of Cyril, Oklahoma
recognized for his poem
My Old Amigo Lum
Jay's Cowboy Poetry Recordings
Visit www.JaySnider.net
About Jay Snider:
Jay Snider was born and raised in the southwest Oklahoma and calls Cyril, Oklahoma home. Born to a ranching and rodeo family, his dad a top roper and rodeo cowboy and his granddad a brand inspector for the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association. He rodeoed throughout most of his early years and now stays busy raising ranch horses, cattle, and team roping. Jay continues to judge a few amateur rodeos around home and hosts the annual Invitational Rafter S Ranch Cowboy Reunion.
Some of his recent performances include the Chisholm Trail Stampede in Duncan, Oklahoma; the Western Heritage Classic in Abilene, Texas; and the National Cowboy Symposium in Lubbock, Texas. Jay is a six-time nominee for male poet of the year by the Academy of Western Artists. His album Cowboyin', Horses and Friends was nominated for best poetry album for 2001.
Jay recently appeared on Country Music Television's, Christmas in Cowboy Country hosted by Clint Black. He was a Silver Buckle winner at Kanab, Utah's Cowboy Poetry Rodeo in 2004 and was a featured cowboy poet at the Ozarks Fall Roundup Cowboy Gathering hosted by Shepherd of the Hills Outdoor Theater in Branson, Missouri. Jay also was a featured cowboy poet in 2005 at the Kamloops Cowboy Festival in Kamloops, British Columbia and at Cal Farley's Youth Poetry Gathering near Amarillo, Texas. Most recently, Jay was awarded the "Best of the Best" trophy at Kanab, Utah's Cowboy poetry rodeo and was invited to be a featured poet at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada in February of 2006. Jay released his second cowboy poetry CD, Of Horses and Men, in 2006.
We asked Jay Snider why he writes Cowboy Poetry, and he replied:
I have only been writing Cowboy Poetry a couple of years and I'm not sure my old English teacher would consider it poetry, but I have been researching the Cowboy way for life for nearly fifty years. I wrote my first poem for my wife for Christmas and it's been all downhill from there.
I felt like I needed to preserve some of the old stories I had heard from the "old timers" and try to relive some of my own personal experiences through poetry. My thoughts are, "folks, if you hear a story from some of the 'old timers,' you had better write it down." You see, when they are gone, so goes the story. The challenge, for me, is to take those stories or experiences and put them down in the form of poetry. Fortunately, cowboy poetry seems to appeal to most people and I thank God or the greatest super-hero of all times: the American Cowboy.
My Old Amigo Lum
He ain’t much on conversation
His old mind, it wanders some
But a better compadre ain’t lived or breathed
Than my ole’ amigo Lum
Now Lum, he’s plenty punchy
Ya won’t find a tougher old coot
But down right, plain old common sense
Ain’t one of his stronger suits
You won’t find a better feller
To have round ya in a pinch
His head’s as hard as granite rock
And he won’t give an inch
We were cowboyin’ up in the Keechi hills
It was one of our lighter days
But we’d ‘bout had our bellies full
Of cuttin’ those cedar stays
The weekend, now was comin’ up
Time for the big rodeo in town
Been quite a spell since we’d been in
Lum and me would ride on down
Now Lum ain’t no spring chicken
But he acts just like a kid
When the bullriders finally mount the beasts
Used to twist ‘em himself, he did
The crowd gathered ‘round the buckin’ chutes
They were thick as bitin’ fleas
And Lum, his stature’s lackin’ some
Makin’ it tough for him to see
Ole’ Lum sure ain’t no genius
But what next he did made sense
He climbed up near the buckin’ chutes
And sat upon the fence
The fence sure ain’t as comfy
As his recliner back at the shack
And the cable through the cross-tie posts
Seemed to be a little slack
Now ole’ Lum, he’s kinda portly
Of a diet he ain’t thought
So the cable strand he sat upon
Down the line had been drawn taught
The announcer’s voice boomed loudly
Of the high horned brindle beast
Two thousand pounds of ragin’ hell
Was soon to be released
On Widowmaker, they kicked the latch
He followed the gate around
Then planted his feet and sucked back left
And slammed that cowboy down
He gave the clown a hookin’
Made a lap around the pen
But there ain’t a fence for a hundred miles
That could hold this brindle in
The Widowmaker, he sized it up
Then made a fitful run
He was intent on clearin’ that fence
Just four posts down from Lum
He quit the earth in one great leap
Now comes the change of events
A solid ton of snortin’ beef
Hit smack on top of that fence
Ole’ Lum, he’s cool, just sat there calm
With both hands in his pockets
But a ton of bull on that cable strand
Shot Lum off like a rocket
Now Lum survived the launchin’
And annihilation merely by chance
But he didn’t make re-entry
‘Till halfway through the dance
Lum told me it wasn’t the launch
Nor the fallin’, nor the drop
The thing that hurt his ole’ body so
Was that mighty sudden stop
Lum believes the moral here
Needs tellin’ to all you fans
It’s best to watch the rodeo
From somewhere in the stands
© 1999, Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Visit Jay Snider's web site:
Of Horses and Men
Named
Academy of Western Artists' (AWA)
Best Cowboy Poetry Recording
2006"Jay Snider is the real deal. He seems to have it all: the ability to write good poems, he knows what cowboying is all about, and can recite it with the best of them. If you find a cowboy better at any of those three, I'd like to meet him.” Pat Richardson
includes:
300 Miles to Go
A Tribute to Tom
Tyrone & Tyree
Rainy Day Prayer
I Rode Through the Valley
The Dream
Short Horned Pete
The Pearly Gate
Heroes
Of Horses and Men
Dying Breed
Progress
Champion
Two Prayers
BankersCD available for $19 postpaid from:
Jay Snider
Route 1, Box 167
Cyril, Oklahoma 73029Read our review here.
