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jason galt Dec 2015
That cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
Sittin’ on the pisspot in a one horse town
Salient sista, she sees them cowpokes
And they do their damndest to draw her attention
Oh, she’s seen chairs thrown, barfights break out
And the piano man run away
Sometimes they shoot the others down
All for the chance to pay two dollars
To lay with the only cowgirl in town
She’s the Queen Sheba of the saloon girls
****, loose and fast
Motherly and tender, it’s all for the askin
Sanctified or sinister, that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
I asked her to marry me
Many times before
She laughed and said, “Honey, you can’t have me.”
In my naïveté I thought I could change her wayward ways
Domesticate her like I’d break a young filly
All the thoughts of getting off the trail, building a house,
Settling down and starting a family.
But that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
SøułSurvivør Feb 2015
the legend of Bobbie Jo


The bar room was noisy
When Bobbie Jo sat down,
Her stage was like a postage stamp
Her eyes creased in a frown.

Her T shirt was faded
Her jeans full of holes
But her face had a beauty
Neither young nor old.

She slung the strap of her guitar
Behind her slender neck,
Six silver strings to strum
Six Silken Strings to pluck.

The instrument was battered
In need of some repair
But the damage was cosmetic
The music *lived
in there.

Her hands were not that beautiful
Red tipped, raw *****, and small
They looked almost masculine

The first chord was a *drawl
.

Hooked up by a chord
To an electric amp,
She tuned her instrument a bit
And put on a clamp.

When she began strumming
Live music filled the place
The cowboys kept up with their noise
But a smile crept 'cross her face.

The chords crept into plucking
A Flamenco kind of riff
Spanish at its finest

The laughter seemed to drift...

Off into the distance
And the familiar chords
Of country western "Crazy"
Hit the ***** Tonkin' boards...

"I'm crazy for tryin'
And crazy for cryin'

I'm crazy for lovin' you..."


Her voice was melodious
But it was haunting, too
Much like Joni Mitchell
But with a country blue.

Then the chords got lively
In a folksy slang

"The Night They
Drove 'Ol Dixie Down..."

The walls of that place *rang!


Baez could do no better!
The music did its thing...
Boy! That girl could play that box!
Man! That girl could SING !!!

The place was deadly silent
When she sang a blue
And it was a stompin'
When the beat picked up its tune!

It got to be midnight
The middle of the night
She had taken not one break!
The music? OUTA SIGHT !!!

It got to be 2AM
She still kept up her strum!
And the cowpokes
were tired clappin'
By the time the night was done.

When it was finally over
She picked up her case
The owner came over
A strange look on his face.

He said to her, "Young lady,
You made a helluva night...
The best sales here ever
And there was not one fight!
I want you on here permanent
Could you do that, please?
I'll give you $500 bucks a night
And I'll help you release
A country music album
You've written your own stuff...
I'll help you release it.
It's way good enough...

She said, "That's okay my friend,
I made $500 there
They piled the money in all night
It's right inside my jar...
So I'd best be goin'
The Greyhound leaves at five...
I'm headed for Nashville
I think I will survive.
Just remember me some later on
When you hear my songs
You can say I played here
And the music was real strong."

He gave her a wry smile
And he said, "You bet..."
He would sure remember
How could he forget?

She had to turn some cowboys down
When they kinda came on strong
She had a big ol' bus to catch
So she left alone...

No one ever saw Bobbie Jo again
But later on they heard
Her bus had an accident.
Killed everyone aboard.


But her legend still lives on
Where her music rang
The cowpokes swear
her ghost still plays...

*everywhere she sang.
A looong poem! Thanks for reading
it all... for a guitar playing friend...
Londis Carpenter Sep 2010
On the dusty slopes where there's still cowpokes, where there's yet more sky than land,
In the Big Sky State, back in thirty-eight, they were hiring at Fort Peck Dam.

In the open skies where I get my highs, past the spill-way and the fort,
A small town looms where there's more saloons than a feller like me could sport.

Came a Texan bloke who was almost broke (and I'll tell you right now, it was I).
I was looking for work, something of my sort, but I'd take any job to get by.

At a cowpoke's inn where I wet my chin, and while standing at the bar,
I watched a girl who could dance and whirl to the tunes of a wrangler's guitar.

Every eye in the bar watched her jiggle and jar, not a one who wouldn't make her his own.
But, in spite of her shaking, I could see she was taken by a gent who sat back all alone.

And I saw in his face that he felt disgrace, Saw the jealousy seethe in his eyes.
Though he sat in disdain, and he never complained, his displeasure was easily surmised.

In a place where legends and tales abound, where circumstance rules the day,
Shaping men's schemes and frustrating their dreams, Till their willpower has no sway.

Where fate may run contrary to plan, frustrating our deepest desire.
It has often been shown that the life of a man can be changed when his soul's set afire.

I can only tell what I know is true , what I saw with my very own eyes.
But the man, alone in the back of the room, had a murderous look in his eyes.

I left the bar and went up to my room; tomorrow I'd be working for sure.
And the music still played, but the blare and the din didn't keep me from sleeping till four.

The morning came fast, and now working, at last, (for they'd hired me to work on the dam).
I worked and I toiled and I know my blood boiled pouring concrete for old Uncle Sam.

I gave no thought at all of the evening before; soon the whistle blew, ending my day.
And a drink with the crew seemed the right thing to do. I still had a few bucks I could pay.

At a bar back in town where we all bought a round The gossips were whispering a tale.
It seems like the girl, who knew how to whirl, was being held down at the jail.

A body was found under two feet of ground in a newly dug patch of her lawn.
And no one was missed from the residents list but her husband, nowhere to be found.

The body was new, but was nothing to view. It was burned beyond recognition.
Folks came forward to tell of a marriage from hell, of suspicions and speculation.

They had argued and fought over things she had bought. Some said he had threatened to leave her.
And a weapon was found laying there on the ground. He'd been slain with her brand new meat cleaver.

It was open and shut, they'd arrested her ****. and there weren't any clues to redeem her.
The gossip was keen and vicious and mean. Every woman in town would demean her.

Then a telegram came and I got on a train to a Texas town on the divide.
Where my father, quite ill, was having a spell and I wanted to be by his side.

I was well out of town when I happened to hear a railroad detective named Sam
Tell a story, quite odd, of a hobo he thought was asleep, by the track near the dam.

He had gone off to chase the *** from his place and had tossed a road flare on his bed.
But he fell to surprise when the *** failed to rise; and approaching, he found him quite dead.

He left him to burn so the next one would learn that "Old Sam was the king of this road."
But when he went back there was nothing but track, not a sign of the *** or his load.

Then I had an idea, for it made me recall what I'd seen that first night at the inn.
In the look on the face of a fellow disgraced, who had now vanished into the wind.

Had he buried that *** and planted some clues, then departed on this same train?
Sent his wife off to jail and covered his trail-- to start his life over again?
Copyright by Londis Carpenter;
all rights reserved

To learn the history of
Fort Peck Dam follow this link:
http://www.fortpeckdam.com/
SøułSurvivør Aug 2015
---

the glowing iron wheel
had made its way
across the sky
crushing
everything
in its
path

i sit doubled over
my forehead
in rivulets
from the
furnaces
its passage
had stoked

clouds like
dusty dirt ruts
curving into
saguaro spiked
hills
to the west

crescent moon
a faint slice
like a
glowing
cattlebrand

the cicadas
still whirr
on
and
on
and
on


7 PM
and it is
still
98 degrees

and the
ghosts of
cowpokes
who
died the trails
still ride
their bony ponies
on their endless
road
into
the

sun


soulsurvivor
(C) 8/17/2015
but it's a dry heat
Billy Flynn looked skyward
As the fire slowly died
The embers dancing gaily
They had a hard days ride

