely get by,
And do the job at a much cheaper cost.
So I sneaked out back, with my hired hand Jack,
Out where Mama's flower garden grows,
While he kept watch, I made a big notch,
And lopped off a section of garden hose.
We then retreated, the procedure we repeated,
With a hose the same shape and size,
But try as I may, there was just no way,
I could blow hard enough to straighten his eyes.
I'd get just about there, and run out of air,
And his eyes would spring right back,
So I fell exhausted, my temper was frosted,
And I gasped, "you give it a try, Jack."
Well, he pulled the hose out, and turned it about,
And then stuffed it back in the bull,
And without a blink, he didin't even think,
He then bent over to give a big blow!
I was taken aback, at my hired hand Jack,
He wasn't the brightest bulb in the box,
I figured he knew, just what he should do,
But he was dumber than a pile of rocks.
"What are ya doin'!," a reply I was pursuin',
I said, "That thing is all covered with poo!"
He answered direct, "Well, you didn't expect,"
"Me to blow on the same end as you?!!"

© 2002, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



Max's Last Ride

The weather was good, and we understood,
Why we were gathered here today;
Max passed last year, and we were all here,
To spread his ashes in the hay.
He lived a good life, here with his wife,
And this ranch was his favorite place;
So it's only fittin', here he'd be gittin',
His eternal slumber and grace.
Should be quite easy, though a bit breezy,
To be out scatterin' his remains;
Chuck will spread, Psalms will be read,
And we'll sing some joyous refrains.
So what if it blows, ol' Chuck knows,
His caballo better than most;
Then the wind roared, as Chuck poured,
Out a cloud shaped cowboy ghost.
Midnight went to buckin', we were all duckin',
The peaceful service had been corrupted;
Dust and ash a gushin', bystanders a rushin'
For cover as Mt. Saint Max erupted!
They'd buck and bog, through breaks in the fog,
Chuck would appear now and then;
A hat, then a spur, it was all kind of a blur,
A scene worthy of paper and pen.
He couldn't let go, bobbin to and fro,
And allow Max to fall to the earth;
So we egged him on, the silence was gone,
The air filled with ash and mirth!
Chuck clutched the urn, made an airplane turn,
And we watched as they headed back;
Like a railcar chuggin', with Chuck a huggin'
The steam engine's smoke stack!
Midnight bogged his head, and Chuck quickly said,
The Lord's prayer in his final account;
To keep it together, then grabbin' for leather,
Chuck began a one point dismount!
Max's remains flew, and Chuck did too,
Leaving an ash gray jet-con trail;
When the cloud cleared, the crowd cheered,
As Max returned via airmail!
With a mouthful of dust, ol' Chuck cussed,
Cuz he'd taken one below the buckle;
We tried not to laugh, or snort on his behalf,
But I swear, we heard Max chuckle!
If you check the facts, I'll bet it was Max,
That gigged that horse just for fun;
It was somethin' to see, and we all agree,
Max's last ride was a great one!

© 2005, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Andy told us: Max's last ride really was a dandy, he was 90 years old when he died and he passed away in the parts store while standing in line getting parts for the tractor. Chuck is his grandson and there were actually three riders that day, Chuck, and two of Max's granddaughters. When Chuck's horse blew up, the granddaughters road to a safe distance and watched the wreck!


Just A Cowboy

If I were king of many lands,
You'd see me with different eyes;
You'd kneel and kiss my ring,
Wanting what my money buys.

But I am just a cowboy,
I've always remained the same;
The most treasured thing I own,
Is this title and my name.

If I were a slick politician,
You would flock to my side;
You'd take my opinion as law,
Even if I cheated and I lied.

But I am just a cowboy,
I speak plain and simple truth;
I respect those around me,
Have, ever since my youth.

If I were a big movie star,
You're kids would idolize me;
Even if unfaithful to my wife,
Stealing virtue that wasn't free.

But I am just a cowboy,
This family I have is my life;
To me, nothing is more precious,
Than my children and my wife.

If I were a pro athlete,
You'd admire my strength and skill;
My salary would buy my freedom,
If I choose to rape or kill.

But I am just a cowboy,
I work hard for chicken feed;
I'll never be rich or wealthy,
But have everything I need.

If I were a trust fund child,
You'd envy the life I'm livin';
I buy relationships and friends,
Ungrateful for all I am given.

But I am just a cowboy,
With feet planted on this sod;
Thankful for all of my blessings,
And know they come from God.

My word is a binding contract,
Hard work is the trail I choose;
I live for life's simple pleasures,
And don't care if I win or lose.

This life I've chosen to follow,
Brings me satisfaction and joy;
And I thank the good Lord daily,
To have been born "Just a cowboy"!

© 2005, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

I Sold My Saddle

No fatal shot, no crushing blow,
Nor the piercing wounds of battle;
Can scar your soul, or break your heart,
Like the phrase, "I Sold My Saddle".

That's what I did, I sold my soul,
For the sake of an easy life;
I left the ranch, and moved to town,
And took to me a city wife.

Oh, I'm alright, I have a job,
And I sleep on a bed of down;
I eat too well, I'm clean and pressed,
And have all the comforts of town.

It's not all bad, the streets are paved,
There's lots of parks and fountains;
But there's no stars, the coyote's mute,
And I cannot see the mountains.

No one knows me, I have no name,
Among this crowd, I am alone;
A faceless pawn, a worthless seed,
To them, I am only a clone.

Oh how I long, to touch the past,
And to set back the hands of time;
To throw a rope, to chase a cow,
And to hear the harness tugs chime.

To smell the sage, to taste the rain,
And to hear the bawl of a calf;
To pet my dog, and scratch his ears,
And to remember how to laugh.

To slow life's pace, to hear the birds,
And to see the paintbrush in bloom;
To smell the forge, the burning coke,
And watch the smoke forming a plume.

But here I am, stuck in this rut,
In a world better left behind;
I wish for peace, pray for solace,
As the "What If's" torture my mind.

I keep dreaming, I keep hoping,
And I yearn to go back somehow;
But choices made, and paths taken,
Will dictate the route I take now.

The windmill's broke, the hay slide sits,
And the old anvil quit ringing;
The creek has dropped, the sun went down,
And the aspen leaves quit singing.

The cows are shipped, the horses sold,
The stock truck has ceased to rattle;
The folks are gone, the ranch is too,
All because I sold my saddle.

© 2006, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Andy told us: After hearing a few songs and poems use the phrase "I never sold my saddle," I pondered the "selling of one's saddle" and the idea for this poem was born. Though it is not autobiographical, there are some thoughts in this poem that stir up strong emotions for me.


The Cat Wrangler

I wake up every morning,
And I go to start my day;
Run out to see the horses,
And fork them off some hay.

But my life of new contraptions,
Is enough to make you sob;
I've improved our place so much,
That I'm left without a job!

New tractors and new balers,
New feeders and the such;
Heated water tanks and hoses,
And a truck without a clutch.

Hired hands do all the working,
And it really makes me miffed;
That now I am dispensable,
If you somewhat catch my drift.

The night man calves the heifers,
And the poison kills the rats;
The only thing I've left to tend,
Are those stupid, doggone cats!

I've become a "Cat Wrangler"
The worst thing you ever saw;
A fumbling feline caretaker,
Of fang and fur and claw!
The cats are my remuda,
I work them without force;
I herd them from afoot,
And no longer need a horse.
I sow up tiny prolapses,
And help them birth and breed;
I took a special AI class,
A risky task indeed.
But I'm always extra careful,
To assure my health and strength;
I duct taped a welding glove,
To the end of a stove pipe length.
I milk one to feed the orphans,
One of the hardest feats;
It takes longer than a cow,
Cuz there's twice a many teats!
I worm and tag and vaccinate,
And write them in my book;
I brand and mark and castrate them,
Save the oysters for the cook.
I've become the saddest catboy,
In these and distant lands;
But to change what I've turned in to,
...I'd have to fire several hands.

© 2007, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Andy told us: I was talking with a friend a while back and what he said spurred a poem. He is the foreman of a nice ranch in the Hoback Basin and the owner doesn't have the financial restrictions that plague most ranchers. Therefore, they have plenty of new equipment and hired hands and the foreman joked that the only chores he had left to do was tending the cats!


The Box R Cavvy

I watched them run the Box R cavvy,
Through the middle of town today;
On a rain covered asphalt street,
In Wyoming, the third week of May.

It shocked my subconscious being,
And my cowboy core came alive;
A dormant corner of my past,
Awoke as I witnessed the drive.

Nothing looked more out of place,
Than those sixty head of horses;
Running down a black top luge,
A dichotomy of forces.

It was as if virtue and vice,
Were drawn from the very same well;
Horse shoes attacking the pavement,
Like Heaven had spilled into Hell.

The contrast of muscle and steam,
Erased the background of the truth;
As glass and iron melted away,
I felt once again in my youth.

I watched outriders lead the herd,
Their slickers forbidding the rain;
Streamlets dripping off of their hats,
And off their horses' tail and mane.

The melodic clop of horse hooves,
Drowned out the noises of the street;
The stress and pain of urban life.
Dissipated under their feet.

Two worlds clashed in an altercation,
That echoed off the man-made walls;
The Yin and Yang of hide and steel;
Rumbled down the alleys and halls

Then like divine answer to prayer,
They came and went without warning;
And they vanished without fanfare,
Without, sorrow, grief or mourning.

But left me with the sense of peace,
Knowing I’d soon be headed home;
And did not have to stay behind,
In the land of asphalt and chrome.

My damaged soul had been mended,
By the healing vision of steeds;
The beauty and power entwined,
To fulfill my hunger and needs.

Now the city seems more tranquil,
And perhaps a bit more savvy;
Since the day the concrete jungle,
Played host to the Box R cavvy.

© 2007, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Andy told us, "I was sitting in my office on a Monday morning feeling a little sorry for myself, spending weekdays at my real job in town and frequently wish I was back out “working” for a living. All of a sudden, sixty head of horses came running in front of my office window and I immediately recognized them as the Box R dude string. It didn’t last long but it sure lifted my spirits..."  Andy sent along a local newspaper article that told about riders taking 60 horses  right through downtown Pinedale, Wyoming, on their way to summer pasture and to work at the Box R Ranch. The article commented that with diesel prices so high, it was more economical to "drive" the horses on the two-and-a-half hour ride than to take them in gas-driven trailers.



The Old Crockett Spurs

As long as I can remember,
The Crockett spurs belonged to Jim;
They’re modest, yet very complex,
And remind me a lot of him.

Tempered through hard work and labor,
Engraved with years of bad weather;
Forged from the iron of turmoil,
Thick in the skin and the leather.

Perfectly balanced in function,
Dependable when called on to work;
Precise when applied to the trade,
Dangerous when used by a jerk.

Both may appear harsh at first sight,
But are subtle when put into use;
The hard edges have worn down some,
Polished by the years of abuse.

Not very flashy to look at,
Don’t make a whole lot of noise;
Often overlooked by most folks,
Except for real working cowboys.

As progress replaces tradition,
An emotion within me stirs;
My heritage is a priceless gift,
Like Jim...and those old Crockett spurs. 

© 2007, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Andy told us, "My big brother Jim and I were talking about 'cowboy collectibles' and it was mentioned that some priceless pieces are only priceless to the owner and not to a potential collector. They hold a sentimental—not a monetary—value that could rarely be comprehended by the average person off the street. It is in this way that I treasure my relationship with Jim."

Andy and Jim Nelson host the popular Clear Out West (C. O. W.) radio, and were named Top Radio Disk Jockeys in 2006 by the Western Music Association (WMA).

photo by Lori Faith Merritt, www.PhotographyByFaith.com
Andy and Jim Nelson

"The Old Crockett Spurs" was featured in the program for the 18th Annual Durango Cowboy Gathering, in this impressive presentation, image courtesy of the gathering:



We was doing some entertaining,
In the Glenrock city park,
When the insects started acting really mean;
All the women started screaming
And the dogs began to bark,
Twas the darndest sight a guy had ever seen.

There had been some porcine grappling,
In the confines of a pen,
That’s pig wrestling, to folks who are in the know;
When a monster pig escaped the grasp,
Of thirteen full grown men,
And rampaged through the middle of our show.

His hide was cracked and scaley,
With tusks that reached his tail,
And he had to weigh at least five hundred pounds;
The noises coming from this thing,
Were like a banshee’s wail,
Or at least the way a wounded grizzly sounds.

He was chasing little children,
Tracking those that could not run,
And trailed them like a San Francisco stalker;
He was drooling from his pig lips,
As he ate a cat for fun,
Then sighted in an old lady with a walker.

She screamed for help and hit a lope,
With Hogzilla on her heels,
As her husband came a wheeling to her aid;
A valiant effort, sure as heck,
Midst the daunting squawks and squeals,
But his wheelchair lost its traction up the grade.

So I grabbed my full length poly,
And whistled a big loop out,
With no thought of either losing life or limb;
My cowboy snare sailed straight and true,
Around Hogzilla’s razor snout,
And I jerked the slack and put the catch on him.

It shattered panes of auto glass,
When the mutant pig went vocal,
And it set the piggy swat team on the run;
It was lucky for the town folk,
The sniper was a local,
And he shot him with his tranquilizer gun.

The facts herein may be tainted,
With delusions of high hope,
And if the pure gospel truth were to be known,
Hogzilla was just a wiener pig,
I caught with a small kids rope,
And 'twas the luckiest loop I’d ever thrown.

© 2007, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Andy and brother Jim regaled their Clear Out West (C. O. W.) radio listeners with more of this story on their June 23, 2007 program, which you can listen to in their archives here.



Thank You for Your Support

This is a song of biological harmony
One with a sympathetic overtone
A song that revels in diversity
We sing of symbiotic Yellowstone 

Everything co-exists to the smallest fraction
In Yellowstone Park, the circle of life has grown
Even the paramedics thrive on the action
So feel free to throw them a bone

That's right, go ahead
And feed the bears you ding dongs
Join the elk in sing-a-longs
Ride all the buffalo in our resort

Climb rocks from dusk till dawn
Sunbathe with no clothes on
The park medics thank you for your support

Grandpa with his white legs
And sandals with his socks
Give the mosquitoes something to chew
See Junior with his dreadlock hair and Birkenstocks
Well the animals are fun to watch, too.

Trash collectors, tour guides and the park rangers
At times, may get a little bored.
But the paramedics always welcome the danger
Cause somebody's bound to get gored.

It's fun for the whole family
So, test the waters for heat
Give the badgers a doggie treat
Though your vacation may be cut short
Run wild with the moose
Sure turn your little dogs loose
The park medics thank you for your support 

Yellowstone Park is the best place to hide
From the cares and the worries of your life
So just hop into your SUV and ride
With your girlfriend or someone else's wife 

What better place to enjoy the view
Than this land that progress forgot
But for those who bring the rat race with you
It's best to just stay at home and rot 

So, enjoy your national park
Give the finger to the bikers, make fun of the hikers
Not everyone gets a police escort
Drive your RV like NASCAR
Drink like there's a no-cash bar
The park medics thank you for your support.
Yellowstone National Park medics thank you for your support

© 2007, Andy Nelson and Kip Calahan
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Andy Nelson and Kip Calahan collaborated on the humorous "summer traveler" song above.

Inspired by a Western Folklife Center Yellowstone Song Contest, Andy told us that the idea for work was based on two things: "...a t-shirt I saw in a Jackson Hole tourist trap that said "Go ahead, feed the bears; the park EMT's thank  you for your support," and the story an EMT friend told me of a fly fisherman in the park taking his fly rod to the hind end of a slow moving  moose that was in his way! The moose turned around and stomped a mud hole in him."


The Worst One to Buck

She chatters my teeth, and rattles my bones,
And she is the worst one to buck;
She squeals like a pig, she snorts and she moans,
And shimmies like an old feed truck.

She beats on my kidneys, bruises my spleen,
And is cantankerous as heck;
Runs away at will, she's ornery and mean,
And thrills in whiplashing my neck.

Why do I keep her? She pounds me each time,
I swing a leg and get on her;
She cost way too much, and ain't worth a dime,
Each ride I think I'm a gone 'er.

She just takes her head, goes as she pleases,
No matter what cue I give her;
She breaks plum in two, jumps, kicks and wheezes,
Jarring my tonsils and liver.

I tell her back up, she plows straight ahead,
Runs bucking and stirring up dust;
She spews out exhaust, and revels instead,
In flaunting her growing distrust.

With all her bad habits, her noises and smells,
She plain torques me off every day;
If I didn't need her, to clean my corrals,
I'd give that darn skid steer away.

© 2008, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Andy notes that the title comes from a line in "The Strawberry Roan." He says the poem is all true, "... that sonuvagun bucks and beats me up every time I get on it, I've never been on a more rough piece of equipment in my life..."


Mud Season

Whoever said nothing can be certain,
Only death and taxes are sure;
Never spent a springtime in Wyoming,
And never had mud to endure.

Our extra season comes after winter,
As sure as cows chewing their cud;
And before we can dive into summer,
We battle the infernal mud.

We spend the whole winter praying for snow,
And we praise every little flake;
Then we put the "Whoa Nellie" on praying,
When the drifts melt into a lake.

We wallow, we sludge, we spin, and we sink,
Then we curse every bog and hole;
We struggle, we trudge, we trip, and we toil,
As we root and dig like a mole.

Our cowboy rigs sink clear to the axles,
And cows disappear in the chutes;
As the mud creates just enough suction,
To pull off your rubber muck boots.

We gripe and we moan through the whole ordeal,
But we really shouldn't complain;
It won't be long until we are whining,
Because we're in need of some rain!

© 2008, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



My Shoeing Rig

My horse shoeing truck, is part primer gray,
And it is a wonder to behold;
I often wonder, will it start today,
And what's smoking on the manifold.

But it gets me on time to each shoeing gig
And though it's lost its original shine
The truth be known...I sure like that rig
And it's been paid for since 79.

The old battery, well, it ain't "batt-ing"
And the air-intake needs a breather;
The generator, well, it ain't "gen-ing"
And the pistons, ain't... working either!

The radio squawks out one am station,
The seat has no springs underneath
But the ride is real smooth...just a little vibration
That's been known to jar fillings from teeth.

The A/C works fine, when going to town,
And it runs on 240 power;
240 that is, with two windows down,
At over forty mile an hour.

There's a sack on the shift and mud on the floor,
A cup holder screwed to the dash
Rocks in the ashtray, dog slobber on the door
And a check that I still need to cash.

The tailgate is gone, the cab light burned out
The paint is all gone from the bed
There's dust in the vents and trash strewn about
And a fragrance like something is dead.

As a real looker, she ain't worth her sand,
In fact she is mighty low tech;
My GE nippers, my anvil and stand,
Book higher than this poor old wreck.

The new nails I store, in an old ammo can,
And my tools in a green army box;
A spare tire in the back, from a dodge minivan,
With some horse shoes and dirty old socks.

She's held together, with duct tape and wire,
And runs mainly on diesel and luck;
With the money I make, as a shoer for hire,
I sure can't afford a new truck.

So onward we go, just staying the course,
Though some days I doubt she will make 'er;
And I've always said, if she were a horse,
Not even the canner would take 'er.

© 2009, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Find the photos and commentary that accompany this poem here in Picture the West.


Jake and Marlene

Jake and Marlene were two high school sweethearts,
working for the Mill Iron ranch;
After graduation and a wedding,
their fam’ly tree began to branch.

Now in just five years they had four children,
Three strapping sons and a daughter;
They finally surmised that her condition,
wasn’t from drinking the water.

So one thing was for sure and for certain,
they would have to take action fast;
At the rate the two of them were going,
Grandpa’s savings bonds would not last.

Now both Jake and Marlene were 4-Her’s,
and alumni of FFA;
They were versed in animal husbandry,
but didn’t wish to roll that way.

Because birth control out on a ranch means
making a bull into a steer,
Or turning the herd sires in for a month
then taking them out for a year.

Not at all willing to subject themselves,
to those kind of treatments or ills;
They sought some help from the country doctor,
who prescribed to them a few pills.

Oh the joy and the rapture of freedom,
after finding these new techniques;
But their elation screeched to a halt when
they ran out of pills in two weeks.

Back to the corner drug store they trundled,
on their next trip to town for some feed;
Ready and most anxious for a refill,
they sat there in desperate need.

But the druggist said he had given them
enough pills to last thirty days;
“Did you take them as directed?” he asked,
shooting a conspicuous gaze.

“Absolutely!” snapped Marlene, “Without fail,
everyday for heaven sake;
First thing in the morning I take one pill,
then make sure I give one to Jake.”

The druggist almost swallowed his dentures,
as Jake had a question to render;
“While we’re here, maybe you could help me out,
lately my chest is real tender!”

© 2009, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

How I Taught Bruno a Lesson

All I can say is that I lost control,
My bad, but I have no remorse;
This is how I taught Bruno a lesson,
While shoeing that crotchety horse.

It takes quite a bit to make me upset,
But when he used me for a jack;
I had to show him just who was the boss,
So I propped him up with my back.

He tried jerking his hoof away, so I
hit him in the knee with my nose;
It hurt him so bad, my eyes watered hard,
He felt it clear down to my toes.

He was swooning from the pain I inflicted,
When I smashed my face to his head,
Then I showed him another thing or two,
As I proudly stood there and bled.

And then he struck at me with a front foot,
But my cat-like reflex was keen;
And I blocked his hoof neatly with my skull,
A move that was orn’ry and mean.

Then I swiftly shoved my ear in his mouth
It hurt him clean down to his gibs,
He got all irate and kicked at me, but
I softened the blow with my ribs.

He was reeling so bad from my whuppin’,
I thought I’d move on to his hind;
He’d suffered enough of my punishment,
I’d give one last chance to be kind.

It didn’t last long, he started back in
as I drove a nail through, he kicked;
I quickly barred his strike with my belly,
At that point I really got ticked.

The still exposed nail was yet to be bent,
To keep it from causing more harm;
So I promptly, fully buried the shank,
In the fleshy part of my arm.

Well, I could no longer restrain myself,
I whacked his hoof with my caboose;
Then I quickly jumped to my hands and knees,
To save him from further abuse.

I stood him up on the back of my hand,
And hammered his hock with my chest;
It was clear he couldn’t take any more,
He sat on my head for a rest.

I could tell he was exhausted and tired,
It took him an hour to get off;
I had to save him from my deadly wrath,
So I crawled beneath the feed trough.

The coward retreated right after me,
Then I dealt the unkindest cut;
He snorted with anguish and in horror,
When I filled his mouth with my butt.

I feel real bad for what I did to him,
But it’s just the nature of men;
And I’ll bet now he will think twice before,
He picks a fight with me again.

© 2012, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

We asked Andy about his inspiration and he replied, "
Believe it or not, I got the idea in church. I know, I’m supposed to be paying closer attention to the message, but this feller was talking about 'perspective' and he read 'How I Finally Taught the Big Guy a Lesson.' That sounded like some battles I had with some horses, so I wrote the poem."

By Giving Me Horses

You taught me to give, by giving me horses,
And set me adrift on uncharted courses.

You taught me to love, by loving them truly,
Not just the tame, but the wild and unruly.

And when one was given to a neighborhood boy,
You taught me instead, the true meaning of joy.

You taught me to work, by working beside me,
Training our horses, with you there to guide me.

You taught me to serve, by serving together,
No matter the time, no matter the weather.

And when one grew old and crippled with blindness,
You laid him to rest and taught me ‘bout kindness.

You taught me respect, by respecting each steed,
And treating them gently, no matter the breed.

You asked much, for you knew their ability,
Asked forgiveness, and taught me humility.

And when one was ill, in some sort of fashion,
You aided him right and taught me compassion.

You taught me to trust, by trusting their actions,
And not taking heed to outside distractions.

You taught to me share, and to give of yourself,
And not put your talents away on a shelf.

And when a few coyotes, ran one through the fence,
You taught me that actions come with consequence.

You taught me gratitude, and of thanks giving,
That horses, not things, make my life worth living.

And when one was stricken, I learned of remorse,
You taught me your best, when you gave me a horse.

© 2013, Andy Nelson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Andy included photos of his daughters Abby and Sadie with Chili and Blue:



Santa Must Be a Shoer

They say he's a jolly ol' elf,
you'll never find one truer;
But the way I see it myself,
Santa must be a shoer.

Someone's got to trim the reindeer,
and sharp-shoe those little hoofs;
As they dash through the wild frontier,
and land on ice-covered roofs.

So, to me it makes perfect sense,
that Santa nails on the shoes;
I present this as evidence,
backed up with various clues.

He's dressed in fur from head to foot, 
cause he's a hairy feller;
He's covered all over with soot,
like a blacksmith shop dweller.

The sound you hear ain' t jingling bells,
it's his anvil that's ringing;
A sound more fine than chorus swells,
or herald angels singing.

A beard as white as frosted peaks,
with a pipe stump stuck in place;
Merry dimples and rosie cheeks,
but not the ones on his face.

Bending plagues this reindeer drover,
rear-end cleavage stripes his back;
Like a peddler bending over,
and opening up his pack.

When he squats down to put out toys,
his belly rests on his thighs;
A comfy stance for shoeing boys,
of typical shape and size.

Don't know 'bout his droll little lips,
all drawn up into a bow;
Nor why his pants sag on his hips,
but this I really do know

It's a short season spreading cheer,
he works hard to get through  'er;
But what's he do the rest the year
Santa MUST be a shoer.

© 2013, Andy Nelson. All rights reserved.
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Andy Nelson recites this poem on The BAR-D Roundup: Volume 8



Santa's Hired Hand

Santa's been busy, runnin’ ‘round dizzy,
each Christmas he falls way behind;
So, to help him out, with his western route,
he hired a hand of some kind.

A few things may change, out there on the range,
but presents will come all the same;
So please be advised, and don't be surprised,
When you find it weren’t Santa that came.

Cuz there’ll be no sleigh, on this Christmas day,
instead he’ll come in a wagon;
And different this year, there’ll be no reindeer,
mules will be hooked up a draggin’.

You'll not hear his shout, echoing about,
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and so on;
As Bonnie and Clyde, take over the ride,
with Jim, Jake, Dan, and Deon.

The only glowing nose, is the one that goes,
on the face of Santa's new hand;
It's frosty out there, in the sub-zero air,
High above open range land.

His fingers get cold, the reins hard to hold,
so please have hot coffee, no cream;
Leave jerky instead, of cookies and bread,
and oats for the rest of his team.

He don't care much, for "carols" or such,
he likes cowboy poetry best;
So play a few tracks, from Waddie or Bax,
and give him a minute to rest.

Then he’ll go back to work, with nary a shirk,
and fill stockings until they heave;
With rasps and hoof picks, mineral salt licks,
worm paste, and a new OB sleeve.

His bowl full of jelly, oversized belly,
Pushes his pants down when he bends;
His trousers may sag, when he opens his bag,
Embarrassing family and friends.

He wears woolly chaps, a Fudd cap with flaps
And a Carhartt coat on his back;
His dog is his elf, rides next to himself,
with toys stuffed into a grain sack.

The Grinch doesn't dare, come in anywhere,
Santa's hired hand might be roaming;
There’s a .44 mag, inside of his bag,
and he learned to shoot in Wyoming.

He’s the best hired hand in all of the land,
though you’ll not see a stranger sight;
He’ll shout through his doin’s, “Merry Christmas to you’ns,
and to alla your’ns a good night!”

© 2009, Andy Nelson, All Rights Reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without permission.



Feedlot Abbey

With the price you can get, on a cow and calf pair,
Now everyone wants to raise beef;
And after some ponder, and a whole bunch of prayer,
A few nuns held the same belief.

If the fathers keep bees, and the monks can make beer;
The sisters could surely raise cows;
It would help them pay bills, a few taxes each year,
And ain’t against none of their vows.

So the nuns bought a herd, of some black baldy cross,
And purchased a coupla sires;
A tractor and baler, and a ewe-necked old hoss,
And a feed truck with big knobby tires.

The Abbey got busy, working their hallowed herd,
Swallow-forked and waddled the small;
With the archangel’s sword, and the bible’s good word,
And used hell-fire to brand them all.

The sister’s holy cows, with a slick healthy sheen,
Are fed from a corn silage pit;
One nun with a dozer, keeps the place looking clean,
Pushing up piles of holy… manure.

Then they bag up the stuff, worth two bucks at the most,
For the folks at the hardware store;
Where they label each sack, “consecrated compost”,
And sell it for twenty or more.

The beatified beef, have very few ailments,
No prolapse on this sacred place;
The heifers calve easy, without any derailments,
Because of Saint Angus’s grace.

The bullish cow market, had returned quite a yield,
So the sisters chose to expand;
They added some hog pens, and another hay field,
And erected a produce stand.

They bypassed the shipper, and bought a bull wagon,
And one nun got a CDL;
With a Peterbuilt truck, she’s set up a draggin’,
And hires out to some clientele.

With three blessed barns, eight sanctified sections,
And a thousand cow and calf pairs;
Their various holdings, along with collections,
The mortgage could shortly be theirs.

But the Abbey’s success, even in the bad years,
Makes some neighbor ranchers quite sore;
Cuz it’s kinda not fair, they complain of their peers,
Mostly cuz of Whom they work for.

© 2015, Andy Nelson, All Rights Reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without permission.


This poem was inspired by the ranching Benedictine nuns of the Abbey of St. Walburga near the Colorado/Wyoming border.



What They're Thinking

Have you ever wondered what your horses think,
When they watch you mow your lawn?
You fence them out and then whack it all down,
‘Til the tender blades are gone.

They must think you have gone out of your mind,
To grow it and not let them on;
They have to think, “what a colossal waste,”
When they watch you mow your lawn.

Have you wondered what your dogs are thinking,
When you throw out chicken bones?
You throw them away right in front of them,
Amidst their moans and groans.

And you don’t even offer to share with them,
What narcissism this bemoans;
They have to think, “what a self-serving jerk,”
When you throw out chicken bones.

Have you ever wondered what your barn cats think,
When you take a leak in the barn?
And then walk off without covering it up,
Like you don’t even give a darn.

They are appalled by your lack of manners,
As they spin each other this yarn;
“The least he could do is scratch a little dirt,
when he takes a leak in the barn.”

Have you ever wondered what your milk cow thinks,
When you grab her by the udder?
Then you squeeze and pull and yank and tug,
And shimmy, shake, and judder.

She must think, “he doesn’t look like my calf,
And his cold hands make me shudder;”
That has got to be what your milk cow thinks,
When you grab her by the udder.

Have you ever wondered what your pigs think,
When they eat food that you won’t eat?
Curdled milk, moldy cheese, dried-up veggies,
And some green and slimy meat.

They’re prob’ly thinkin’, “I turn slop into bacon,
let’s just see you master that feat!”
That’s probably what your pigs are thinking,
When they eat food that you won’t eat.

Have you ever wondered what your critters think,
With their pea-brain and myopic view;
It is most certain you can rest assured that
They’re thinking the same thing about you.

© 2015, Andy Nelson, All Rights Reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without permission.



Cowboys on Facebook

I’ve found a new way to keep up with my pards,
That seems to be all of the rage;
I revel in stalking my cowboy buddies,
From my very own Facebook page.

I’m the jigger boss of my own cyber wall,
A social media buckaroo;
I ride herd all over my internet range,
And all of my buddies do too.

I post and I poke and I tag and I like,
It seems that the fun never ends;
I share and I add and most all my replies,
Irritate most all of my friends.

I’m on the confuser first thing in the morn,
Asking for side pork recipes;
But holding a skillet of splattering grease,
Makes it real hard to take selfies.

With smart phone I go as I see to my chores,
And film the cat having kitties;
Then upload a clip of a silly bum lamb,
Nursing on the milk cows (udders).

I spend most of the morning passing along
Unsubstantiated rumors;
I ask a few pards about wart remedies,
And treatments for sarcoid tumors.

I don’t care much for the political posts,
Just like most all of the masses;
Pachyderm or burro, far as I’m concerned,
Both parties’ mascots are asses.

I get all jacked up when a notice comes in,
It might be my birthday, or not;
Then invite all my friends to join an event
Called, “My party that you forgot.”

I keep track of feed days with a status update,
I don’t do anything by halves;
And I make sure to post a new life event,
Each time that a mama cow calves.

The joke that I shared of the old spotted donk,
Didn’t much seem to offend me;
But the Appy folks and the mule skinnin’ crowd,
All of them want to unfriend me.

I get back to the house and upload some pics,
Of me with my new heeler pup;
A cryptorchid horse colt, a prolapsed old cow,
And something the barn cat threw up.

I know my old pards will be waiting to hear,
About my ev’ning ablution;
So I share a quick pic of me in the tub,
With my new dandruff solution.

Then I jump in my long-johns, flop into bed,
And rehash my day on the run;
I’m worn to a frazzle but don’t understand,
Why I don’t get anything done.

© 2016, Andy Nelson, All Rights Reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without permission.




Andy Nelson has shared Picture the West photos:

  photos of his father here

   a poem and photos of his father's "shoeing rig" here

   photos of three generations of farriers here

   photos of his family's next generation of farriers here

   a 1950s family photo here

ancloudswagon.jpg (24930 bytes)  a 2005 sunset photo from his place in Pinedale, here

  a contemporary photo from his brother Jim's ranch here.



Read Andy Nelson's special tribute to his father that includes his poem, Ridin' with Jim, and photos, stories, and more.


Read Andy Nelson's My Shoeing Rig in Picture the West


Read Andy Nelson's Cowboy Poet, posted with the Rope Burns' BAR-D columns and in our collection of Poems about Cowboy Poetry


Read Andy Nelson's  Amen, But ..., a response to Rod Miller's essay, "Five Ways Cowboy Poetry Fades in the Footlights


Andy Nelson's article, "I Am a Convert," about competition, inspired by the National Cowboy Poetry Rodeo.


Read Andy Nelson's tribute to Frank Wolking, "Welcome Home," here.

Books and Recordings 


I Won


I Won features a wide range of poetic moods, from nonsense to reverence, that show the breadth of Andy Nelson's talents. He is accompanied by friend and top songwriter Brenn Hill, who produced the album, on several tracks. The beautifully designed package sports a cover by noted cowboy cartoonist Ben Crane.

I Won
Feedlot Abbey
The Old Shoer
The Worst Winter Ever/Fair Weather Cowboy (Brenn Hill)
Be the First/Single Winter Rose (Brenn Hill)
The Horse Sale Catalog
The Family Cemetery
Feline Orthodontics
Unhobbled/God Be With You Till We Meet Again (Brenn Hill)
What They Are Thinking
His Baby Girl and Her Little Boy
Cowboys on Facebook
Cottonwood (Brenn Hill)
Will They Write Songs About Us
Waiting on the Thunder

I Won is available for $20 postpaid from  cowpokepoet.com and by mail from:

Andy Nelson
PO Box 1547
Pinedale, WY 82941




How I Taught Bruno a Lesson


Rick Huff reviewed the CD:

“A stock trailer full of belly laughs,” writes Gary McMahan on the jacket of Andy Nelson’s newest release. And this poet can want no finer praise!

Professional farrier and cowboy poet Andy Nelson is known far and wide as a mighty entertaining fellow! Herein find twenty-two new ones (plus “Disclaimer”) hot off the fire. Leave it to him to wonder what Dr. Seuss would sound like counting cows at the gate, or to replace the words “plant,” “animal” or “species” with “cowboy” in the Endangered Species Act to increase accuracy.

Yep, thoughtful howlers are here and poignant pieces between give your grin a rest. That’s often when he’s at his best. “My Father’s Anvil,” “By Giving Me Horses,” “A Whole Man,” “The Old Crockett Spurs,” “The Box R Cavvy” and “It’s My Job Alone” are gems.

Andy’s hammering ’em again! It’s a shoe-in.

© 2014, Rick Huff

How I Taught Bruno a Lesson
is available for $20 postpaid from  cowpokepoet.com and by mail from:

Andy Nelson
PO Box 1547
Pinedale, WY 82941



Andy Nelson Stew



License Plate Mottos
Lack of Communication
Language Barrier
Full Nelson Shoeing
Doing Winter Work
Riding with Jim
The Horse Race
Harvey's Moon
My Father's Anvil Rings
Barnyard Lesson
The Cat Wrangler
Mud Season
I Sold My Saddle
Sensitivity Training
A Politically Correct Day
No Man's Land
My Shoeing Rig
The Worst One to Buck
The Old Crockett Spurs
Max's Last Ride
The Cat Wash
Making the Ride
Farrier's Toast
Cowboy Poet
Thank You for Your Support

Crowd-pleasing emcee, radio host, poet, writer, and all-around funnyman Andy Nelson mixes together his most requested stories and poems in Andy Nelson Stew. The entertainment is piled higher than a Dagwood sandwich in a blend of live performances and tracks from his popular CDs.

Countless audiences have been warmed up with his "License Plate Mottos," the lead track. It's a close competitor as a favorite with "The Horse Race," a fast-paced run through the stages of marriage. Poems include tales of farriers (including the infamous "Harvey's Moon"), the results of miscommunications, equipment mishaps, critter stories, and more, all seasoned with wry irreverence and generous portions of unbridled hilarity.

Andy Nelson can touch the heart as well as the funny bone. Anyone who has read his impressive book,
Riding With Jim, which collects his stories and poems along with his father's stories and poems, knows there is also a serious and thoughtful side to Andy Nelson that includes a great love of family. "The Old Crockett Spurs" is a standout among the serious poems, a tribute to both his father and his brother Jim, who is his co-host on the award-winning weekly syndicated Clear Out West (C.O.W.) radio show.

A special bonus track features "Thank You for Your Support," a fun song about Yellowstone's summer tourists,
performed by co-writer Kip Calahan.

The ingredients that make up the good-natured good guy known as Andy Nelson include the unique mix of a strong and confident stage presence; an amusingly twisted perspective; honest sentiment; and a large portion of humility. Few people do more (quiet) good deeds for friends and fellow performers. Words inside the CD from his friend, singer and songwriter Brenn Hill, include a heartfelt endorsement, "...This cowboy poet lives to make us laugh, cry, and cherish the life and land we love."

Andy Nelson Stew offers up a full menu of 25 tracks with plenty of choices for every taste, including the occasional pearl-clutching category of "questionable." Top Western cartoonist Ben Crane cooked up the delightful cover, and the total good-looking package was designed by Jeri Dobrowski.

Andy Nelson Stew is available for $18 postpaid from his web site, cowpokepoet.com, (where you can also listen to  "License Plate Mottos") and by mail from:

Andy Nelson
PO Box 1547
Pinedale, WY 82941


Riding with Jim


Wyoming poet, popular radio host and emcee, humorist, and writer Andy Nelson honors his family's generations of cowboys and farriers in his impressive, entertaining, and important new book, Riding with Jim. His satisfying, humorous, and meaningful stories and poetry interweave with stories written by his father James F. Walker Nelson, and are accompanied by top illustrator Bonnie Shield's drawings.

The book has earned praise from all quarters::

"...a great collection of stories and poetry. Andy's love for his dad, family and traditional values shine through on every page. This is great reading..."  respected balladeer Don Edwards  

"....He captures the art of subtle humor in all his work. He makes you want to tuck in at the supper table and say, 'Please pass the potatoes and Andy, tell us another one.'" ; Alan Geoffrion, the author of Broken Trail

"...an important book new book for those who understand the cowboy's West as well as for those who've not had the pleasure. Riding with Jim personifies the Wyoming Life, complete with nature's beauty, spirited horses, ranch life, cowboy geniuses and fools, and life's little vagaries. But ultimately, it is Andy Nelson's remarkable take on the precious and perfect concept of family." singer, songwriter and novelist Jon Chandler

"I've been Baptized and Chastised
Socialized and Civilized
Criticized and Demonized
and that is just the start." 
top cowboy poet Waddie Mitchell (read the rest here)

Described by Andy Nelson as the most meaningful project he has undertaken, Riding with Jim is available for $25.00 postpaid from:

Andy Nelson
PO Box 1547
Pinedale WY 82941
(307) 367-2842


From cowboy poet Andy Nelson and photographer Nikki Mann comes a unique look into a small section of desert in western Wyoming called the Jonah Field. Jonah documents an area where wildlife, ranching, history and industry all come together. Sometimes they coexist in peace, sometimes they don't; sometimes one aspect benefits another, and sometimes it doesn't.

Jonah is a stunning photographic chronicle of an ever-changing landscape and a poignant poetic insight to an ever-changing heritage.

Jonah is available for $38 postpaid from Andy Nelson, PO Box 1547, Pinedale WY 82941; (307) 367-2842;



Full Nelson Shoeing


Full Nelson Shoeing (listen to this track at Andy Nelson's web site)
License Plate Mottos (live)
Politically Incorrect Short Poem
I Sold My Saddle
Mountain Oysters
I Need a Push (live)
Politically Incorrect Short Poem
Contents Under Pressure
Just a Cowboy
Max's Last Ride
Politically Incorrect Short Poem
A Cowgirl's Rules for Happiness (live)
Buck Off of the Century
Politically Incorrect Short Poem
Old Town Crank (Geezer Poem #4)
Clyde the Destroyer
Crazy Woman Creek
Rules for Attending Our Branding (live)
Politically Incorrect Short Poem
If Guns Kill (live)
Too Horses
That's Not What I Said
Politically Incorrect Short Poem

Available for $18 postpaid from:

Andy Nelson
PO Box 1547
Pinedale, WY 82941


Harvey's Moon


Harvey's Moon
Endangered Cowboy's Act
No Man's Land
Rules for Visiting Our State (live)
Gopher Getter
Judgment Day
Water for Gus
Horse Race (live)
I'll Fix Your Mule
Doing Winter Work
The Cowboy I Never Knew
Rules for Visiting Our Outfit (live)
Language Barrier
Why Can a Cowboy ...
Only a Cowboy Knows (co-written with Don Kennington)
Things You Should Know
Cowboy Poet

with background music by Steve Laster, Pinedale, Wyoming

Available for $15 plus $3 postage from:

Andy Nelson
PO Box 1547
Pinedale, WY 82941


See our review here.

RU Lazy 2? (Book and CD)

Andy Nelson brings to life the fictional poet, "Ira Cowpoke" and his collection of
original cowboy poetry. Ira rejoices in making fun of his own misfortunes in
verse, and revels in everyone else's! He responds to certain situations as
we would like to, but good manners and common sense keeps us from doing so.
This book and CD combination is an excellent way for people to forget their
own troubles and laugh at someone else's. The set sells for $15.95 + shipping
and handling.


Sensitivity Training
Makin' the Ride
A Simple Prayer
The Chili Cookoff
The Greenhorn
Methane Madness
Farrier School
The Examination
Colts and Sagechickens
Asserting Your Maleness
Cow Pasture Pool
The Oyster Fry
The Shoppin' Trip
Tally Ho the Fox
Missin' Thumbs
Cowboy Dictionary
Bull VS Geo
The Japanese Quarterhorse
The Texan
Pete and the Wolf
One Expensive Chip
The Catchpen Chiropractor
Wild Cow Milkin'
Stupid Attack
Beula Lue

Andy Nelson
PO Box 1547
Pinedale, WY 82941


Land Mines (CD)

All new poems and still the same demented sense of humor, this CD is sure to rattle your funny bone. With the perfect combination of poetry, background music, and the occasional sound effect, it is almost illegal to have this much fun. The CD sells for $15.00 + shipping and handling.


A Barnyard Lesson
Country Sex Education
 Natural Selection
The Cross-eyed Bull
(Bovine Converging Stabismus
The Code of the West
Lack of Communication
 The Cat Wash
 The Worst Winter Ever
Ranch Wife Barbie
 Ridin' With Jim Again
A Cow's Tale
 If Horses Could Talk
Mad Cow Disease
Creation or Evolution
Christmas Every Day
This Ain't Hallmark!
 If Horses Could Talk Too

Available for $15 plus $3 postage from:

Andy Nelson
PO Box 1547
Pinedale, WY 82941



Wyocpbk.jpg (7975 bytes) 

Andy Nelson's poetry is included in Wyoming's Cowboy Poets.  (See our review here.) The 201-page book contains brief profiles of 28 Wyoming cowboy poets, their photos and samples of their poetry. The introduction is written by Montana humorist/poet Gwen Petersen.  The editor, Jean Henry-Mead, is a novelist and award-winning photojournalist, founder of the Western Writers Hall of Fame, and former teacher in the Wyoming Poetry in the Schools Program with Peggy Simson Curry. Read more about the book and at Jean Henry-Mead's Sagebrush and Sleuths web site, where you can order the book.  Wyoming's Cowboy Poets is also available by check or money order from Medallion Books, 8344 Shady Lane, Evansville, WY 82636 for $19.95 postpaid (paperback) or  $27.45 postpaid (hardcover). Please add 5% sales tax if ordered within Wyoming.



Contacting Andy Nelson 

Andy Nelson
PO Box 1547
Pinedale, WY 82941







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