"cowboy" poems
Rolling down St. John's Heritage Highway
after Sean, my grandson's birthday party
I belt out my pioneer song with vigor
echoing across the vast beauty,
wide open, sacred spaces
pristine vistas
Norman Rockwell cows grazing
in bygone pastures happily
moo along
Driving past the yellow deer crossing sign
Florida woodlands giddyap near the edge of the road
long brown antlers prancing to
a timeless rhythm
I hope and pray that I can somehow
kindle a spark of appreciation
in my niece and grandsons
so that they may behold
the baffling greatness
and mystery that is our universe
These young'uns are mighty attached to the
virtual reality, world and landscape
of computer technology
A sprinkling of cowboy stars flash
an omnipresent wink
Sunset bonfire explodes across
the frontier horizon
Turning the corner onto Emerson Drive
smoldering scarlet orange embers
reflecting lights
shoot fireworks, launch rockets
through an ever expanding field of vision
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
keep reading those cue cards governor
keep living in your fake theatrical world
keep your facade of cleanliness and trust
keep SHOUTING your plastic christian ethics
just keep the last cowboy president in mind
the weak always prefer to live on in infamy anyways
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 4:54 AM UTC
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.
My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.
And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.
Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.
Love Mary x
My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
I could not accept you—star
incarnate, carved and swollen
in the trunk of a fustic—
urine-yellowed and preened—risen
and alive I strap my
saddle to your back. My heels
dig to the dark side of
a price yet to be paid—an eye
of a coursing, being scrubbed
into the spots of grain—heat
eaten by earth. *Star set.
Star rise.
Star be
livid and leaven*
whispers the cowboy
sitting in a lawn chair on the
front porch—his hat falling
off from crowning, bald-headed
tilt. space and all its wonders.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
We could play with guns like cowboy bebop,
Slay demons like inyunasha,
The blue lights in Tokyo couldn't be anymore beautiful,
Getting a little sensual with small amounts of ******
That's pretty lame,
Kissing me with purple and pink lipstick,
And for that I'll make you anything kawaii,
You could be the crazy chick on fooly cooly,
It wouldnt be bad if you Could do me.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
he introduces himself
saying quiet, but slipping in, firm:
“something he knows for sure,
no is no”
I, (19, f)
replying, smiling
saying louder, firmer:
“something she knows for sure,
yes is yes”
and he says
“yes, ma’am,”
returning her smile, so shyly,
while blushing, so loudly,
thinking he said something dumb,
looking down at his shuffling feet,
covered in worn out cowboy boots
I like this guy
I like this man.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 7:35 AM UTC
Tonights the night to party
Not just because I say
Tonights the night to party
Because it ' s the ending of the day
Throw up your hands
and yell yee haw
Grab a drink and hit the floor
Dancing without caring
That's what this party's for
The band is slightly out of tune
But, hey who gives a ****
They sound better later on
When you are really lit
By two a.m you'd think that they
Were Alabama and George Jones
While you're trying to record them on
Your prissy little phones
This place don't karaoke
You're singing with the band
You're singing country music
It's the best in all the land
No running shoes, just cowboy boots
Will get you in the door
If you come in with a cowboy hat
Make sure it faces to the front
All the dude's they wear them backwards
And they look like a dumb c***
Tonights the night to party
Not just because I say
Tonights the night to party
Because it ' s the ending of the day
Throw up your hands
and yell yee haw
Grab a drink and hit the floor
Dancing without caring
That's what this party's for
You can listen for the steel guitar
It's there in every song
Hey man, this here's a country bar
And steel guitar , it just belongs
There's always background fiddle
Drums like Levon from The Band
Piano played like Jerry Lee
The floor's all blood and sand
You've come on out to party
Now show them how a redneck does
Knock back a few and get up here
And when you dance, you cuss
The music here will rock you
It's American through and through
It's a good old country party
It's all red white and blue
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
here's to a package of
Marlboro Reds
in the hands of
someone other than
the Marlboro Man
standing in
for those slack-jawed outlaws
my heroes now lack jaws
tongues
lungs
I swear it's been too long
since I inhaled manhood
The Great Darrell Winfield
rolled
packed
and filtered
into the only thing I know
that makes a man a man
the essence of
cowboy boots and farmer's tan
in every drag
see, I inhale my heroes
all the dusty red-necked
cowboys
Darrell Winfield
and my dad
men whose lives
went up in smoke
to coat my throat
in my own self-righteousness
I'm frightened this
is all that I'll have left
of him
lung cancer
and the lingering stench
of cigarettes
he always smelled
of cigarettes
he'd pull me into these
firm embraces
he held so long
that he'd suffocate me
in tacky business
and cigarette smoke
masked only
faintly
by a poor man's
cologne
still I breathed him in
until I'd start to choke
it was too much man to handle
my grandpa told me
“smoking doesn't send you
straight to Hell,
but it sure does make you smell
like you've already been there”
he was
a grown man
cursing
crying
lying
dying by himself
trying to drown out the inferno
with a case of beer
but sobriety finds you sometime
and I'd rather suffocate in cigarettes
than lose him altogether
and even if he smells like Hell
at least that means he made it back
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
Could've been a cowboy but,
my **** didn't suit a horse.