He looked down at the fire
At the coals and their red glow
"Better get them horses covered"
"The clouds are bringing snow"

From the back a voice was heard
"You sure, you crazy coot"
He looked to where the voice had come
And he lit up a cheroot

"As sure as we're all sitting here"
"Tomorrow, we'll see snow"
"So, get them horses covered"
"We'll want them warm when we must go"

They'd been out on the trail for months
Now, home was in their thoughts
They'd been hunting down some rustlers
Now, all but two were caught

The two were shot in Texas
In a shoot out first week in
The others caught in Reno
Nearly 21 weeks in

Billy poked the fire
And he said "best keep it hot"
"someone get some wood here"
"I suggest you get a lot"

They finished up their dinners
Billy said we'll leave 'fore dawn
There's someone out there watching
A quick rest, and we'll be gone

He set two cowpokes watching
Tending fire in the night
Watching for intruders
And keeping out of sight

Billy Flynn was old school
A Texas Ranger long ago
If anyone was closing in
Old Billy Flynn would know

"I'm resting now" old Billy said
"I'd suggest you do the same"
"Get the prisoners to the side there"
"To lose them now would be a shame"

He checked on all the horses
Made sure their blankets were pulled tight
Then Billy, grabbed his blanket
And he laid down for the night

In the morning, the ground was covered
It had snowed, three inches plus
The others all were watching
Billy Flynn....he made no fuss

"I could feel it in the air boys"
"The sky was screaming snow"
"I've been out here more than you have"
"That's all you gotta know"

They ate and broke camp quickly
They heard some noises to their right
The men that they had captured
Had friends show up late last night

They were keeping back a distance
Watching, waiting for their chance
While Billy Flynn showed nothing
And helped prolong the dance

"Boys, you'd best get ready"
"There'll be a shoot out sometime soon"
"I figure they'll be coming at us"
"In the open...round 'bout noon"

"Keep an eye around you"
"Move the prisoners to the flank"
"Protect yourself from whatever"
"These men have left in their dry tank"

Billy called it perfect
About five hours on the ride
Six gunmen came upon them
Three came in from either side

Billy took the first one,
Shot him dead, between the eyes
The youngster back behind him
Had never seen a grown man die

It only took two minutes
Thirty seven shots in all
And in the end there was old Billy
Off his horse and standing tall

The six were dead and bleeding
"We'll leave them to the birds"
Two of Billy's men were wounded
And he'd almost lost a third

Two hours on they came to town
Billy Flynn was in the lead
He stopped to get some water
That was all Billy would need

He took his prisoners to the Jailhouse
And his charges to the Doc
Then he went on to the tavern
Ordered drinks from barkeep ****

This talks of Billy Flynn
And true old western tale
Just hope you never ever
Have old Billy on your trail

Billy drank his beer and walked away
He said "It's time for me to go"
"the clouds are saying one thing"
"But, watch out....we're in for snow".
Did you think it forever?
I never,
I got tombstone tattooed on my breast

always in all the days on horseback
looking back
I thought two six guns were best

and I shot my few, feuds were
for dudes and cowpokes like me

out on boot hill they still
sing to a banjo,

I know
so quaint,
but it never were and ain't today like it

sit in the saddle from sunup to sundown
eating dust from every poor town
until
paydirt in Tucson,

spurs on
and saloon time
and my killing a came being
as I were a willing,
a game of chance
a dance in the death

Saddletramp breath
it gets you
in the end.
The legend of Bobbie Jo


The bar room was noisy
When Bobbie Jo sat down,
Her stage was like a postage stamp
Her eyes creased in a frown.

Her T shirt was faded
Her jeans full of holes
But her face had a beauty
Neither young nor old.

She slung the strap of her guitar
Behind her slender neck,
Six silver strings to strum
Six Silken Strings to pluck.

The instrument was battered
In need of some repair
But the damage was cosmetic
The music *lived in there.

Her hands were not that beautiful
Red tipped, raw *****, and small
They looked almost masculine

The first chord was a *drawl.

Hooked up by a chord
To an electric amp,
She tuned her instrument a bit
And put on a clamp.

When she began strumming
Live music filled the place
The cowboys kept up with their noise
But a smile crept 'cross her face.

The chords crept into plucking
A Flamenco kind of riff
Spanish at its finest

The laughter seemed to drift...

Off into the distance
And the familiar chords
Of country western "Crazy"
Hit the ***** Tonkin' boards...

"I'm crazy for tryin'
And crazy for cryin'

I'm crazy for lovin' you..."

Her voice was melodious
But it was haunting, too
Much like Joni Mitchell
But with a country blue.

Then the chords got lively
In a folksy slang

"The Night They
Drove 'Ol Dixie Down..."

The walls of that place *rang!

Baez could do no better!
The music did its thing...
Boy! That girl could play that box!
Man! That girl could SING !!!

The place was deadly silent
When she sang a blue
And it was a stompin'
When the beat picked up its tune!

It got to be midnight
The middle of the night
She had taken not one break!
The music? OUTA SIGHT !!!

It got to be 2AM
She still kept up her strum!
And the cowpokes
were tired clappin'
By the time the night was done.

When it was finally over
She picked up her case
The owner came over
A strange look on his face.

He said to her, "Young lady,
You made a helluva night...
The best sales here ever
And there was not one fight!
I want you on here permanent
Could you do that, please?
I'll give you $500 bucks a night
And I'll help you release
A country music album
You've written your own stuff...
I'll help you release it.
It's way good enough...

She said, "That's okay my friend,
I made $500 there
They piled the money in all night
It's right inside my jar...
So I'd best be goin'
The Greyhound leaves at five...
I'm headed for Nashville
I think I will survive.
Just remember me some later on
When you hear my songs
You can say I played here
And the music was real strong."

He gave her a wry smile
And he said, "You bet..."
He would sure remember
How could he forget?

She had to turn some cowboys down
When they kinda came on strong
She had a big ol' bus to catch
So she left alone...

No one ever saw Bobbie Jo again
But later on they heard
Her bus had an accident.
Killed everyone aboard.

But her legend still lives on
Where her music rang
The cowpokes swear
her ghost still plays...

Everywhere she sang.

SøułSurvivør
A looong poem! Thanks for reading
it all... for a guitar playing friend.
Whether it was true or not that he was 'spitting feathers' he got an ice cold drink for free
I got tea
which is what I always got even when it was so ****** hot it could melt the 'lastic on my knickers.

I never spat feathers although I ate chicken dinners now and then
neither did I give a toss if it were beef or it were hoss'
and hoss' is an old cowpokes term, but dinner time's no time to rhyme it's time to wash off morning grime, sit down and tuck in time, learn to **** in your belly time to make some room for pudding.
It's not all that it's cracked up to be
even when you're good and get the key
that lets you in
free from sin
unlike me who'll never be
a member

but I'm quite sure
the muses or the fates
can't hide the fact
that Heaven is full of
council estates.

shrinking violets or
prima donnas
have one thing in common
they're all dead and goners

. Imagine cherubs and seraphim
stood at the gates
handing out halo's
to all of your mates,
and don't forget the
council estates
there'll be rent when it's due
or you'll be out on the street
there are plenty of homeless
here you can meet
Jersey lil's
and cowpokes that drawl
Kilroy the star of many a wall

the ghettos
let's not forget the ghettos
the heat of the day
the union go-slows
the unending songs
of angels
lost souls at odds with
the angles

heaven is the dumping ground
and I being of sound mind
with a grip on things
wouldn't go.
The harmonica that gets into you
and the tumbleweeds that roll
past you
when you know the West won't last
you
look East to find a future.

Cowpokes never or if they did they never told
and I'm too old to be a wondering now.
Ken Pepiton Apr 2022
Shame on you, says who,
I ask me?
I know, me, eh, watchman,

what of the night, one day comin'
not like the rest, the other days,
I mean,
says he, who watches
sunsets and refuses to count planets
as stars, see.
position your watcher to see the expanse,
as a vast dome,
set above us, to mark up, when first we learn
from  down, up look, learn to stand
reach for those, we think as
crawlers we all was, mewling crawlers we was,
beggars as near as history can sort out,
then come war and
we was elevated, first rank, lowest, but in
the fight for the oath of allegiance,
as yet unclear what that is, but
discipline is how a killer is formed from sod.

All the busters. and buddies, and cowpokes
learned to march and listen for that certain sound
- the certain call to fall back, listen, listen

run away and live to fight another day,
or stand and die, for king and country,
God is watching,
what you choose,
- boys of my sort were fed Imperial War movies,
- I cried in Gunga Dinh and
- for the coward in three white feathers
- Saturday Matinee as a class, we all cheered
- when the bugle announced the cavalry,
- the men on horses, to whom all boys look up.

enemies surround you, Jesus winks, and you choose,
forgive my debts as I forgive my debtors,
love my enemy as my self

oops. Imagine the madness in self hate,
eek out a living untangling the knots that bind your
estimation of the cost to form you,
from the dust, believe the scientist, you are star
dust, powers less but to spark a thought

and fit it to a what if… just now

imagine you hold such truth as self evidence,
you accepted the way life is true,
and lived after then to now.
In you, living reading you.
Silent spring or no, who can say
time tells on mortals who promise proof.

Happy Spring, says the sign in the post office,
and I think, yes,
that is the whole idea, life goes on lying about hell.

After ignoring the referee's call to reboot, perplexity
sweeping for all the lies you know you told,
- once those cease to reflect back on me
then the ones you learned as true, are easier to see,
the lies you learned as true, are dull at night…

playing hide and seek with nameless cousins
who used a sigking's x.

Think the child's thought. Am I lying, we all die.
No king's x in war, kid.

Magic steals attention, and returns it as surpassing
in children's laughter,
- it was all a video game, Slime Rancher
my house. 2022… background noise
laughing chilren
the actio-teleo go rhythm in wonder we lose
wanna bet, nobody has a hell for *** smokers,
not really

--- casino virgins, too holy,
but for the buffet,
some may take the free play, say
take the devil's money and pay back

-- what our fathers took, but
we never stole, we took as given, for being born
as 'merican takers, useless eaters,
lest we plow,
and plant
as given, granted
by the same authorities who
used our sons as Maxim fodder, over there,
over there, we all sing,
the yanks are coming, rah rah buy bonds,

bitter, hell no, sweet, remembering
those red buddy poppies,
a man with no legs
gave one to me,
once around 1951, when I was as tall as he,
he was sitting, like his legs was out in front,
but there was a basket with those poppies,
no legs, so no feet, no shoes.
I think it was an old Easter basket,
filled with red paper poppies with green paper
wrapped around a wire stem,

he was old as my uncle Malcom, who also
went to France, and also remembers
those red paper poppies, I suppose.
The idea beneath the hopes some claim. I suppose.
J Nc Sep 2020
Wiry cowpokes rub
Crusty dusty eyes, but not
'Fore they rub their horse
So,
I yelled to Billy,
hey Kid,
go get me my Colt
he came back with my horse
and of course
them cowpokes and even those
slow folks
laughed.

they ran me out of town
slowly
because it was the old me
in the Old West.

To get off the dole
I got a job
selling vacuum cleaners
down
in the dustbowl
wow
did I clean up.

but I fuked it up
bought a Peacemaker
and shot Billy up

they's fixing to hang me
at Noon.

— The End —