Cowboyin', Horses & Friends
Nominated for best poetry album for 2001 by the Academy of Western Artists.
includes:
Cowboyin', Horses &, Friends
Biscuits
Cattle Market
Team Ropin' by Number
Added Money
Banjo and John
Four Little Words
Two of a Kind
Twister
Rodeo Judge
My Old Amigo Lum
A Legend is Born
A Real Cowboy Poet
A Brisk Walk
Cassette tape available for $14 postpaid
CD available for $19 postpaid
from:Jay Snider
Route 1, Box 167
Cyril, Oklahoma 73029
More Poetry
Four Little Words
Four little words have stuck in my mind
From the time I was just a small child
“There’s a good feller” is what he would say
When he talked of the men he admired
I remember those men he talked about
Sure ‘nuff cowboys, tough, but kind
They said what they meant and meant what they said
These men are getting’ harder to find
“There’s a good feller,” meant he was true to his word
That’s all you expect of a man
You knew for sure he was proud to meet you
By the genuine shake of his hand
“There’s a good feller,” meant you could depend
On this man no matter the task
Never got too tough, too cold, or too late
For his help, all you need do is ask
“There’s a good feller,” meant he had a light hand
Be it with horses or cattle or crew
He spent most of his life learning this cowboy trade
And he’d be honored to teach it to you
“There’ a good feller” meant don’t ask him to do
What ain’t on a true and honest track
He knows it’s easier to keep a good reputation
Than it is to try to build one back
“There’s a good feller,” meant he’s a fair minded man
He helped write cowboyin’s unwritten laws
He won’t ask you to do what he wouldn’t do
Yet knows, at times, the short end you’ll draw
“There’s a good feller,” meant, when he’s down on his luck
He can still hold his head way up high
‘Cause he did his best and gave it his all
He knows with faith and God’s help he’ll get by
“There’s a good feller”, just four little words
And their meaning won’t run all that deep
But when Dad would use ‘em to describe certain men
You knew they were at the top of the heap
“There’s a good feller”, just four little words
But they’ve always been favorites of mine
If after my trails end, my name’s brought up
“There’s a good feller” would suit me just fine
© Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Cattle Market
Me and the cattle market need to get in synch
This terminal poverty is a bunch of bull
When the market goes up, I won’t own but three
When it’s down, my pastures are full
Now I’m not one for gripin’
And I dearly love this life
But fifty- cent calves and ten dollar feed
Is hard to explain to my wife
But she wouldn’t trade it for a job in town
The new babies, she names ‘em all
And she’ll be mad for two months runnin’
When I sell ‘em off in the fall
I’ve read and studied genetics
I think my breeding program is keen
But I have an idea I’m missin’ something
Cause my calves all looks Holstein
Blacks and baldies are the packer’s choice
I thought I’d have ‘er made last fall
But calving time proved disappointing
The neighbor’s longhorn had sired ‘em all
This year’s crop is a sight to behold
I’ve been assured they’re some of the best
But my banker will get almost all they bring
And Ivomec will get the rest
My fences are in need of major repairs
And I’m just nearly out of hay
But if the market stays up, I won’t own but three cows
And I won’t need fences anyway
Forty- percent cubes are the best you can buy
To hear the man at the Co-op tell it
But I buy the cheap twenty- percent kind
So my cows can have more than one pellet
My banker agrees that I need some help
But that ranchin’sure ain’t my callin’
He allows I ought to sell off my cows
Cause the darned market’s started fallin’
If the bottom falls out of the market now
I’ll have way too many again
So I’ll sell ‘em off and cut my loss
But now I’m right back where I’ve been
When spring grass comes, I’ll buy some back
Cause without ‘em I’d sooner die
I’ll bet a hundred the market will be up
And they’ll be too darned high to buy
So I’ll patiently wait till the market goes down
And I can buy ‘em real cheap you see
Then I’ll keep ‘em and feed ‘em till the market goes up
Or till my banker takes all but ‘bout three© 2000, Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Two of a Kind
I thought he’d lost his mind
That cold December day
When he came draggin’ in
That little snake poor bay,
Lord, what a sight
He looked near dead
And there ain’t no way
That neck will hold up that head,
For a two year old past
He wasn’t very big
And those little old legs
Why they’ll snap like a twig,
Now this man knows horses
At least I thought he did
But, I sure think he missed this one
When he turned in his bid,
Said, “He don’t look like much now, son
But a good worming, plenty of feed and hay,
This little ugly duckling
He’ll make a good one some day!”
Well I’ll take your word
Sure hope you’re right
He said, “Son you’ll find out later in life,
It’s not the size of the man in the fight.”
He said, “Merry Christmas son”
But some rules I enforce
Keep him fed, keep him shod, treat him kind,
Fact is, every kid needs a good horse,
So I set about doing
The task at hand
I gave him a name, fattened him up,
And turned him out with Dad’s band,
He was a pleasure to break
Never offered to buck
Sure had an easy way of moving
I don’t think this was pure luck,
Yeah, Grandad could sure pick ‘em
A mighty fine cowboy in his day
And if he told you something
Pardoner, it would be that way,
We’re sure gonna miss him
We lost him last spring
And it’s sure rough on me
When those Christmas Bells ring,
He knew good horses, good saddles and cows
A good judge of character in a man
He taught me patience, determination
And the worth of a gentle hand,
Lord, the cowboys in this country
We’ve lost a good hand
But somehow it’s easier knowing
Now, he rides for your brand
Well, me and Ole Bay are still riding pastures
Man, what a pleasure to ride
He does all that you ask him
Seems to do it with pride,
He helped me raise two fine sons
Never complained or backed his ears
He took care of those boys
Through their learning years,
Sure, he’s getting a little harder to keep
But for twenty-five years, he’s been a good friend
Could have sold him a hundred times,
But he’ll be with me to the end,
Lord, Ole Bay is loping up your trail now
And me and Ma and the boys, we’ll miss him of course
Lord, would you ask my old Granddad
To take care of this good horse© 1998, Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Dying Breed
The note was neatly written
On an old brown paper bag
Bound and nicely folded
Inside a little American flagWe found it on the mantle
Near some pictures that he had
Of an old bay hoss he used to ride
His wife, his mother and his dad
It was pressed beneath a Bible
That sixty years ago was new
He often said when it was with him
He felt the Lord rode with him too
The note read smooth and easy
The words were simple, plain, and true
Reflections of a lifetime
Of an old time buckaroo
It read: I'm just a simple cowboy
I've grown accustomed to meager ways
Cause it's sometimes hard to make ends meet
On what punchin' cattle paysBut if wealth is somehow measured
By the many friends you've made
And success is hitched to freedom
Then I reckon I've been well paid
But I've heard we're nearin' extinction
The cowboy's just a vision from the past
His ways are old and antiquated
That our future is fadin' fast
But in my mind, the note read on
I tend to disagree
Cause I see the cowboy in the young bucks
The ones who follow you and meI've seen 'em ridin' rangy broncs
And spur 'em jump for jump
Then loose the rein and pet 'em some
When they've ridden out the hump
I've heard 'em hoop and holler
Bustin' brush and dodgin' trees
Stand hat in hand and reverent
Old Glory wavin' in the breeze
I've watched 'em tradin' horses
Swappin' lies on a cattle deal
Then sign it proud and proper
With just a handshake for the seal
I've seen a sadness in their eyes
For an orphaned calf in pain
When in spite of their compassion
All efforts were in vain
I know they treat their elders
With respect and dignity
Still tip their hats to womenfolk
Just the way that it should be
It read: As long as little buckaroos
Dream of ridin' wild and free
There will always be good cowboys
To follow you and me
These words I write, though roughly penned
I hope fit somewhere in the cowboy creed
The cowboy will live eternal
We darned sure ain't no dying breed© 2002 Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Pearly Gate
My mind began to wander once
Is there just one Pearly Gate
In my minds eye I can see it there
Standin' strong and true and straight
The paint weren't chipped nor faded
And it swung real smooth and free
But is this gate just for city folks
Not for worn out old punchers like me
See I'm not accustomed to gates so grand
Round this ranch we merely make do
They're not real neat nor fancy made
Most have a broken rail or two
So I wonder, if I make it there
To that gate so grand and fine
Will the good Lord let me ride on through
Or send me 'round to one like mine
Like this one here at the brandin' pens
With it's worn and splintered rails
Lord, if that old gate could talk
It could tell a million tales
Like at brandin' time when the wagon's out
For weeks there in the spring
Or when the hands play a cowboy symphony
As their rowels begin to ring
Or in the winter when it's feeding time
Cause the snow is driftin' deep
And you're wonderin' where the remuda is
Roll out cause you can't sleep
Cause that old gate ain't hung real sturdy
It blows shut when it ain't tied
So you brave the bitter cold and snow
To push that gate back way out wide
Cause the horses know protection's waitin'
Through that gate if there's a need
And there's trust and admiration there
When they come in to feed
See this gate is mighty special
Though it's seen some better days
In the spring you see revival through it
In the valley beneath the haze
At this gate, if you listen closely
A wealth of laughter fills your ears
Must be old friends that happened by
For all those many years
This ranch breathed life a lot of years
Into kids and calves and foals
And sunrise still takes your breath away
From atop those rocky knolls
So this gate must be the Pearly kind
Though it's rough and loosely tied
Cause when I'm standin' there a lookin' through
I can see heaven on the other side.
© Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A Tribute To Tom
We didn't know where the kid called home
He just wandered in one day
Begged and pleaded with the wagon boss
Said he'd dern sure earn his pay
We could tell he weren't a cowboy
By the way he spoke and dressed
But something 'bout him struck a note
He's sorta different from the rest
We could tell ole' Tom was leery
Cause he kid was dern sure green
But he had a kinda sincere way
That we'd seldom ever seen
We convinced ole' Tom to hire him on
He said he'd make the kid a place
You could have lit the darkest room
With the light in that kid's face
Tom cut him out a seasoned horse
So's to keep the kid alive
By break of dawn that frosty morn
The kid was makin' his first drive
Tom sent him on a circle
Said to ride the canyon rim
By the time he made the brandin' pens
His horse was leadin' him
He'd wade right in, I'll give him that
Be it luck or be it fate
Cause every time we'd cut a dry
He'd be standin' in the gate
At the brandin' fire, he seemed compelled
To sure 'nuff make a hand
So we stuck him in the flankin' crew
So's to really test his sand
The first calf run him over
Kicked the pocket off his shirt
By the time he got him flanked and held
His ears was full of dirt
Ole' Tom had yelled to bring the iron
The kid was Johnny on the spot
The end he grabbed was cold as ice
The end he handed Tom was not
But what the heck, the kid's got spunk
He heeled ole' Nasty's calf
Then dragged him through the brandin' fire
Promptin' me and Tom to laugh
Till ole' Nasty come a huntin'
Fer the thief that stole her kin
She give ole' Tom a hookin'
Launched him up and out the pen
So Tom commenced to school the lad
On vaccinatin' calves
Now ole' Tom will be bangs free
And the black leg he won't have
Croppin' ears we thought his lick
But it gave the boy the heaves
And in between convulsions
He swaller-forked my sleeve
The boys agree, he'll make a hand
On that I'll bet my life
But we figures till he seasons some
We'll not give the lad the knife
Then my head began to reelin'
Swellin' up with cowboy pride
Cause the kid's success ain't relevant
It's just simply that he tried
But facts is facts and I'm proud to say
We kept the kid alive
But had we had to school him twice
Poor ole' Tom might not survive
© Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Banjo and John
Tales of good cow ponies in our country abound
Distinguishing truth from fiction is sometimes tough I've found
Good horses are made by good men ,as a rule
I've got a tale to tell ya' so drag up a stool
Ole' John could sure brag about his ropin' ace
He said none could compare when he's givin' chase
Banjo can foller a rabbit right into his lair
And squirt out the other side without mussin' your hair
I had occasion to witness such deeds
Twas early a fall morn while gatherin' steeds
John was behind 'em a pushin' 'em down
When this rabbit cut loose, a gatherin' ground
This may sound strange, but I'll assure you they're facts
Ole' Banjo fell in, knockin' out the hare's tracks
The rabbit's sly as a fox and quick like a cricket
So he ducked off to the right into a sand plum thicket
Into that thicket, Banjo plunged like a deer
John lost his reins so he couldn't steer
The plum bush thorns was as sharp as a knife
Ole' John was beginning to fear for his life
Then "Bugs" cut a trail into the wide open prairie
And the site that befell me was truly quite scary
John's clothes was all gone, 'cept for his old Stetson hat
But Banjo wasn't quittin', I'll assure ya' of that
Ole' Bugs, being agile, led most of the time
Banjo on his tail, till John gathered his lines
Battered and bruised, the blood runnin' red
They slid to a stop there in the riverbed
But off to the north, they'd spooked a buck deer
Guess Banjo thought it was a yearlin' steer
Zero to fifty in six seconds flat
John settin' there naked, 'cept for his ole' crumpled hat
The deer hit the ground just as light as a feather
Banjo behind him, John still grabbin' leather
The wind in John's face upturned his hat brim
Guess John hadn't noticed that underslung limb
The thud was as deafening as a rifle shot
I'd never seen such a whoopin' as the one John got
He lit flat on his back there in the prickly pear
I just knowed John was dead 'till I heard him swear
Then relief and elation was the feeling I had
John's as close as I got to being my dad
But had he not revived, we'd have buried him down south
Cause the thought was sure sickenin' of mouth to mouth
As for Banjo, his pony, his trackin' is fair
He'd tracked rabbit and deer without mussin' John's hair
Not a hair out of place, the gospel I'm tellin'
Cause upon losin' his hat, John was slick as a melon
© Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Twister
If he bucks me off, he'll have to shed his skin
The twister claimed was a fact
Said there ain't a bronc that's drawed a breath
Can shake me loose from this kack
Strong words like those need provin', son
You sure you're up for the test
Just kack one up, ya'll stand aside
Watch a bronc rider do the rest
Well, we were impressed with the twister's sand
Thought, heck, this might even be fun
So we bunched 'em up and circled 'em round
And cut out the line-backed dun
A spindly, sorta wild eyed colt
Long necked and a little light boned
But every puncher that had tried him before
In one jump had been dethroned
He's bad as they come in these parts, I said
The twister just shot me a grin
Bad broncs are my business, if he bucks me off
He'll have to jump right out of his skin
Charly Bob roped him and snubbed him up close
Ole' Slim got a mouthful of ear
Took Rusty and Bub and Jake to hold him
While the twister stacked on his gear
The twister stepped on, took a mighty deep seat
Charly Bob pitched him his head
Colt went from round pen floor to tree top high
Then his north end went south instead
I've seen cowboys throwed higher and harder
But I can't remember just when
And I reckon, Ole' Snake, be a fittin' name
Cause this colt just shed his skin
The twister, you see, ain't so cocky now
He even sings a different song
It takes a plenty bad hombre to buck me off
But it sure don't take him long© Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A Real Cowboy Poet
This cowboy poetry phenomenon
Can sometimes be the pits
You write and write and mostly erase
It causes uncontrollable fits
The words come out all tangled
Ya stutter and stammer a lot
And about the time ya get on stage
Your ol' tongue'll tie up in a knot
Your knees get weak and start to knock
And the crowd begins to shout
Your lungs have collapsed; ya ain't got no air
And the words just won't come out
Ya calm a bit and catch your wind
But still you feel so lost
Looks like now there's twice the crowd
Cause your ol' eyes have done gone crossed
Now you've got it, regained your cool
Your tongue now ain't so thick
Ya stand up straight and give your BEST
DEAD SILENCE: they ain't clappin' a lick
Ain't got a clue what you're gonna do next
Ya wish now you'd gone and got ripped
Ya peer at the crowd ; by the look on their faces
Your zipper must have come unzipped
So ya swoller hard and mop your brow
Reach way down deep and wail
But halfway though your most touchin' prose
Your ol' memory begins to fail
Praise the Lord, you've stumbled through
Only lost ten or twelve pounds or so
From out in the crowd, ya hear the clappin'
Grandma's givin' you a standin' O
With a tip of my hat I'll ease off stage
Cause the crowd's begin to doze
Fact is ya see, I wouldn't make a pimple
On a REAL cowboy poet's nose
© Jay Snider, All rights reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Dream
Way up at the Winter Creek place Ol' Walt was the boss
He'd cowboyed there for forty years
And I'd rode for this outfit most of my life but
Walt says I'm still wet behind the ears
The country's rough and broken
There on the Winter Creek place
It's got nearly as many wrinkles
As Walt had in his face
Walt rolled me out 'fore daylight
He'd already jingled the horses up
Ol' "cookie" fed us one fine breakfast
Then we choked down one last cup
Walt roped out the big bay named Sampson
Caught me the gray we called Jake
He said we had a roguey bull to catch and
No idea what trail to take
About half way down the south canyon trail
A blindin' flash caught my eye
It couldn't have been lightnin' though
There wasn't a single cloud in the sky
In an instant I looked over at Walt
He was already lookin' my way
He said "I saw that same flash as a lad son
Today may be our day"
Then suddenly, there on the canyon floor
Stood a mammoth longhorn steer
He just stood there, sorta frozen in time
As me and Walt rode near
His head was as wide as an oxen yoke
His eyes steel gray and cold
Bewilderment soon turned to disbelief
Cause his horns were solid gold
They call him Goliath, Walt whispered low
I've heard he's the ghost of the trail era past
They say he longs for the open range
Before fences, when this land was vast
But my only thoughts were those horns of gold
Visions of riches danced through my head
Of finer things, handmade hats and boots
I'll be the wagon boss of my own little spread
I quizzed Ol' Walt if he was up for the chase
He snugged his cinches and nodded my way
He said" You rope the horns and I'll get the feet
Son, today may be our day"
So I shook out a loop
Fed 'er out just a bit
I'm gonna make dern sure
That this first loop would fit
Out of the brush we made our charge
Headed straight Goliath's way
He'll be no match for the likes of us
Me on Jake and Walt on the bay
Big of heart and sure of foot
Jake nipped at Goliath's hip
No truer loop had I ever thrown
An extra turn so my dallies won't slip
And Walt, he never faltered
I saw him swing in from the right
His heel loop fit perfect, our ponies set
We stretched Goliath out tight
But before I could calm and catch a breath
All my wishes and dreams and hopes
Went trippin' off across that canyon floor
Walt rode up and cut our ropes
Well, the old man's finally lost his mind
Our fortunes made had instantly fled
I explained of the wealth and the fame and the riches
But this is all Walt said
He said "Son, rich is different for different men
As for me, I'm rich as most kings
I've lived a full life, rode good horses
Son, wealth can't be measured by material things"
"Ya see, dreams fulfilled are no longer dreams
Sometimes the dreams are grander chased
Goliath still runs these canyons now and
Other cowboys he can taunt to race
Ol' "cookie" rudely shattered my dream
Hammerin' and bangin' that bell
Roll out boys, we've got work to do
You can sleep when you're dead, he'd yell
Then reality hit like a slap in the face
Walt had passed on a week ago today
I know he's ridin' with good men on good horses
We're all richer that Walt passed our way
Walt's wife stopped by and left me these things
She was truly the love of Walt's life
"Walt made it plain that you'd need 'em" she said
This new rope and his old pocket knife
© 2001, Jay Snider
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Shorthorn PeteImagine you're a cowboy
Breakin' colts is what you do
You've honed you're skills for years and years
Other cowboys look up to you
Now imagine it's late October
It's just now breakin' dawn
The first blue norther's blowin' in
Warm summer days are gone
You've roped yourself a flea bit gray
A rangy, wild eyed colt
Hand o'er hand you've walked you're twine
Just about to take a'hold
When from underneath the loafin' shed
Ya hear a voice, not soft and sweet
But loud and overwhelming
It's you're neighbor, Shorthorn Pete
Pete neighbors to you on the north
Across Persimmon Creek
When you're in the breakin' pen
He's by ten times a week
His physique, let's call it picturesque
No, let's just tell it straight
His waistline measures forty six
The inseam twenty eight
His hair is wild and kinky
Against his head it's matted flat
It's filthy, greasy, grimy
Like the sweat ring 'round his hat
The snoose has rotted most his teeth
On one he must depend
Yet he can spit tobacco juice
Ten yards against the wind
He talks real loud and boisterous
Cause his hearin' ain't so great
His voice is shrill and squealy
Like a pig hung in a gate
When ya need him, you can' find him
When ya don't, he's under foot
But when the goin's rank and scary
Ol' Pete he won't stay put
Now imagine you're the flea bit gray
And you're just past two years old
And some bad, bowlegged cowboy's
Got ya roped and in his hold
You don't take it kindly
You miss the freedom of the range
But, if this puncher gets his way
That's all about to change
He's smooched ya 'round the round pen
For seems three weeks now and a day
And his saddle's got ya sored up some
By gosh, somebody's gonna pay
Then Pete stops by to visit
Amakin' matters worse
And the puncher's left ya bitted up
And you're about to die of thirst
Your attitude adjusts itself
Cause, now Pete, HE wants to ride
And Pete don't seem concerned at all
His gut hooks crease your hide
Then Pete begins to squealin'
In that loud, obnoxious way
And even though you've gentled some
Fact is, ya just can't stay
So ya scatter rocks and kick the moon
Show your belly to the sun
Ya bawl and squall and beller
Like a banshee on the run
Pete's backside kissed Ol' Mother Earth
With an awful, deafenin' smack
He bounced just like a Shawnee Mills
Half empty flour sack
I think Pete has learned a lesson
That a trainer he won't be
Unless he learns to whisper
'Round two year olds like me
© 2001, Jay Snider
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Rainy Day Prayer
I'd like to thank ya kindly Lord
For sendin' this good rain
It'll quench the thirst of a drought we cursed
Ease heartache, fear, and pain
It'll bring the grass on early
Paint the slopes a velvet green
There's no more precious sight than a drought in flight
No sweeter smell than air washed clean
It's sure a welcome sight to see
Stock tanks full and runnin' 'round
And cool winds blowin' and creeks aflowin'
Is a truly joyful sound
The drought seemed never endin'
Each day we knelt to pray
But dern the luck, the spigot stuck
It's rained three weeks now every day
Excuse me, Lord, don't get me wrong
We're no gripin' nor complainin'
Cause crops'll sew and grass'll grow
Lot's better when it's rainin'
I fear the water gaps will all be out
But we'll patch 'em when we can
These precious rains revive these plains
It's the lifeblood of this land
Lord, if you've a mind, just let 'er rain
Cause in You we put our trust
We'd sooner trudge the mud and the sludge
Than to choke on blowin' dust
But the boys are getting' antsy, Lord
We've been cooped up here for days
There's fencin' needs doin' and hosses needs shoein'
Lord, we know, you know cowboy ways
If we stray, as cowboys might
I hope a guiding hand you'll lend
Thanks again for the rains and these wide open plains
Ride point for these punchers
Amen
© Jay Snider
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
I've been eating biscuits for nigh on fifty years
So I figure a biscuit expert I am
And I'm probably the leading authority
On gravy and jellies and jam
Biscuits come in a host of shapes
They'll appear in a number of sizes
And my favorite time for their consumption
Is just before that ole' sun rises
Their shape, for sure, means nothing
But size is another matter
On a good day I'll eat six or eight
And most times it's the latter
The ingredients of which a biscuit is made
Will tend to vary greatly
There's buttermilk, plain, and sourdough
Can't say I've turned one down lately
I've had big ones and small ones
Some seem to swell up in your throat
Some so light they seem to float
A large percentage would sink a boat
I've topped 'em with gravy, so creamy and smooth
Shoveled 'em full of strawberry jam
I'll not forget 'em with Briar Rabbit syrup
Or Grandma's great country ham
Grandma's biscuits outshined 'em all
Even the great one's, her's were above
'Cause Grandma had one special ingredient
Every biscuit had a cupful of love
Those early morning breakfasts
In my memory will never fade
My favorite kind of biscuits
Are the ones my Grandma made
© 2002, Jay Snider
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
(Posted also in the collection of poems about
Cowboy Moms and Grandmoms)
Three Hundred Miles To Go
Had I been born 100 years before I was, I would have been 17 years old in 1870. During that era thousands of longhorns were being driven from Texas to the railheads in Kansas by drovers around the age of 15 to 20 years of age. There is not a doubt in my mind that I would have been one of those drovers had I been there. I have often wondered what went through those young men's minds along the trail.
Three Hundred Miles To Go
Three hundred miles behind us
'Bout the same still lay ahead
Trail boss says in three more days
We'll reach the "Mighty Red"
He says the Red's a bad one
When it's deep and on the rise
A dozen boys all prayin'
We'll just make it through alive
If the river smiles upon us
And we dodge it's deathly lair
Will we make it through the "Nations"
With our lives and with our hair
The ghostly sounds of evening
In a land that's wild and mean
Are sounds that make your blood run cold
To a boy of seventeen
It makes you long for mornin' light
And though you're not alone
Your mind will take you back again
To fond memories of home
The trail boss is a mean ole' cuss
It seems he's always mad
But he's the closest thing we've got
To bein' like a dad
Ole' "Cookie" told us straight and true
Without no reason and no rhyme
Do what the "Old Man" tells you
Do it each and every time
He's made it six and sixty years
By bein' no man's fool
The lessons he can teach you
Won't be taught in grammar school
So study hard your lessons
Make note the dangers that you've seen
With God's grace and that old man
Chances are you'll make eighteen
The herd is restin' easy now
That's sure a welcome sight
They ran for four and half a mile
In the lightnin' storm last night
The canyon helped us turn 'em
The lightnin' helped us see
The canyon walls were sharp and steep
We saved 'em all but three
A dozen boys rode out last night
We rode just like the wind
Young Billy turned the leading steers
All the boys but him rode in
We found him there next mornin'
Near the rim he'd made his stance
Two thousand hooves, a thousand horns
Billy never had a chance
His grave's a simple mound of stones
A marker near it stands
It reads: This boy of seventeen
Would have been a right fine man
The "Old Man" quoted scripture
From the Bible that he knew
Said "his momma's gonna miss him
I know these MEN will miss him too
Then he told us, "daylights burnin'
Best get these beefsteaks to the rail
Saddle up your ponies, boys
Throw the herd out on the trail"© 2003, Jay Snider
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Of Horses and Men
The inspiration for this poem came to me on December 7, 2002. I had to put down a little bay stud that we owned for near a dozen years. Cancer had invaded one of his kidneys and the vet gave him little hope. It truly was a sad day for us. I remember telling my wife and sons, "Doc sure was a good one. He's the kind you hate to lose.
That same day, I had been asked to do a poem at an old man's funeral that lived north of where we live. He was as good a cowman as ever came out of our country. After the service, his eldest son said to me, "Dad sure was a good one. He's the kind you hate to lose."
I could not get those words out of my mind. I started this poem that night; however, I could not finish it until Mach 19, 2003 when we received word that Larry McWhorter had passed away. Then it came to me what I had been trying to say all along.
Of Horses and Men
It's been told of good horses lost
In simple words that cowboys use
He dern sure was a good one
He's the kind you hate to lose
He's the kind you could depend on
In the river and the breaks
In rough country and wild cattle
He'd be the one you'd take
His efforts weren't ruled by stature
With him you'd finish what you'd start
His limits were governed only
By the dimension of his heart
His expectations were simple
Merely fairness from a friend
But when he'd feel the need to run
It's best not to fence him in
Pure poetry in motion
As across the plains he'd fly
A tried and true compadre
In a seasoned cowboy's eye
His courage was unmatched by mortal men
From conquistadors to kings
Cowboys sing his praises
At roundups in the spring
Ain't it strange how thoughts of horses lost
Mirror those of men passed on
And though they've gone to glory
Their spirit's never gone
Sometimes simple words seem best
When final words we choose
He dern sure was a good one
He's the kind you hate to lose
© 2003, Jay Snider
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Concrete covers the old wagon yard
Time has torn the old pens down
Progress, or so it's called
Shrouds sacred, hallowed ground
The sound of steel-shod horses hooves
Now fail to greet the dawn
Melodic ring of spur rowel
On the boardwalk now is gone
Gone but not forgotten
Those old cowboys from the past
Whose works and deeds, like a giant oak
Have cast a shadow vast
Time has honored their traditions
History tells us where they've been
Their course forever blazoned
Though the trails have since blowed in
For them, progress swarmed like locust
On howling winds of change
Reminiscent of another time
When barbed wire carved the range
The constant bawl of cattle
Of longhorn herds of old
Is silenced now by progress
Or so the story's told
Time was when grass abundant
Covered every hill and plain
Progress plowed it under
Built avenue and lane
Scattered few remember
'Cept through written verse and song
Those valiant men whose spirits yet
Ride wild and free and strong
Their spirits ride in harmony
In the souls of horseback men
Who daily fight the battle
That progress strives to win
Though their forms are in the present
Their hearts are with the dawn
'Fore progress took the rangeland
So the war still rages on
Progress marched in sometimes blind
And would only a deaf ear lend
And staked claim to the sad beginning
Of the cowboy's mournful end
Still, the end, defines finality
Or existence nevermore
Progress may have won the battle
It shall not win the war
© 2005, Jay Snider
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Jay told us: I couldn't begin to tell how many times I've heard old cowboys say that they were born a hundred years too late. I've thought it or said it myself a thousand times but it became more vivid for me when I read the introduction to the book, The Trail Drivers of Texas. Larry McMurtry wrote, "Cowboys are romantics, extreme romantics, and ninety-nine out of a hundred of them are sentimental to the core. They are oriented to the past and face the present only under duress, and then with extreme reluctance." Call me a romantic for I fight that battle too. The book is such a great book and, in my mind, should be required reading in every school in the nation.
Tyrone and Tyree
I've learned lots of lessons
'Bout cowboyin' up
Cause I've been a cowboy
Since I was a pup
And my dad taught me
Just like his dad taught him
Rewards without effort
Come seldom and slim
And if workin' for wages
Or bossin' a crew
A job left half finished
Reflects upon you
And good leaders of men
Who while bossin' the crew
Won't ask of their men
What they wouldn't do
Cause men are just men
And it's by God's design
We all pull on our britches
One leg at a time
But some men are leaders
While others hold back
They stray off the trail
And are hard to untrack
But with proper persuasion
Will likely fall in
Cause that's just the nature
Of hosses and men
Which put me to thinkin'
'Bout Tyrone and Tyree
The best team of Belgium's
You ever did see
Why they'd lay in those collars
And pull stride for stride
Work sunup to sundown
'Till the day that they died
But Tyree would get balky
Not pull like he should
So Tyrone would reach over
And scold him right good
Then the load they were pullin'
Would even right out
That's the lesson in life
That I'm talkin' about
Cause some hosses are leaders
While some will pull back
They'll stray off the trail
And are hard to untrack
But with proper persuasion
Will likely fall in
See, that's just the nature
Of hosses and men
Which put me to thinkin'
'Bout what dad had said
And a couple of visions
Then danced in my head
In my mirror, while shavin'
Which one will I see
Could I be Tyrone
Or would I be Tyree
And to leaders of men
Let's all raise a cup
Here's to pullin' your weight
And to cowboyin' up
© 2005, Jay Snider, All Rights Reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Burning Daylight
For Don Dane
Though we saddle in the darkness
That’s just the way it’s done
We hear no bell or whistle call
Just the rising of the sun
The colors in the canyon
Paint pictures in my mind
Of the days that Charlie Russell rode
Of the tales he left behind
Vermillion cliffs of grandeur
Climb to plateaus up on high
Sunrise paints a mural
In an early mornin’ sky
Between sunrise and the sunset
Freedom courses through our veins
It’s the smell and the creak of the leather
The touch of our hands on the reins
Fleeting moments just at sunrise
And as sun sets in the west
Revered by men on horseback
From plain to mountain crest
Is the saddlin’ in the darkness
Just unwritten cowboy law
Or is it for the chance to see
What Charlie Russell saw© 2005, Jay Snider, All Rights Reserved
These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Jay Snider wrote this poem inspired by Don Dane's painting, "Burning Daylight":
Burning Daylight
© 2007 Don Dane Studio
Reproduction is strictly prohibited without authorization from Don Dane StudioDon Dane is an award-winning artist, with a particular focus on "cowboys, horses, and cattle." His watercolor and pencil sketches