could've been an astronaut but
I wandered off- off course.
could;ve been a fireman but,
my hose was waayy too short.
yeah,
I could've been a bank robber but,
****
I would've got my cute **** caught.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
Would you judge me?
Do y'know i wont judge you?
Can I be anything I want to be?
Or are there rules I have to conform to?
Spaceman cowboy hippie gangster stoner rockstar chef painter poet
playwright carpenter inventor scientist mathematician author actor
gardener tailor sailor musician comedian doctor pilot barista volunteer
partyplanner spiritualist director engineer psychologist beautician
Please do forgive me but there's more.
I'm greedy, I know, I want it all.
Immense experiences galore.
Money to me means null.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
They say the world's a stage,
But what role do i want to play?
Shall i be a king until i age?
Or should i be a cowboy playing in the dirt and hay?
Should i be someone big or small?
Would i even care at all?
Maybe I'd be bad for once,
I'd lead a gang and make my own rules,
Guns and knives would be my tools
I'd take what i want
And you'd do what i say
My power I'd flaunt,
In this role I'd play...
But in the end we'll all take hand,
And take a bow,
On this stage so grand
The time to act is now
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
A Long time ago in a galaxy far far away
there was a young boy who who met a few robots a jedi knight a wookie , a space cowboy and a princess. later he meets a dark lord who he finds out is his father from a green backward talking green alien and the old jedi master
who teaches him how to be a jedi
they travel to a forest where they meet a few teddy bears
then the young man finds out the princess is his sister
then he meets his dad the dark lord who he then kills
then there is a teddy bears party
The end
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
wind is coming in
sun is just showing
horses are watered
fire is glowing
movement is starting
the camp is awake
cookie is working
there's breakfast to make
no fancy croissants
or drinks laced with toffee
this is good solid food
and strong cowboy coffee
it gets it's job done
it ain't always so nice
later on in the day
it gets served by the slice
mud, java, joe
it's got lots of names
and at each cowboy camp
it still tastes the same
grounds at the bottom
thick as coal tar
without cowboy coffee
you will not go far
eggs, beans and bacon
and bread texas thick
to wipe up what's left
and get every lick
here out on the trail
you won't find any toffee
we eat solid grub
and we drink cowboy coffee
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
Waltzing through the chaos that life’s left for today,
Dragging along my battered horn in case she wants to play
‘Scuse me, Ms. Bartender, but I’ve got something to say
Ain’t nobody listening to the radio anyway
I don’t need a soapbox, no suit or microphone
Just a space to spread the truth wherever I may roam
I speak straight from the bottom of a bottle left at home
The night is not much easier when you take it on alone
Hear ye, hear ye, gather round to hear a tale
Of dreaming big, working hard, but destined still to fail
Shredding that loopy little melody,
The craziest cat you ever did see
Make you feel so alive, ladies screaming, “Wow boy!”
I jump and I jive, cuz I’m a bebop cowboy
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
harry was a hedgehog he loved the rodeo
a visit to america decided he would go
he boarded on a plane to the U.S.A
way across the ocean so very faraway.
he headed for the venue to see the the rodeo
then he put his name down so he could have ago
harry was excited as happy as can be
now he could ride the rodeo for everyone to see
harrys name was called and mounted on his horse
now his time had come to ride around the course
he new all the tricks and new what to do
chasing after steer with his big lasso
people they all loved him shouted out for more
an hedgehog ride a rodeo they never saw before
hedgehog he was happy his dream it had come true
riding in a rodeo is all he longed to do
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
A timber night in a dark way can't stay for long
plowed down, scorched down - must be torn down
kings of city pipes, dusty concrete heirlooms, read a bible to sleep
Wake in the morning, sun rays shine through dust ridden books
Morals, condoned in heart shaped smoke clouds
Greed's arms will swell rejecting midnights' hiss' "Where will they live?"
'Sirrrrrrrr' 'Homeeee'...... Floating like gas particles, words lost.
A stand alone will die to unknown prosperity
ropes straggle helpless branches
Clenching their last breathes, the weeping skies sit silently
Hateful hateful hunger, feeding the bodies thirst
Our midnight Cowboy song goes: Manufactured green, leaving scorched earth barren, unwritten torch, unseen
For we saw what we wanted to.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
I am not some street cowboy punk
i am a quiet sweet rampant drunk
i play the spoons with the air of a saint
i have a tongue that can swallow paint
sour and acrid, the tone of my voice
i have never left without a choice
punched back sideways
even more today than tomorrow
for your heart i will bed, steal or borrow
Superman don't have ***** on me
don't need no wings now i am free
saving the restless, curing the weak
you can laugh at me when i dance like a freak.
I will kiss you when i drink too much wine
when i am restless and hungry you will be mine
I will do nothing when you are nothing to me
i will drive you crazy with all you can be
no more talkin no more of that ****
i'll hold you apart, break you bit by bit
if you're too polite i'll bite my tongue
i'll whip you and shake you, then i'm done.
carefree to be careless, shareless boy talk
tell me to go and i will surely walk
don't ask me to be kissed or hold my hand
i am not that girl that you left unplanned
i am a midnight demon on ferocious terms
i grasp you and hold you tight and firm.
I am not lost, or fragile or broken bound
i am not looking for someone to make a sound
i am no paige boy scarlet harlot wild child thing
i am not yours, can't you hear your telephone ring?
I am a sordid freak of gigantic endeavours
i will solder your heart regardless of your tremors
i am torturous and painful and weak to the bone
i am the mightiest fallen, can you not see my throne?
i have a **** me, buck me, tie-me-tight gaze
if i look at you slowly, be patient but don't wait
i want everything and all and i want it now
i am no gleaming bronze statue know-all-know-how
i am surely what you ever thought you knew
i am surely what you never thought when i met you
i am free to please anyone at night
i am free to sit and cry by candlelight
alright now, oh baby its all right now
**** me gently and i'll show you how
to be nothing more than anything is something i suppose
but i really can't tell for the state of your clothes
you dress me up slightly more than your vision
i've never met a person with such succint precision
and well here i go, superbly astute and blunt
never did i see such a spectacular *** ****
and well that is really the way that i go
i fly here, there, everywhere i flow
i am not some pretty naieve little thing
i am a mess of entirety with 2 engagement rings
i'm living with despondence and its ******* me off
holy **** batman i hear you cough
come see me, come stay a while
come see me, come see me, and i will **** you in style
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
BAND concert public square Nebraska city. Flowing and circling dresses, summer-white dresses. Faces, flesh tints flung like sprays of cherry blossoms. And gigglers, God knows, gigglers, rivaling the pony whinnies of the Livery Stable Blues.
Cowboy rags and ****** rags. And boys driving sorrel horses hurl a cornfield laughter at the girls in dresses, summer-white dresses. Amid the cornet staccato and the tuba oompa, gigglers, God knows, gigglers daffy with life's razzle dazzle.
Slow good-night melodies and Home Sweet Home. And the snare drummer bookkeeper in a hardware store nods hello to the daughter of a railroad conductor-a giggler, God knows, a giggler-and the summer-white dresses filter fanwise out of the public square.
The crushed strawberries of ice cream soda places, the night wind in cottonwoods and willows, the lattice shadows of doorsteps and porches, these know more of the story.
3.9k
i.
the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it:
pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is
i never used to call them those names:
“pa,”
“ma,”
always found them too cowboy-ish,
too un-me, un-like
us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared
stories of how grandpa came over from china.
ii. (at the dinner table)
there is no symbolism here. there has been none
for a while now. this household eats and
eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their
books all burned down
back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and
all her uncles could eloquent on was that
“the communists were coming!”
“the communists were coming!”
and instead of poems took with them their
children, and their gold to pawn
and their clothes on their muddy
mortar-stained backs
and the japanese
iii.
my grandfather now comes twice a week to the
hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital.
good view of the cleanest part of our *****
city. there are lights and white folks now. two things
my dad said did not used to be there. they
used to be spanish. they tilled
our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms
with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand,
worked. he claims.
your grandfather and his grandfather and i
iv.
awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30.
made to go down to the temple in kalesas
and told to fetch the office paper for
noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew
up just next to the pasig river which back in
the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only
sweatshirts
and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along
steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with
and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons.
v. (back at the dinner table)
i listen to my mom and dad
sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here
he in his sweatshirt and she
with her golden purse,
preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits -
an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it
in a sense,
but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us
to see:
“pa,”
“ma,”
v.
it is not cowboys that give us our names.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
****** and bass
****** and bass.
All she want in her face
is ****** and bass.
All she wanna do
is **** ******
kiss *******
and listen to Future.
**** that's why
I won't pursue her.
Love and the essence of life
don't get through to her.
She is an addict.
Running from life
and abusing ****
to get away from it.
So much beauty and potential
but he she wanna be a dumb *****
She wanna be that *****
or some *****
that gotta man that's rich
and follow the crowd.
Blowin loud.
Poopin xans
and sippin lean.
She ain't never seen
a trap but
She listens to Future
and shes stumblin.
Choppin it the **** up
and mumblin.
Lickin her lips and giggling
because my sub in the trunk
is tickling her pearl tongue
and both lungs.
We are both young
but that's no reason
to act so dumb
and walk around all numb.
When I kick her some philosophy
she doesn't care
all she can think about
is her on top of me.
All in her soul.
All in her face.
****** and bass.
****** and bass.
All she want in her face
is ****** and bass.
All she wanna do
is **** ******
kiss *******
and listen to Future.
The Promethazine King.
The codeine connoisseur.
You can't be a loser
if you wanna get
through to her.
She needs your dollar signs
and expensive ****
before you even see the ****
or a *** or an *** cheek.
She's fine as hell but
If you ask me
she ain't no Ashley
from Fresh Prince.
She's nasty.
Freaky and far from innocent.
She wants it blasted
in her face
until she can't see straight.
She wants the force from the back
till she feel it
in her stomach and her back.
She listens to Future
but I'm no codeine cowboy.
She's mistaken me for him
because I'm
as fresh as an altoid
and my eyes are as low as
the unemployment rate.
I set the bait
and there is the prey.
Now she is
all in my face.
****** and bass.
****** and bass.
All she want in her face
is ****** and bass.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
We never made sense
I should've listened to myself
It's crazy how you left me, for me
And not for someone else
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 2:06 AM UTC
We're out at a bar splitting a good night of cheers
Drinks and laughter flowing among peers
Double shots dance around the table
Tonight's the moment, tomorrow's a fable
We garnish the laughter with Halloween
What's your costume, how do you swing
A chorus of "I'll dress up as a cowboy"
Is met by a few rolling eyes, "I'll address their convoy"
Not to be excluded is the gay guy in back that chimes in
And competes with the rolling eyes, cowboys are mine
Laughter of reveries spills faster than the drinks
A 80's song, When Doves Cry, continues to play over the links
A women crashes the party and exhorts the group
Come on guys put your wings on, fly the coup
Halloween's around the corner, make a splash, make waves
Find your muse with a costume that stands up, and raves
Look out to the horizon, the rarefied air, and trick for treats
Find my tunnel of love with a costume that beats
After a pause, a coy smile surface on rolling eye's lip
Oh Melville come with me, come with me, and take a dip
Double shots dance around the table
Logan Robertson
10/19/17
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
Chimney smoke from a neighbours house seeps through an open frame.
It conjurers images of home in days of innocence, long gone.
Cowboy games and scabs on knees and ice cream as a treat.
Nightmare monsters slain with a mothers hand across a brow.
Lollipops and lemonade a perfect day complete.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC