"wrangler" poems
Clouds don't lie. They tell the truth
wherever they may go.
Their shadows give relief
to creatures down below.
They change their forms and colors
the chameleons of the air.
Majestically, they soar above
to play with angels there.
They weep to nourish growing crops
and bring the snow and hail.
A crown of lightning lights their heads
before the coming gale.
Clouds can ride the jet stream
like a wrangler on his steed,
Then float serenely on the breeze
and other cloudlings breed.
They soak up sunset, changing hue,
vermilion, saffron, gold...
Then soar to higher atmospheres
to frolic in the cold.
Free to roam the open sky,
they mock the earth-bound horde
And blithely glide upon the wind,
no passengers aboard.
Oh, how I'd like to take a ride
upon a breaking dawn.
But clouds don't lie, and so deny,
a chance of getting on.
Unpretentious are the clouds.
They care not for our awe.
They graze upon their crystals
and are quite above the law.
The mysteries the clouds have kept
since Mother Earth began...
Are kept behind the truth they tell,
as part of heaven's plan.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 12:18 PM UTC
so don't change then
you seem to be perfectly comfortable
in your insanity.
wrestling, withdrawing,
anhedonia coming alive in your party
master wrangler of sorrow,
been there, done that.
and like watching
the christians and the lions,
i am rooting for you
but know you will shed blood.
and when you are devoured enough
you come to life,
crazy sonafabitch.
stay where you are then,
forget em happy pills.
i will go certifiable with you
as long as you do not forget
the lunacy of our love.
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 6:55 PM UTC
coupon for Granny's Original 32% All Natural Oatmeal®
cart-to-cart down aisle 48 and this man's an affront to khakis
and this woman's brain runs off a child's complaints
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy 80 pounds of rock salt
from The Home Depot®, more saving. more doing.™
more rock salt. more doing
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy two-weeks-worth of tuna,
a pallet of Pepsi Max®, and four loaves of Baker Good's NeverMold Bread®
all for $21.99 with your Sam's Club® Rewards Card
BLIZZARD 2013
cart-to-cart down aisle 62 where once there was soda, now an I.O.U.
and I read on the internet that the preservatives in diet cola will keep
my body from decomposing and I read on the internet that these
dented, discount tuna cans will give me botulism
BLIZZARD 2013
one jug of water from a spring in Mountain View, Arkansas
one jug of water from a spring in New Iberia, Louisiana
picking between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana
the pitter-patter on the warehouse roof reassures
time for eenie meenie miney mo
BLIZZARD 2013
and the intercom desperate for a cart wrangler
customer service now open for checkout
don't leave your toddlers alone in shopping carts
they're choking on free samples
with an echo, raindrops strike parking lot pools
just past the intersection an ambulance grumbles
BLIZZARD 2013
in a room with a view wishing the windowpane weatherized
beers bought by volume, candles forgotten, six months of
licorice, EverFluff® popcorn, and hand warmers of chemical kind
remembered
BLIZZARD 2013
will not be landing in the city, watch out for that rain though
if the temperatures drop below 32 degrees it could ice over
and if the temperatures don't, well, it won't
News 7's coverage of Blizzard 2013 brought to you by
The Home Depot®, more saving. More doing.™
and Sam's Club®, savings made simple.™
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
the tick in the clock
the chatter of an ignition
dishes clanking
Mr. Everywhere
nowhere to be seen
the lungs don't show the lifetime spent escaping
times are cold
but it's too hot in the kitchen
make me a transient drifter
with a handkerchief on a stick
eating an apple
in a boxcar making it's way through cold night
make me disappear a wrangler
an outlaw
delete my typos
and move me to the recycling bin
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
Dice the dead mans diligence like a Dillinger or Challenger,
He gained a Dodge Wrangler like a sad handler of emotions;
Perhaps all of this is more potent than potions or consumer hand lotions plus alcoholic haphazard;
Yet I consider the price of anything to be lice on everything,
Like a fat woman’s sullen song,
The sounds still ring in the lingering enclave of my eardrums,
Which breath waves like air into my lungs.
It’s sundown,
And therefore, I’ll see you soon;
Yes, I’ll see you soon, moon.
So very soon.
May 24, 2011
May 24, 2011 at 8:04 PM UTC
I'm covered from head to toe in resin, acrylics and epoxy,
Some pulverized rocks my son gathered from the Chattooga River,
Now reduced to a burnt ember dust.
I added silicone sludge and a little baking powder as well,
And once mixed, this dicey concoction is beautifully toxic,
So I waft the air and inhale it.
Painting a colorful sunset is too easy, I prefer black and white,
So with a wooden board the size of a door,
I get to work with my rubber sledgehammer, blowtorch
A gallon of poison and flammable spray.
The passers by have seen this look in eyes,
From The Shining or possibly their preachers,
You know, the same look that's a sight to behold.
Slamming the hammer down with brute force
And purposed abandonment,
I paint my sunset and wrangle the stars later.
A shower won't do me justice>
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:15 AM UTC
An old cowboy who was ruggedly cute
Was bedding down his best friend’s wife
Having the time of his life
Drowned in rot gut *****
Mistakenly thought his wrangler buddy didn’t give a hoot
Until the sudden moment his ex-best friend began to shoot
But he was in luck with uncommon fate
When St. Peter let him in the gate
Knowing he was just a crazy old cowboy coot
Drinking heavenly whisky straight out of his boot
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 6:30 AM UTC
It waits
for the exact moment
to lunge at its prey
hidden in the ferns and fauna
fangs like butcher knives
lodged deep in its throat
a gurgling sound is heard
through the dark shot of brush
whistling the trembling leaves.
And there’s not one or two,
but three of them, crouched low
so near to me that I can hear
their heavy reptilian nostrils
breathing in and out
they are my nightmares
ready to devour
but I am not scared
because they are only vicious creatures
in a dream
and I am a dinosaur wrangler
and I know what I’m doing.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
Look up from grey, your stony walls,
Break with the sun, seasides beyond,
Even dreams can come true my heart,
Take one step into the song of the lark.
If I should stay, Cuillin Hills will weep,
End up bleating with black faced sheep,
Stoic on cairns, froze giant of Callanish,
Or gutted in harbour like some cuttlefish.
My mind is mournful, keens with winds,
O what choral fantasias we both'll sing,
Hymns north, west, south, easter terrain,
Thoughts' forsake, points the wind vane.
A fine stout dinghy awaits pure ravel,
My sorrows a mend upon that voyage,
Into the west, moon hid from maid sun,
Aye, ginger haired wrangler tae horizons.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:45 AM UTC
Being divorced is not very much fun
Two kids, no dad, life on the run
A king-size bed with two pillows
But she’s sleeping alone
On a whim she headed East to the West
The Cowboy convention in Tucson
With her new boots and hat
And old friend Laura Lee, wearing a vest
This Hollywood screenwriter has seen them all
Jive city slickers with cell phones and new cars
It had been so long since she’d really been kissed
Her love life needed a punch, it could not make a fist
Samuel Dawson was born on and still lived on the ranch
He rode fence, chased cattle, is one studley man
With a soft streak as demonstrated by his craft
He works wonders with leather, why it was art
He too was lonely, this singular man
He’d cleaned himself up since his wife went and made other plans
For he had deserved it, so he sat hoping to sell
Wishing he’d find that artesian well
Stop the action, let me set the stage
There he sits at his craftsman’s booth
Underneath the canopy in the hot afternoon sun
Here comes Rebecca meandering along
She lingers and fingers his feathered and leathered strands
He smiles and she notes his mustache and tan
They talk, she will not turn away
Laura Lee shouts, “Let’s get on the way.”
This is where the story begins
One cowboy love that has no end
She’s still a writer on fine TV shows
Sam is the wrangler, whom everyone knows
Loves a lady who fancies parasols
On hot Summer days, who now rides a horse
Who no longer leads a half-finished life
Where western handicraft is everywhere in sight
And their love is on course
Some don’t understand, some don’t want to know
But bridges are built wherever you go
Even on land with no river in sight
When a cowboy finds love he succumbs without fight
The ranch is now located in Southern Cal
The fence he mends is picket, see for yourself
For I know them, and please call me Sam
She’ll be home in a few, I’m her lover man.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
I laugh as the Jeep
dives nose first into the huge pothole
of mud.
It splatters across my windshield,
turning my white Wrangler
brown.
He chuckles from the passenger
seat.
This was once your idea.
You tried to talk me into going.
Even when I already wanted to,
you wanted it more-
with me.
When I brought it up,
you said you had plans.
I told you to tell me when
and stopped asking.
You held off and
he came into the picture.
I now have the relationship
I once believed
would be
you and me.
You had stopped contacting me
and I wasn't going to be the one all over
you.
But now that I'm with him,
you want back in.
You had
her.
I never understood why you liked her.
She just used you.
The Jeep takes another dive,
headlights first.
My phone vibrates in the cupholder.
It's you.
Citing lyrics from a song that
I once made you listen to.
Do he take care of you? Or could I easily fill his shoes?
You hated that song,
now why are you sending me lyrics?
Because I don't know whether I want
you in my life again or not.
My back tires spin in the hole and I can't get out.
He crawls out and start to dig us out
as the tires spin and splatter him
with mud.
Caking his entire body.
That could be you,
but he's the one I'm mudding
with.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
He’s standing in front of me
Wearing a ten-gallon hat
And I think, take it off
You’re in the city, you look like a prat
But it’s only when you get a talking
That you really begin to understand
He may be an old cowpoke
But he’s really worked the land
Sweating in the midday sun
With a little cowgirl on the side
A smile flashes across his face
A knowing that he can’t hide
Yes I’ve drank in smoky barrooms
I’ve taken a few hotties on the lash
I’ve seen clear mountain mornings
I’ve even railed with Johnny Cash
So don’t judge me by the tatty hat
Or by my faded wrangler jeans
Because looks can be deceptive
When everything’s not as it seems
I’ve seen the world, I’ve been to town
I’ve know the love on a woman’s breath
I don’t mean to bone, but leave me alone
Now while I collect my redundancy cheque.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 6:03 AM UTC
My ex-boyfriend
drives a black Jeep Wrangler
kisses girls in the back seat
who aren't me
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Egalitarians of a smaller world
with forks for fingers
chew loudly on the gravy train
of poor boys paper thin paychecks
spit me out cause I got no cash
better to be on the street with
a shoeless shuffle
than trying to capture a seat
at the silver spoon table....
Pasty-faced bankers counting out loud
the graves of American dreams they spoiled
the song of their voices in unison
is a terrible dirge and a
strange romancer that keeps
one and all clinging to that sweetest of dreams
hope....
Dudley Do Right is a little man
in his little office
acting like the bureaucrat he was born to be
just pennies on the pound for his cold soul
a deadeye wrangler six shooter bang bang
his heart a cardboard cutout of his childhood idol
deadeye wrangler six shooter bang bang
all these flavorless fools
pay to play on the great machine
where the crowds call for ever more
salacious parody of what should be
where the almighty buck stops here
twice a day
all day Sunday
preacher man
baker, solider, liar, thief
deadeye wrangler six shooter bang bang
deadeye wrangler six shooter bang bang
© 2018 mark john junor all of my poems are my
exclusive property and all rights are reserved
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
I have written poems that hymn their love of mute birds
And poured the stars into their palms
I have burned their feathers into words
That shone like ember in your jars
I thought these birds were your guardians
And you'd succumb to my merciful massacre
I haven't realized it was obvious
That you were nothing but a traveller
I have written poems that hymn their love of hummingbirds
And sprinkled salt on their scars
I have turned their chords into pearls
Crimson-blooded and tars
I thought these birds were your audience
That would succumb to a wrangler
Now it is clearly obvious
That the letters of your name
And the venom of your face
Are but a constriction that is vascular
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
Festival days all a twitter
Mud caked boots alongside fairy wings
Stick haphazardly every which way
From my jeep wrangler
She needs a bath but glitter is just something else
When you leave a trail in travel
This is what I live for
Tangled in tulle, hemp and wire for months
Until the weather breaks
Breath held. Exhaaaaaaale.
Naked coffee early morning possibilities
Fire poi, wicks and hoops go next
Papadosio Magreenery proton love song
Pulsing right through the visceral point
Of each cell
Saturating my senses. Over load.
Bright, gemstone radiant color melts
Gliding across my vision as the heat
The heat takes hold
Packing in itself is a journey
The trip...
and I'm not even there yet.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
EVIL rides in SUVs with the windows all blacked out.
HONOR drives a plug in car that leaves no resdue behind.
APATHY rides in secondhand Nissans with the clear coat
flaking off.
CELEBRATION rides in limos with open tops for standing up in.
TRAGEDY rides in a long black hearse with all the horses
under the hood.
BRAVERY drives a bright red Moped that cuts in and out of
traffic.
POVERTY must ride the bus in a much too long commute.
ARROGANCE drives an escalade that’s the fourth left turn on a
yellow.
BOREDOM drives a station wagon missing the left rear
hubcap.
PANIC races in the family car where panting and blowing
isn't helping.
HAPPINESS drives almost anything with a baby in the back
seat.
MACHO drives a Ford F350 with wheels even bigger than
his ego.
MELTING *** preens in a souped-up Chevy that dances like a
hip-hop star.
PRETEEN rides a bicycle and dreams of a Mustang.
YOUTH hauls *** in a Jeep Wrangler with the rag top
down.
MIDLIFE CRISIS rides a Harley in a group of seven on weekends.
OLD AGE drives slowly in an ’83 Chrysler Imperial that
won't fit in the parking spaces.
LOVE floats along on hopes and dreams and has no
need of wheels.
ljm
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
It rained here at work for a short while... made it a wee bit muggy...
But the smell of the rain mixed with the asphalt and dust stirs memories of walking my way home from Wyco Elementary. I can feel the water making its way through my cheap shoes and my Wrangler blue cords are soaked. The rain washes my stringy hair into my eyes and I can feel the slightest breeze on my face. In these moments there are no worries, I am not home, I am not at school, there are no peers I have my freedom and I am alive.
The slightest scent of sage and rag **** loft in the air and only the laughter that resonates in my mind is louder than the rain against the earth.
The lush green lawns of the area before my home soak up the wetness like vast green sponges and I wonder what a lawn might feel like.
As I near my home anxiety and nervousness rise inside me. My dad is home, he’s not working today, and maybe it’s been a while. I should not have been this wet.
The rain washes the dirt from our yard where grass should be, might have been or one day, I dream, might be. A brown river that matches my own despair runs into the storm drain. So many dreams I think, go the same way.
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 7:46 AM UTC
I move like a whisper among my neighbors.
The lasso grips tight--
I cannot seem to loosen its grip.
My **** makes sounds like a banjo
As it hits the bowlwater.
My mind ever drifts.
So restless my soul since
Once again I maintain the solitary man,
Coming back to what has always been known.
The lasso wants to mercilessly hang on
To memories. I have to move on!
This stallion must find good, green pasture!
I fight the bitterroot of jilt.
I fight the saltiness of heartbreak.
Love has such a powerful lasso…
Love is such a powerful wrangler.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
Go away away you mighty Norse wind
Blowing ice right off the ground
I lived on the land and I lived on the sea
but I never heard such a fearsome sound
Out of nowhere I saw a window
I felt bad but on that night I had to beg
To spend this night on the inside
Because I have gotten so cold I was just the dregs
Suddenly in the window
There was a face I had known from before
I tried to dust off and take another step
But she caught me when I got to the door
But I never expected to see her again
All I can say is really who everknows
You can never know what might happens
When that cold norse wind really blows
"She said I never thought I'd see you again
Not so threadbare and worn
You better come here where the fire is near
Then we can talk about where we were if I passed out when I just saw one tear
She said I slept 3 days crying out a womans name"
I almost cried because death came so close
I wanted to joim my loved ones
But I guess that roads not for me or for Rose
If you want I'll just go hit the road
We never expected to see one another way back then
She had decided 2 years before she didnt need any men
She pulled a down duvet over both of us
Then she gave her warmth to me
A truer, finer lady is very rare lady for me to see
I told her I'd been a Merchant Marine
That I green broke horses for some years
Sailed around the seas each of the seven
But I could never sail on one and get to Heaven
But she said she didnt want anymore to speak of the past
How I should have known I couldnt catch up to the future
We learned to be Nurses and Corpsmen
But you could say our dice came up seven
The die were swung and it was a hard 8 here we are watching all this snow
But its nice that we can be together now
Its a pleasure to see a warm face instead of all my grieving
I asked if I could stay 3 or 4 weeks
To lift and repair things done that a man,s meant to do
She said she rarely saw people and and if I did then my tab would be even
Here we were 60 and could still be shy
That was the gift she gave me
That was 2 years before I came here
Before I left I kissed her long and deep
Then said even a wranglers luck will change
She changed mine for the better
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
I might cry in front of you
You were leaning on your car seat of your
Standard blue jeep wrangler
I could carve you of rock
If I knew how to carve
