Cowboy Poetry and Music and More at the BAR-D Ranch

Canyon Country, California
About J. D. Seibert
J. D. Seibert's web site





The Bachelor Buckaroo

Some say that I'm a hopeless romantic
A bachelor buckaroo
They say that I'm married to the job
And although that may be true...

I still long to be attached
To something other than my steed
And only female companionship
Can fulfill this basic need

I'm pushing thirty five this year
And my poor Mom is starting to worry
But I don't like to rush right into things
Or to be in to great a hurry

She came to visit me last week
To break the monotony of line shack life
And to point out her lack of grand kids
That would necessitate a wife

"Have you tried those mail order brides", she'd say
"Thats how yer uncle tied the knot"
 I told her that I would consider it
If she could fit into the mail box that we've got

Well, we continued to discuss my options
Of courtin and of hitchin
When I noticed her attention being drawn
To a picture in the kitchen

Then the conversation suddenly stopped
And she got up from her chair
She picked the picture up
And then gave it a good long stare

A slow, sweet smile came over her face
Followed by words of adulation
But I must admit that I was a bit confused
At the cause for her celebration

She said that the pretty young gal in the picture
Made her heart swell up with pride
Just to know that the bachelor son of hers
Was going to finally take himself a bride

Then she remarked about the children
That we had yet to have had
And she offered us her congratulations
To the knew Mom and the Dad

But I knew that I had to make up something quick
When she asked me for her name
Cause I didn't have the heart to tell her
That the picture came with the frame

© 2005, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



The Horse Psychic

Elaine, the horse psychic from Sedona
Well, she claimed to be divine
And she claimed to posses great insight
Into the species we call equine

She claimed to have intuition
That the rest of us somehow lack
And she was perfectly willing to divulge it
Or guarantee us our money back

Now, I've always considered myself a skeptic
But my options were running low
And her clinic was coming to town next week
So I concluded that I should go

My horse and I were having problems
That traditional methods couldn't seem to fix
And I was up fer new suggestions
Even hocus pocus trix

It took the better part of three hours
Fer the successful trailer load
Then off my horse and i went to the clinic
Just a bumpin down the road

We arrived a little late
The trailer loading took longer than I thought
And we were asked to pay upfront with cash
Fer the lessons that we'd be taught

Now, four hundred dollars seemed a bit steep
As I paid out with some remorse
But I was willing to pay the substantial fee
For a connection with my horse

Elaine talked about reincarnation
About former lives and the relevance of stars
And about peaceful, tranquil trail rides
When Jupiter aligns with Mars

Then she worked with all our horses
And she gave them all her take
Attributing most of their current problems
To a past mistake

She sure had all of us going
We were eating from the palm of her hand
And this new approach seemed like something
That my horse could understand

But I couldn't keep paying fer enlightenment
At least, not at the price I was
So I took her to dinner after the clinic
Just like a good boyfriend does

I was trying to work myself an angle
So that the price would come on down
And I figured that I could butter her up
With a nice night out on the town

But the trouble with seeing a psychic
That took away most of the fun
Was that she kept on breaking up with me
For things that I had yet to have done

© 2005, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Ropin' 101

Castin' fer a calf
should be a relatively simple affair
You just take that well formed loop of yers
And ya toss it through the air

And ifn you've aimed it up just right
And if that rope ain't cut
That calf will be wearin' himself a new necklace
Made of braided rawhide gut

And if you know what yer a doing
Now that you've got him caught
You'll dally up on yer saddle horn
Just like it is that you've been taught

Makin' fer darn sure thet that thumb of yers
Isn't in the way
Or you'll have one heck of a time thumb wrestlin'
When it comes to games to play

Now, you'll follow up on yer calf just right
Takin' in all of yer slack
Being ever so careful not to cross over
Yer ponies neck or back

Then you'll holler to yer heeler
To come and rope that calf's hind feet
And the two of you will stretch him out
And haul him to the heat

And as the ground crew works their magic
The scent of burnt skin and hair
Will venture into yer nostrils
And permeate the air

Then they'll hold the brand for a few seconds
While its being applied
And that calf will be sportin' the mark of the outfit
Right there on its searing hide

And a sharp knife will cut them chances
Of yer male calves ever pro-creatin
Now, some folks call this cruel
But a cowboy just calls it, castratin'

Then you'll loosen up yer ropes
Cause now yer job is done
And congratulations folks
Cause ya'll passed ropin' 101

© 2005, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Heart of the West

Oh, the lay of the land
The spill of the draw
It's those mountainous mesas
That move me to awe

It's the crag laden canyons
With their whispering winds
That compel me to find
Where the journey begins

It's the crisp of the air
Or the sway of the breeze
And the gate of a horse
Between bow-legged knees

The split of the mane
Or the creak of the seat
It's the unfettered freedom
Upon sure footed feet

Oh, bastions abound
Of Lupine and Sage
Flaunting their fragrance
Concealing their age

And I have drank it all in
From the freshest of streams
As I traveled across
This land of mere dreams

Its promises kept
Come rain or come shine
Its glories revealed
Its evidences divine

I have longed for such love
As found deep in my breast
For it pulsates on through me
This heart of the west

© 2005, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


An Allergic Reaction

Sam Skeegee was an itchy fella
He always scratched alot
And he usually wore a neckerchief
That was mostly stained with snot

Sam was allergic to everything
From hay to bailing twine
And although he was a cowboy
He was allergic to bovine

He weren't much use at brandin'
Heck, he could hardly gather cattle
And he usually had to ride bare back
'Cause he was allergic to his saddle

He was a fickle kind of eater
When it came to rustlin' chow
And the cookie darn near killed him
When he served him up some cow

Poppin' pills was Sam's hobby
When he was runnin' low on luck
But when his throat would swell
Well, they'd mostly wind up stuck

And this was poor Sam's plight
Call it, his battle with the breeze
It didn't matter what season it was
'Cause he would always sneeze

Now, Sam had to look for leppies
Ever now and then
And he had to doctor the cows
That were in the sick pen

But this weren't a good job for him
And it got proven all to soon
Cause when he'd contact a calf
He swoll up like a darn balloon

And it landed him in the hospital
Cause his allergic reaction was so bad
But when their bed sheets gave him hives
Well, that was really sad

They found that he was allergic to their ice cream
Upon his very first little bite
Cause when he tried to swallow it
He turned a ghastly white

Well, I couldn't stand to see him suffer
So, being the good friend that I am
I took my colt revolver
And I went to go visit Sam

He sure was glad to see me
'Til I plugged him full of holes
But the bullets relieved some of his swelling
So, I guess they served their roles

Then he turned a queerish purple
From his toes up to his head
And the only thing that I could figure
Was that he was allergic to all that lead

Well, there was nothing left for me to do
And so I just got sick of trying
But wouldn't ya know it Ol' Sam pulled through
Cause I guess, he was allergic to dying

© 2006, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



These ol' spurs of mine
Have lost their shine
And the glory that they had
I was ten years old
So the story is told
When I got 'em from my dad

Now, truth be known
I weren't full grown
I was a youngin' shy and coy
But when I heard those rowels ring
I was sure of one thing
I was destined to be a cowboy

I was taught to use care
To mind hide and hair
And to never poke or rake
It didn't need much
Just a slow gentle touch
Was often all it would take

Everywhere that I'd ride
I'd wear 'em with pride
Just a hangin' from my heel
I'd squeeze to collect
To drive and direct
And try to apply them with feel

Now, their sprinkled with dust
And tarnished with rust
And they may have lost their shine
But every cowboy knows
How the old saying goes
Good tack ages like wine.

© 2006, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


This poem appeared in the May, 2007 issue of Western Horseman


Danglin' from an old rusty nail
Above my saddle, rope and taps
Rests a tool that I use without fail
Granddad's ol' pair of shot gun chaps
They help me to brave the weather
And to protect my legs while I ride
Made of four ounce grainy leather
Their a good lookin' peice of hide
They may smell of brandin' smoke
And the seams have begun to rip
But with their conchos and stamped yoke
They sure do boast of craftsmanship
Plenty of fellers have made me offers
Seekin' to purchase my dearest prize
But despite the skeptical scoffers
I refuse to part or compromise
They've become a fond memory
My connection with the past
And the legacy that they've left to me
Is the one thing that has last
And so my progeny await
The gift of Ganddad's heirloom
And I reckon that it's their fate
To hang from a nail in the ol' tack room 

© 2008, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

This poem is featured in the 2009 Western Horseman Cowboy Calendar.



The Creek

There's a little creek that used to flow
Down yonder over there
And I used to visit it long ago
When life was free from care

Its waters were fed by a steady spring
Of the likes you could rely
But as of late the sorry thing
Is that the creek has done run dry

The cattle don't use it no more
To wallow nor to water
And the tall grass that it kept in store
Has turned to dry, chaff like fodder

It once were a punchers oasis
During a long and weary gather
They'd oft' stop for a moment's bliss
With horses all a' lather

Waterin' and waitin' in it
Like it were heaven on earth
But pard, I'll be the first to admit
That it had a deeper worth

Ya see, Hope sprang from that spring
Helping the land around to thrive
And there weren't a single thing
That it didn't help to survive

Now I s'pose hopes dun dried up to
On account of this long drought
And I guess that there's nothin' left to do
Than to pray and wait it out

© 2008, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


The Final Round-Up

ďItís about time to cull the herd"
Or so, the ancient cowboy said
While gettiní out his tally book
And proceeding to count head

He licked his pencil a few times
While jottiní down some simple notes
Then went back about his business
Separatiní the sheep and goats

From the four winds he gathered them
With the help of his trusty crew
Both branded and maverick alike
As the cow boss had asked him to

They then swooped down upon the herd
Like a divine winnowing fan
Which took most of them by surprise
For they had never seen a man

The ground trembled with each hoof beat
Projecting dust into the air
And the sun began to darken
As though it were not even there

It was a day of reckoning
A gathering of small and great
All knew that it was overdue
For the hour had grown quite late

The whole crew worked with lightning speed
Seeing to the boss's affairs
Itíd come time to sift the wheat
That had grown up amongst the tares

So they separated and sorted
The refined silver from the dross
And they culled the rest of the herd
And wrote them off as loss

Then they ushered in the elect
To a far greener range to graze
Where in the years and times to come
Theyíll live out the rest of their days

Now, the boss ainít slow in cominí
As some may count slowness to be
Heís just lookiní to build a herd
That will last for eternity

© 2009, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


J. D. comments, "I've been taking a lot of classes in seminary about 'eschatology,' the study of the end times in the Bible, and I noticed that a lot of the imagery could really be expressed in cowboy terms, so I set about to do so and came up with this poem."


A Cowboy's Christmas Ponderings

When Iím high atop this lonesome ridge
And I survey the land below
Iím convinced that there are certain things
God didnít intend for me to know

Like how He hung all the countless stars
Ponder that a moment if you will
Hanginí Christmas lights is pretty tough
Hanginí the heavens must take some skill

And these noble and majestic pines
That tower above my horse and me
Shame my store bought, plastic, pre-lit
Sorry excuse for a Christmas tree

Thereís mistletoe all around me here
Hanginí about the green timber line
And as I venture underneath it
It is like a kiss from the divine

And of that sweet and piney fragrance
Iíve always been an endearing fan
Folks can try to by it in the store
But Godís kind donít come inside no can

Now pard, Iíll share a thought here with you
About all the trappings and the stuff
Getting presents just ainít nuthiní much
Cause His presence is presents enough

© 2009, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


The Strong Silent Type

I knew me an olí cowboy once
Who just wasnít much for words
He liked the sounds of nature best
Babbliní brooks and chatteriní birds

He went by "Silent Gus" most times
Which Iím sure werenít his legal name
But he sure did live up to it
Cause he could put a mime to shame

He never joined in on singing
When the church hymns would be sung
And while rumored to be a tenor
The cat always had his tongue

I never heard him brag or boast
Or raise his voice to cuss a steer
And upon missiní his dallies
Silence, was all that you would hear

And it didn't bother me much
But it sure did his lovely wife
Who did almost all of the talkiní
Throughout most of their married life

Fact, the last time he spoke to her
Was around 1962
It took him all that he had in him
Just to utter the wordsÖÖ.I do

When his wife would visit the ranch
She would bend my ear and gripe
About how her marriage was
To the strong and silent type

So I gave him my old cell phone
As more a gesture than a jab
But it was quite apparent
He didnít have the gift of gab

But I hoped that it would open
A line of communication
Between he and his beloved
And improve their situation

Well the next time I saw his wife
She was glowiní like a star
Praisiní her husbandís new cell phone
For the work it had done so far

But nuthiní was more surprising
Than the thing that she mentioned next
Turns out, he still didnít talk much
But he sure as heck would text

© 2011, J. D. Seibert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

J.D. comments, "The inspiration came from my personal experiences with not being very up to date with various forms of technology, I still don't text, and probably never will. Another inspiration was some of the characteristically 'strong and silent types' that I have met during my travels whose wives have complained to me that they don't communicate well..."


Read J. D. Seibert's Galleries of the Heart, written for Joelle Smith 


his 2010 New Year Toast



About J. D. Seibert:

J.D. Seibert is one of cowboy poetry's premier youthful talents. His original and witty poems are derived from his first hand experiences with cowboying throughout the West. Steering clear of Western movie clichťs and the drug store cowboy image, J.D. strives to deliver his audience a true slice of cowboy life through his performances. His live show appeals to both city slickers and seasoned buckaroos alike, serving up choice poems that go down easily, but sometimes have the tendency to come back up later, like a piece of regurgitated cud.


As a resident of the one-horse town of Agua Dulce California, J.D. attends the numerous local brandings that go on throughout the year and trains horses in his spare time. J.D. has performed at many venues including: The Santa Clarita Cowboy Festival; The Autry National Center's Museum of the American West; The William S. Hart Museum; The Santa Barbara Natural History Museum; Snaffle Bit Futurity and the Santa Clarita Cowboys in the Schools programs. His poems have been published in such magazines as Western Horseman, Cowboy Magazine and

Currently, J.D. has three spoken word and instrumental albums, Bend or Break (2005), Rangeland Rhymes and Prairie Poems (2006) and his latest, cleverly titled, Cowboy Poetry (2008). Look for J.D.'s poem "Chaps" in the Western Horseman 2009 calendar.

Contact J.D. Seibert at;; (661) 904-3958


Cowboy Poetry

"15 new, original poems on it accompanied by sound effects and original music."

Available for $15 postpaid from:

J. D. Seibert
35417 Anthony Rd.
Agua Dulce CA 91390
(661) 904-3958

Find track samples at


Rangeland Rhymes & Prairie Poems

Available for $15 postpaid from:

J. D. Seibert
35417 Anthony Rd.
Agua Dulce CA 91390
(661) 904-3958



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