Cowboy Poetry
Seems there's an awful lot of
people
Picking up a pen
And writing cowboy poetry
Just because it's in.
I'd read quite a lot of it
And It kind'a seemed to me
That mostly it weren't cowboys
Who wrote that poetry.
They don't tell about the work he does
Nor the way he lives and thinks.
They're mostly 'bout his trips to town
And the whiskey that he drinks.
So I figured that I'd write one
That would tell for a change
How a cowboy lives and thinks
And works out on the range.
I thought about a cattle drive,
Nope, that wouldn't be so hot.
It wouldn't be exciting
Unless I lied a lot.
How about a branding?
Cows and calves a bawling,
The smell of burning hair.
Nope, just men and horses working
Not much excitement there.
Or a day spent classing cattle
When you think you're gonna freeze
'Cause it's edging down to zero
With a mighty bracing breeze.
The harder I tried to write a poem
The plainer I could see
I couldn't put on paper
What this life means to me.
A morning on the desert
About the first of June
When coyotes are still howling
A talking to the moon.
Where new spring calves are playing
And kicking up their heels,
Trotting out to make your gather
The way a good horse feels,
Some mustangs on the skyline
Leaving on the run
Their dust trail blue as willow smoke
In the early morning sun.
The first sight of a wagon camp
With teepees scattered round,
Wrangling in the darkness
When it's mostly done by sound.
A mountain meadow in the summer
Full of yearling steers,
A good horse sorting cattle
The way he works his ears,
Getting on a horse
You know you just can't ride.
Wishing your saddle horn was bigger
So you'd have more room to hide.
There's many things I'd write about
If only I knew how,
About good men and horses
The handling of a cow.
I've wrestled this all evening
And just can't make a start
At putting down on paper
What I'm feeling in my heart.
So maybe it was cowboys
Who wrote that poetry.
Next time I'll try a subject
That don't mean so much to me.
© 2007, Monte McDonald
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Springtime In
Nevada
I hear the cavvy trottin' in
Lord, I love that sound.
Reckon that's what woke me
The tremblin' of the ground.
Old Joe is up a coughin'
And cussin' cigarettes.
He says he's gonna quit them
But I'm not makin' any bets.
The kid is still a sawin' logs.
I'll roll him out right soon.
If someone didn't wake him,
I think he'd sleep till noon.
I know the boy is tired.
He's growin' like a weed.
And those two big broncs he's ridin'
He doesn't really need.
He's gettin' mighty forked though;
Stays deep down in his wood.
The other day the bay blowed up.
He rode him out real good.
The mornin' star is fadin';
The east is gettin' gray.
So I guess I'd better wash up
And get ready for the day.
The crew is at the wagon
Crammin' beef and biscuits down.
While my old belly's churnin'
Like I'd just brought it back from town.
A couple cups of coffee
And the same of cigarettes
And I'll be set till supper;
Then I'll eat, you bet.
The boys are headin' for the trap.
There go Bill and Joe.
Would like another cup of coffee
But I guess I'd better go.
The boss just slipped his halter on
His long-eared Cross E bay.
You can bet your bottom dollar
We'll be goin' some today.
Better ride old Sad Sack,
Though it really ain't his turn.
Cause for gettin' over country
He's got nothin' left to learn.
You can't call old Sack pretty;
His head's longer than his back.
But when he hits a long high trot
There's some ground between his tracks.
The kid's 'bout to have a bronc ride.
That colt's got his left ear set.
He'd better keep him trottin'
Till he gets him in a sweat.
Smell the sagebrush and the willers;
It sure got damp last night.
The dew drops shine like diamonds
In the early mornin' light.
The sun is hittin' on the peaks;
They're shinin' pink and gold
While the deeper canyons
Purple shadows still enfold.
There's some mustangs on the skyline
Leavin' at a run.
Their dust trail blue as willer smoke
In the early mornin' sun.
A meadowlark is singin'
His pretty little tune.
Lord, it's great here on the desert
Around the first of June.
By the time we've made our gather
And the last calf's drug to the fire,
The long hard trot back to camp
I really won't desire.
But early in the mornin'
While the day is bright and new
Life's still a bowl of cherries
For this wore out buckaroo.
© 1980, Monte McDonald
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Monte comments:
"Most of my poems started between 1955 and 1985. Something I saw,
did or heard about would get me started on one. I worked for the big
outfits, mostly the wagon outfits in northern Nevada. Places where I was
hired just to ride. Places big enough and roadless enough that the
buckaroos and horses had to stay out on the range from spring to fall. I
don't think I write cowboy poetry, I'm just a cowboy who writes poetry
about things no one but a cowboy knows about."
Of "Springtime in Nevada," Monte writes, "I was thinking
about the Little Humboldt and how much I used to enjoy the spring work
there."
How It Otta
Be
I saw my heaven in a
dream;
I hope that it comes true.
I dreamed I went to the last big range
Where you could buckaroo.
The sun was coming up
behind me
When I crossed that great divide.
I had to stop and stare in awe
When I saw the other side.
There spread out below
me
As far as I could see
Was a mat of native grass
Like most range used to be.
When I got down to the
home place
It was neat and clean.
There was pickups and trucks and trailers and such
But not one farming machine.
The man catcher met me
at the door;
He said his name was Pete.
“Sit down old son and roll a smoke
And kind of rest your feet.
"How did you ever find your
way
Here to the last good grass?
How did you stay on that narrow road
That winds through yonder pass?
"The Boss found your brand
In his tally book,
And said you’d be a hand
At any job you took.
"Here at the home place
We’re working quite a crew.
We’ve got wagons out and camp jobs;
What would you like to do?”
I’d been working with a
bunch of kids
Which I didn’t like to well.
So, I said I thought a camp job
Would suit me for a spell.
He said,” You’ve had a
long hard trip;
You look a little tired.
Would you care to have a snort
Now that you are hired?”
He pulled a quart of Jim
Beam
Out of a bottom drawer
And a couple water glasses,
My God, that man could pour.
After years in sagebrush
This country sure looked fine,
Lots of grass and water
Aspen trees and pine.
The camp was on a little
meadow,
A mighty pretty sight,
The buildings all in good repair,
The fences high and tight.
Standing in the horse
trap
Pricking up their ears,
Were all the extra special geldings
I’d ridden through the years.
Trotting out to meet me,
It filled my heart with joy,
Were all the good dogs that I’d had
Since I was a boy.
I drove on to the cabin
And headed for the door.
When it was opened by a woman
I’d known from long before.
She wore a little apron,
A big and happy grin.
And said, “Supper’s almost ready.
You’d best come on in.
"This place is really
something;
Come and have a look
At a batch camp with a wet bar
A TV and a cook."
That’s how I’d like my
heaven.
It would suit me mighty well.
And if it ain’t about like that
I’ll just go to hell
© 2005, Monte McDonald
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Wild Bert
I’ll tell you a story
About Wild Bert,
The time that he used
A snake for a quirt.
We were riding that fall
For the Old Derby Hat;
We’d camped for a spell
On Sunflower Flat.
The cook had some
trouble
With a camp robbing bear
Till one night he caught it
In a wire rope snare.
We rolled out of bed
When it let out a bawl;
Spent the night by the fire
No one was sleepy at all.
We sat drinking coffee
For a year I swear
Before it got light
And we could see that old bear.
The ground all torn up;
The bark chewed off the tree.
That bear in his rage
Was fearful to see.
His eyes gleaming red
Like two coals from the fire;
Popping his teeth
And showing his ire.
Then Wild Bert says,
“You’ve all heard me swear
I could ride anything
What was covered with hair.
I’ve said it so much
I believe that it’s true.
I’ll ride this here bear
Just to prove it to you.
When Pecos Bill rode the
Wowser
And according to Yellow Pine Pete,
When riding this kind of varmit
A snake for a quirt can’t be beat.”
While we was talking it
over
Shorty lit out for the rim.
And he soon returned with a rattler
Chock full of vigor and vim.
The bear was a mean
looking critter
And he was sure on the fight.
But finally we got some ropes on him
Throwed and tied him down tight.
He was a hard one to
saddle;
He had no withers at all.
And when we slipped on the snaffle
You otta heard that critter squall.
Bert stepped in his
middle
And pulled his hat down tight.
Standing there holding his wiggly quirt
He sure was a wild looking sight.
He says “Now boys turn
him loose,
Step back and give us some air.
I’ve rode everything I’ve ever tried
And I’ll ride this dang bear.”
Bill pulled off the foot
rope
Then jumped behind a tree.
The bear just laid there groaning
Not knowing he was free.
Then Bert stuck a spur
in his shoulder;
And that’s what started the show.
Soon, we could see as a bucker
There’s nothing that bear doesn’t know.
Bert’s spurring high
Every long crooked jump
While dragging his quirt
Off that black furry rump.
The bear is putting on a
show
Through the rocks and trees,
While Bert’s still up there spurring
Riding him with ease.
Then the bear quit
bucking
And began to run.
While Bert’s doing all he can
To bend the son of a gun.
He gets his feet out
ahead
And goes down on one rein;
But it’s like trying to bend
A runaway train.
They’re still gaining
speed
When they went off the flat;
When they sailed off the rim
Old Bert lost his hat.
They went off the point
Like a bird on the fly
Plowed through the creek
While the water splashed high
On round the mountain
Through the juniper trees;
I’ll tell you that bear
Was a splittin’ the breeze.
By then we were mounted
And all joined the chase.
Though the bear was a gaining
At a God awful pace.
When they broke through
the middle
Of a mahogany draw
And that’s the last
Of the bear that we saw.
I found Old Bert;
He was hurt pretty bad.
From the way he was cussing
We could tell he was mad.
He said “Now boys,
That bear didn't get me,
In the midst of the ruckus
My dang quirt bit me.”
Old Bert died that night
And we buried him there
Beneath the same tree
Where he’d got on the bear.
We carved on the tree
“Here lies Wild Bert
Who while riding a bear
Got bit by his quirt.”
Which just goes to show
What we already knowed;
If you ride enough critters
You’re bound to get throwed.
© Monte McDonald
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Monte comments, "This is the first poem I ever saved. Was on my
first camp job at Wild Cat Springs, Wilson Prairie. My first summer
alone, 1956. Broke Laddie and several more horses."
Badger
Mountain
It happened at the
Roundup
Many years ago
When I was a youngster
I reckon twelve or so.
The horse was Badger Mountain
Leo Moomaw's joy and pride
And that wild Indian cowboy
Was the one who made the ride.
The horse was Badger Mountain
Jerry Ambler was the hand
Fifty thousand people
Were setting in the stand.
The horse was bucking high and hard
Not like the ones today;
Jerry in perfect rhythm,
It was like a strange ballet.
Fifty thousand cheering
From jump number one.
Fifty thousand standing
Before the final gun.
He curried Badgers mane
And he scratched him on his back
With his buck rein waving loosely
And he never pulled the slack.
Fifty thousand cheering
From jump number one.
Fifty thousand standing
Before the ride was done.
It wasn't just a bronc ride
That we saw that day;
It was a thing of beauty,
The cowboy and the bay.
Fifty thousand screaming people
At the final gun,
For Badger never lost
And Ambler never won.
© 2009, Monte McDonald
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Monte comments that the poem comes from "an
experience with my Dad at the Pendleton Roundup. Watching this ride
impressed me more than any ride I’ve ever saw just for I guess you would
say the sheer beauty of it. He was a big pretty horse, slick and shiny,
wearing a silver mounted halter, jumping four feet in the air. I called
the Roundup board to check on my facts and audience numbers a while back.
They said I wasn’t the only one to remember the ride. Old timers in the
Pendleton country still talk about it at reunions and such."
The Race to Poker Flat
I grew up on the Verde
Beneath the Mogollon.
Rims, brush and wild cattle
Are all I’ve ever known.
There’s ways of working
cattle
That I don’t know to do,
So I came up to Nevada
To learn to buckaroo.
I started on the desert
Clear down at Star Ridge Well,
Twelve Mile, and then the Desert Ranch
Where we’d stay a spell.
We were shaded up one
evening
By the Old Rock House,
Everybody thinking
As quiet as a mouse.
When the old man on the
outfit
Leaned back agin a rock,
Rolled himself a cigarette.
And then began to talk.
“Every man who works a
horse back
Has rode one he thought was best,
And uses him to measure
When he compares to the rest.
Mine was down in Arizona
Between the Verde and the Rim,
And so far there’s been nothing
That could measure up to him.
The kid’s brush popper
riggin’
Has got me thinking back
To when I was about his age
And used Old Baldy Jack.
I’ve never told this
story,
But boys I swear it’s true.
It’s about a good and honest horse
And what nerve and guts can do.
It was in a canyon off
the Verde
That Baldy made his run
On a day both hot and sultry
Beneath that Arizona sun.
I was headed up the
canyon
To check a couple springs,
Planning on two cow traps
If I liked the look of things.
I could hear some
thunder;
It was storming on the rim.
I wished that it would rain on me
And cool things off agin.
Baldy was getting
nervous;
I thought he smelled a bear.
We stopped to look and listen
But couldn’t spot it anywhere.
Then I began to hear a
rumble
From way on up ahead,
And I knew there was a flash flood
Coming down the canyon bed.
When I heard the water
It chilled me to the bone.
‘Cause I knew the boss’s little daughter
Would be swimming all alone.
Nancy spent her
afternoons
Playing in the water.
Her Mom could sit out on the porch
And watch her little daughter.
The buildings on this
little place
Sat a hundred yards or so
Back up on this little bench
With a big flat down below.
There’s a big rock basin
Where water’s always at.
Had been a killing o’re a card game there
So they called it Poker Flat.
Just above this water
hole
The canyon made a bend
And narrowed sharply to a gorge
A half mile to its end.
She wouldn’t hear the
water coming
Till it hit the canyon floor.
No way she could out run it
Two hundred yards or more.
I was rimrocked in the
bottom
So didn’t try for speed.
Just rode as careful as I could,
And tried to hold our lead
Till the trail went on
the bench
Where I let Baldy run.
But we had too many draws to head
And the water nearly won.
We’d run out of choices,
So I took that awful trail
With that mighty wall of water
A rumbling on our tail.
Baldy hit that gorge a
running
Where a cow could hardly walk
Through piles of loose round boulders
On water polished rock.
The water hit behind us
And went boiling toward the sky;
Baldy knew the danger
And was as scared as I.
If you’ve been in them
kinds of places
You know what we was running through,
And can kind’a sit and picture
What Baldy had to do.
Then we hit the place I’d
dreaded,
A slick and glassy slide.
All I can do to help the horse
Is just stand up and ride.
There for a few long
seconds
I thought I’d join my friends in hell,
But the Lord was watching out for Nancy
Little Baldy never fell.
That put us at the bottom
And we sailed around the bend.
Sure enough there by the basin
I saw my little friend.
Just before we reached
her
I heard the water roar
And watched it come a spilling out
Across the canyon floor.
Nancy saw the danger
And met me on the run.
Another couple hundred yards
And Baldy’s race was won.
His legs were beat and
battered
Up to his knees and hocks;
Shoes gone and feet all broken
From running in those rocks.
He was mighty gaunt and
weary
But not crippled anyhow.
So they turned him in the meadow
Where the missus kept her cow.
I kept on catching cattle
Till it got to wet that fall.
They hauled forty-six to Payson
The best I can recall.
I come here to Nevada
And never did go back.
But there ain’t a week goes by
I don’t think of Baldy Jack.
He rolled himself another
smoke
And then stared off in space;
His mind in Arizona
On how they won the race.
I told him, "Baldy died
at thirty
Shiny, slick and fat.
Nobody ever rode him
Since his run to Poker Flat.
"He’s buried out there on
the point
Beneath a tall rock monument.
And Nancy’s always wondered
Where her other hero went.
"I’ve heard your story
before you see;
I even know your handle.
At least back then and there my friend
You went by Jimmy Randall.
"I’ve rode that awful
trail myself;
I know that you ain’t lyin’.
My mama named me after you,
James Randall O’Brian."
© 2005, Monte McDonald
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Monte comments:
I spent a winter trapping between the Verde and the Rim. A canyon and
a good imagination got me started on this one.