Your eyes are deep like black holes ******* in light and time
I didn't want it to end
You make me feel like I was on fire
Burgundy on my face
Ash on my forehead
I had never met someone who has a sun for a soul
It envelopes everything in its path
Slowly taking over the much smaller star I call a soul
It wasn't catastrophic
Nor tragic
The way it was so easy to be overwhelmed by your smile
How I'd be cold when you were gone
But on fire when you were near
You should come with a warning
Like cutting onion
anything you do could move me to tears
This is a warning I could cry in front of you
A sun for a soul
A diamond for a smile
Beautiful
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 4:15 AM UTC
Yesterday
while walking my dog
At the park
I saw a tall drink of water
A Winsome man who put us at ease
He’s saying his music to the air in trees
A genuine cowboy
From head to toe,
A cowboy hat, boots,Wrangler jeans
a rodeo belt buckle
Gave me a chuckle he sat
in a chair under a yonder, shade tree,
I saw him before he saw me
I mention if he sat there long enough,
He just might see
Eagles, hawks and a vultures or two
His slow reply
“ all I’ve seen so far
is a dog I once knew”
Lean back in his chair,
relaxing there contemplating
the morning view 7:42 am
By the time we finish our walk,
he was gone his melody, his song
still linger from the tips of his fingers
Today, sitting on a picnic table
The cowboy young and able
guitar in hand singing his music, he took a stand
(sundown by Gordon Lightfoot 1974)
“Strumming my face with his fingers
Singing in my whole life with this song”
like he was part of a country band
The minute we got out of the car he stopped,
Pulled his guitar down
I smiled when I spoke half in a joke
I had hoped for a serenader or two
He looked up
Tipped his hat with a gleam in his eye
You were were you
as we walked by
Halfway down the trail,
I can hear him
strumming his guitar had much to say
Not singing just playing away
The soothing country, music,
gracefully in the air
birds, squirrels, deer
Far and near
animals big and small everywhere paused
Ears went up twitching animals in awe
for a moment
to take in the one man band
As more people arrived for their daily walkabout
Simply honest, not to deceive
The cowboy quietly got up to leave
A Solitary man
Inspired song
1)Solitary man (April 1966)
By Neil Diamond
2)Killing me softly 1973
By Roberta Flack
BLT Webster’s Word of the day challenge
Winsome 8-8-25
Windsome describes people and things that are cheerful, pleasant, and appealing
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 11:50 PM UTC
With wondering eyes and a thundering heart
The boy took his seat, infuriated with the steady
Pace of his mother, waiting on bated breath to start
His adventure. Nevertheless she drags, and ready
To burst the boy sits, and waits patiently.
“My father?” he teeters and yells with delight
“My father!
Tell me his story, leave no detail untouched,
With the glow of your voice might I see his face,
with bated breath might I know such
A man as he was, and be one twice over!”
With her flourish and grace a thread soon formed
And wound through air and ear, a tale spun with love
And seasoned with pride, a whisper to show the roar
Of his existence, the land of mere legend he lay far above.
“He was field-tiller,
Snail-wrangler,
Berry-biter,
He was the huntsman amongst the mushrooms,
The strong amongst the stout.
May the point in is cap never sag
And the bend of his knees never wobble.”
“Though sag his cap did, and with each step a quiver
Showed true, fire burned in each cheek and coursed
Through each vein, the burn of his love sent shivers
Through those lucky enough to have tapped such a source
Of vitality.”
“He was many things my son, that father of yours,
And many more will you be too, but remember
To humble your heart and keep your soul kindled,
For greatness awaits the boy who sleeps in a thimble.”
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
I text him at 5:50 in the morning to tell him a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope.
Because it is.
And because I'd looked that up, having had the feeling that I'm full of an army of butterflies all trying to free themselves.
I worry that if I'm not vigilant enough they'll get free and I'll just scatter, not be anymore.
Maybe we're all that way, made up entirely of unruly butterflies.
I wonder if everyone else is just a better butterfly wrangler than I am.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 5:04 PM UTC
He's there every morn at four thirty
doing his daily routine
pushing the carts in a circle
only he understands what that means
Watching him do his cart dance
they roll so fluid and clean
it's his true love and romance
no wonky wheels, to be seen
He'll do it again after closing
rounding up all of the strays
his chaps and hat fairly flying
doing it all his own way
His humor and candor refreshing
you get close you might hear him exclaim
"somebodies got to do it
someone may remember
my name"
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC