 Poetry: February 01, 2006 Issue [#858] |
  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Becky Simpson  
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1. About this Newsletter
2. A Word from our Sponsor
3. Letter from the Editor
4. Editor's Picks
5. A Word from Writing.Com
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A lone figure on horse back rides across a ridge seemingly in no hurry as he follows a passel of cows grazing on the tall grasses. Towards evening he stops for the night and sets camp. Soon he has a fire glowing and, if he is lucky, may have something cooking over the fire: his horse nearby and his bed for the night spread out on the ground. Ever wish for a life like that? That is the life of a cowboy, sometimes lonely, always filled with challenges, and occasionally dangerous. Most of us would not know how to build a fire, at least I wouldn’t. Even so many romanticize the life of a cowboy.
Come along “pardner” as we take a ride on the range of what has become known as Cowboy Poetry. Ya’ll take a load off, take a seat, and let’s have a gander. We’ll take a look at how it began and where it is today. Then we will see if we have any cowboy poets who bless us with their works here on Writing.Com. Along with that, I will provide you with this week’s list of favorite poets. In closing I will answer the feedback from the last edition, listing the winner of the gift points.Becky Simpson
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Every body knows the old ballad Home on The Range; I just have one question, “Do buffalo bite?” If you know drop me a line, until then I believe I will keep my distance. You have probably had enough of my nonsense, so let’s move along little doggies.
What about the beginnings of cowboy poetry? How did it get started? The following quotes are taken from Waddie Mitchell, a well known cowboy poet. “We didn’t have electricity and that meant we didn’t have TV. We had darn poor radio, too. So that meant that we did the strangest things at night…we talked to each other.” Just how much can you just sit and talk? Well, I think we all know cowboys get up early so it follows they go to bed early, but what does that have to do with cowboy poetry? Mr Mitchell continued, “When you live in close proximity with the same folks month after month, one of your duties is to entertain each other, and I suppose that’s where the whole tradition of cowboy poetry started.” That’s a good guess, and since cowboy poetry got its start over a hundred years ago, I am pretty sure that radio wasn’t around at the beginning. So, I pose a question more sociological then poetical. Have we changed much? Look at us on Writing.Com, don’t we do the same? Enough babble, how about a real cowboy poet and a piece of his poetry:
Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam,
Where the deer and the antelope play;
Where never is heard a discouraging word
And the sky is not clouded all day.
Oh, give me the gale of the Solomon vale
Where life streams with buoyancy flow,
On the banks of the Beaver, where seldom if ever
Any poisonous herbage doth grow.
Oh, give me the land where the bright diamond sand
Throws light from the glittering stream;
Where glideth along the graceful white swan,
Like a maid in her heavenly dreams.
I love these wild flowers in this bright land of our;
I love, too, the curlew's wild scream.
The bluffs of white rocks and antelope flocks
That graze on the hillsides so green.
How often at night, when the heavens are bright
By the light of the glittering stars,
Have I stood there amazed and asked as I gazed
If their beauty exceeds this of ours.
The air is so pure, the breezes so light,
The zephyrs so balmy at night,
I would not exchange my home here to range
Forever in azure so bright.
The original poem by Brewster Higley (With thanks to Mary (Harlan-Barr) Norris)
Whoa, pardner, weren’t we just talking about this Well it turns out that in 1873, Brewster Higley and others improved upon a poem Higley had written; a Western anthem and the makings of “Home on the Range” were born. Higley’s partners talked him out of lines such as “Where life streams with buoyancy flow” and convinced him that “the skies are not clouded all day” needed just a bit of work. Today “Home on the Range" is the state song of Kansas, a tune recognized the world over. This is of course old poetry and surely has evolved.
It has, and these days a huge battle rages. Now you may ask, “Who could find anything wrong with this?” Apparently lots of people; some of the complaints that are made are quite vocal and public. Some accuse cowboy poetry of being too simplistic in its rhymes. Still others say it is too rigid in its metrical requirements. As a poetess I must report that the simplest of my works has received the most praise. Now I am not trying to lay claim to being some great worker of magic with words, all I am trying to say is beauty is simple. I do not know how many of my readers have had higher math such as hyperbolic equations, but the beauty of math is not the formula; it is the finished product. So it is with poetry.
It is time for me to stop ranting and simply show you beauty.
How a Cow Puncher Rode
I have often been asked by the people I knowed,
To tell ‘em the way that a cow puncher rode.
Now them cow hands they didn’t all ride jest the same.
They rode a’most every old style you could name.
Of course, most of the hands that was workin’ around,
Would ride with long stirrups, and straight up and down.
Some rode with ‘em medium, some rode with ‘em short.
In fact there was stirrups, and len’ths of all sorts.
I know of one feller that quarreled with his brother,
Because he rode with one stirrup longer than t’other.
Some stuck their laigs foreward and held their heels low.
Some held their laigs back and turned down their toe.
Some held their feet still, but some figity cuss
Would keep kickin’ his feet and makin’ a fuss.
There was some that set straight,
but there’s others that humped
Till they set on their hoss as a sort of a lump.
There was some of them riders kep’ close to their seat.
While others was half of the time on their feet.
Some bogged on the cantel and rode away back,
While others would jig like they rode on a tack.
There was some kep’ their elbows down close to their side.
And others ag’in that would let ‘em spread wide.
While some of ‘em flopped up their elbows so high,
You would think mebbyso they was tryin’ to fly.
There was them that would ride with their hand on the horn.
Some looked plum contented and some looked forlorn.
There was them, fer some reason I couldn’t explain,
Whirled a piece of their rope or the end of a rein.
There was some of them fellers set off to one side.
In fact I can’t tell how a cow boy did ride.
When I figger it out, there is only one guess.
They rode like they thought they could do it the best.
Bruce Kiskaddon
Now I dared ya to stand toe-ta-toe and make fun of this feller’s English. I don’t particularly care how hard headed you are, Kiskaddon’s poem had to set a picture in your mind that both made you smile and think, really think about how a cowboy rides his horse. There is something else I would like for you to think about though. While these works are very structured, it is not necessary for them to be rigidly structured to be poetry. You as poets should try different styles and decide what you like best. Now, my preferred is a structured poem that has rhythm and rhyme. It can also be an interesting challenge to discover the many different forms and try to write something in each style. Remember those hyperbolic equations? It was when you graphed the result that the beauty became apparent.
Mickey’s little hand says we have time to find one more cowboy poet’s work and show you a little bit more. Now we all know that a cowboy’s faithful companion was always his hoss, or horse if you would rather be proper. Our next poet treats us to an ode about his pony.
Where the Ponies Come to Drink
Up in Northern Arizona
there's a Ranger-trail that passes
Through a mesa, like a faëry lake
with pines upon its brink,
And across the trail a stream runs
all but hidden in the grasses,
Till it finds an emerald hollow
where the ponies come to drink.
Out they fling across the mesa,
wind-blown manes and forelocks dancing,
Blacks and sorrels, bays and pintos,
wild as eagles, eyes agleam;
From their hoofs the silver flashes,
burning beads and arrows glancing
Through the bunch-grass and the gramma
as they cross the little stream.
Down they swing as if pretending,
in their orderly disorder,
That they stopped to hold a pow-wow,
just to rally for the charge
That will take them, close to sunset,
twenty miles across the border;
Then the leader sniffs and drinks
with fore feet planted on the marge.
One by one each head is lowered,
till some yearling nips another,
And the playful interruption
starts an eddy in the band:
Snorting, squealing, plunging, wheeling,
round they circle in a smother
Of the muddy spray, nor pause
until they find the firmer land.
My old cow-horse he runs with 'em:
turned him loose for good last season;
Eighteen years; hard work, his record,
and he's earned his little rest;
And he's taking it by playing,
acting proud, and with good reason;
Though he's starched a little forward,
he can fan it with the best.
Once I called him--almost caught him,
when he heard my spur-chains jingle;
Then he eyed me some reproachful,
as if making up his mind:
Seemed to say, "Well, if I have to--
but you know I'm living single..."
So I laughed.
In just a minute he was pretty hard to find.
Some folks wouldn't understand it,--
writing lines about a pony,--
For a cow-horse is a cow-horse,--
nothing else, most people think,--
But for eighteen years your partner,
wise and faithful, such a crony
Seems worth watching for, a spell,
down where the ponies come to drink.
by Henry Herbert Knibbs 1914
Um, if I was you I wouldn’t say anything bad about the man’s pony. Notice that this horse has been turned out or retired. The cowboy spent a large part of his life on the range, and his horse was his partner, his friend, and company. If I had time I would tell you the story about the lonely cowboy and the Indian. Unfortunately or fortunately for you, I do not. It is time for us to take a look at examples of more modern cowboy poetry written by our very own poets right here on Writing.Com. Our first selection called"Invalid Item" has been shared with us by larryp. Take a look as I look for the next offering.
He lived alone, all but forgotten and unheard.
Some days he seldom spoke a single word.
The quiet and loneliness almost wore him out,
he had so many things to talk about.
Since the dreary winter day his wife passed away,
so few cared to hear what he had to say.
Early of a morning, he could still hear her sing,
like she was out there on the front porch swing.
Once or twice, he ventured outside to have a look,
hoping to find her reading the Good Book.
He wondered how many times he saw her out there,
with the wind blowing through her silver hair.
With families of their own, his children moved on,
sounds once pervading the home were long gone.
The old dog kept him company, close at his heels,
under the table begging during meals.
Too worn out and slow to go chasing jackrabbit,
sleeping on the couch was his new habit.
The porch swing creaked, swaying gently upon a breeze,
as he sat on the steps rubbing sore knees.
He decided to walk downtown to the drugstore –
the most exercise he got anymore –
where old timers met to discuss current events,
the one place coffee was still thirty cents.
They talked about the weather, the days of the past,
and how everything today moved so fast.
Each man at the table had lived long and worked hard,
each hoped he hadn’t played his last hold card.
For this morning, they held each other in esteem,
a few of them knew they lived their life dream.
After hearing their stories of wisdom and wit,
he walked back home, each step full of spirit.
Up until supper, he worked in the flowerbed,
digging up all the rosebushes that were dead.
He spent the evening resting on the front porch swing,
alone, listening to the robins sing.
LarryP
Don’t know about you, but to me, this is faintly sad and still rings of the ultimate loneliness that a cowboy often faced in his life on the range. In case you didn’t notice it, pardner, one of the things I noticed immediately was the change in the language itself. Even though Larry caught the essence of being a cowboy, he could have added still more flavor with the use of more archaic language. That is merely an observation, because I am learning right along with the rest of my readers. Let me say also that this is a marvelous example of modern cowboy poetry. My next example of one of our own is a cowboy gentleman man named Robert, he hales from Texas (surprise) and until he hurt his back in a rodeo was as cowboy as it gets. Tilt your hat back and have a peek at his poem "Invalid Item" .
Johnny’s Song
From the womb of the Sun, the morning arises,
The innocence, the sweetness of the dew,
With no scar; with no reprise,
As a babe, the morning is anew.
He douses the fire, of a day spent
All before him, his herd and his life
What of the day, there is no hint?
He prays there is no strife.
A picture, a memory of her crosses,
The aroma of honeysuckle oh so faint
Time to work; make sure there is no loss,
His friend, his mare, just the old Paint.
Like the Phoenix, the dust arises,
As does his memories of a love,
A weight on his heart is where it lies.
In the distances, the song of a dove.
The day will teach, the lesson learned.
The hunt of a maverick, the hunt of a stray,
The beating by the sun at every turn;
His head on her chest, waning to stay.
The golden sway of the wheat,
The golden halo of her hair,
His yearning is stronger than the heat,
Wishing to have her back, to have no care.
The twilight grows dim as it may,
“Sunrise” memories sooths his soul.
Never faint, never leads astray.
Day has ended, dinner cooks on the coals.
He laid his head on his saddle and looked to the stars
The days ride on his pants and sweat on his brow
Thinking of the day; a ride yet not far,
Yet now at the days end, his head did bow.
To give thanks, to Him this day belongs.
Many lessons taught, many learned
Too her side, time away to long,
Morning comes to take her turn.
R G Hayes
In case it is of any interest, this is the man who first got me to try Writing.Com. He probably regrets that now, though I hope not. He has written research papers on subjects including the life and times of cowboys and their women. He is a teacher and history buff and not a bad poet at all. He also has the cutest son, a young man named Aaron whom he calls affectionately Bug. On to a new subject, just in case you got to thinking we are a prejudice, lot I will also mention cowgirls. They also wrote poetry, and while there may have been fewer of them, they were no less prolific in their writings.
Our next poet April Showers I hope is one of those cowgirls, because her poem "God Bless the Cowboy" is full of love for the cowboy. I noticed the deep love the cowboy has for his country in this one. This one is also a rodeo cowboy; is there a difference between a rodeo cowboy and a regular cowboy? Aren’t they both bowlegged? Just teasing.
God Bless the Cowboy
Fresh dirt on his knees as he kneels for the Anthem
Saddle in his hands, spurs on his boots
His horse slamming against the chutes
God bless the cowboy, he needs it
The saddle is cold and the horse is mad
He tips his hat to thank God for what is to be had
"Just give me 8 and I'll make it right"
He lives for this crowd on this Saturday night
Countless times he's almost died
Simply for the rush of that 8 second ride.
Lord, give me the courage as this broncs called outside
God bless the cowboy, God knows he's tried
He holds tight with a leather fist
As his horse comes out and it begins to buck good and twist
8 seconds has once again been overcome
He jumps from the beast
A 91 is scored as he begins to chuckle
He now knows he's won that silver buckle
The lonely cowboy has been given back his self esteem
He loves the rodeo and he's living his dream
The cowboy does exactly what he loves
Most people can't say they've lived that much,
So when you see the cowboy, you know he's tried
God bless the cowboy, he's kept his pride.
In memory of Gabriel Martinez
God bless the cowboy – amen. Eight seconds are all the rodeo cowboy lives for. Well one last look at cowboy poetry and we will put this subject to rest. Our last selection is shared with us by writetight. Relax, set a spell, take your boots off and snuggle up to the campfire as we read "Invalid Item" . I really liked this one, I think you will too.
TRAIL DRIVE
From the Running J, down Waco way,
We took the longhorns north and east,
From dawn to dusk, day after day,
We drove those ornery, obstinate beasts,
Along the Goodnight-Loving trail,
To the railhead at Kansas City,
Through dog-drowning rain and rock-hard hail,
Nature showed us no merciful pity.
With bandanna in place, over my face,
To filter out the trail's choking dust,
Ambling along at a nodding pace,
I woke up fast when Shorty cussed.
In time to see him throwed and kicked,
Laid out on his back, still and gray.
That old horse put out Shorty's wick.
Too great a price for a dollar a day.
We're used to being stuck by cactus,
And burned red by the scorching sun.
But I don't think there's a one of us
Who expected to die on this run.
Watching blood red skies at sundown,
Drinking coffee by a low mesquite fire,
An outrider says he heard strange sounds.
We pray there ain't Injuns out there.
A drover crooned to the skittish herd,
As lightning cut a "Z" in the dark.
Mossy-horns bolt at a too-loud word,
Thunder, snake, or coyote's bark.
We'll be making town in one more day.
Then the work ends, and we're free.
As soon as the boss man counts out our pay,
We'll go on a gambling, drinking, spree.
Then homeward, our pockets empty,
We'll share an old cowboy joke --
Don't matter which way we're headed --
A cowboy is always broke!
End
*Third Place Winner, Cowboy Poetry Division, of the Johnson County (Texas) Creative Writers Annual Writing Contest, June 1997.
**Published in Crossbow Publications magazine Western Digest, late 1997 or early 1998.
Congratulations on the third place win writetight. For my money, it’s a first class poem. I commend you on the use of language and imagery to bring across the cowboy life. Cowboy poetry may have gotten its beginnings from the humble entertainment created by cowboys sitting around a campfire, but it has securely dug its way into the hearts of many of us. So, pardners, ifn yore laigs is tared, mebby you oughta try sittin fer a while. Do yore readin right here on Writing.Com and then write these poets and let them know how much you enjoyed their works.
Truth be known, I have a small piece of cowgirl poetry in my own port though I dare to say it is pitiful compared to the offerings you have before you now.
That finishes another newsletter. I hope you have discovered something you can use in your own poetry and perhaps opened your mind to yet another facet of poetry. Until the next issue keep writing, and if you need a lift check out the rest of the cowboy poetry below. See you next month when I hope to have a special treat for you.
Tip of the Day: Poetry comes from your heart, experiences, dreams, and even fantasies. Use them all to help you decide what you want to share and then write it. After that take a hint from the poet who wrote the state song of Kansas...edit, edit, edit.
Next Issue: Children's Poetry
I am always at your service.
Becky L Simpson
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The following members of Writing.Com are some of my favorite poets on Writing.Com. They exhibit and understanding and skill that, simply put, amaze me. I hope those I have forgotten will forgive me, but as time goes on and my memory prods, me this list will change.
Vivian 
reblackwell
COUNTRYMOM-JUST REMEMBER ME 
Ann Ticipation 
Tornado Day
b_boonstra
daycare
SUGGESTED READINGS:
I call these poets and poems works of the week. Some will be by cases of all colors, as skill is not determined by your case color. Just five or six poems I think you might enjoy.
| |  | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#921669 by Not Available. |
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1044108 by Not Available. |
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1002955 by Not Available. |
CONTESTS:
This issues challenge is all or nothing, I will give the prize to the best cowboy poem I receive prior to the next issue. I will be the only judge and as such I would ask you to submit your work to me by email in bitem format. The prize for this challenge is 20,000 points, and I shall highlight your work in a coming newsletter. Good luck!
Note: The winner from last month's challenge is: | | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1017401 by Not Available. |
.
Congrats to all who entered. I will be posting reviews for each submission. It was a tough decision so I am going to mention one other as an honorable mention .
I will be sending 20,000 points to our winner and send 10,000 to the honorable mention.
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Have an opinion on what you've read here today? Then send the Editor feedback! Find an item that you think would be perfect for showcasing here? Submit it for consideration in the newsletter!
https://www.Writing.Com/go/nl_form
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Questions and comments from last week, my thanks to those who wrote in:
Submitted By: Puditat Puditat
Submitted Comment:
Becky, an entertaining newsletter. I enjoyed your featured reads, and was pleasantly surprised to see my own poem in the Editor's Picks. Thank you!
Hi Puditat, I am glad you were entertained. I try to entertain as I teach and learn. I suppose I could do a better job of notifying the picks authors of their status but I have found the surprise never hurts their feelings. I also think the readers of this newsletter would agree when I say that those who are in the picks column as just as good as the items used within the newsletter itself. Hope you continue to read and comment. – hugs Becky
Submitted By:
Submitted Comment:
Nothing like a new poem to read for the new year!
I am so lucky to be surrounded by all of those here that have so much talent and are so gifted.
John
Hi Emilbus, I agree wholeheartedly so um, I look forward to your entry in the contest and most definitely wish you good luck. – Hugs Becky
Submitted By: Mothermouse--come visit me
Submitted Comment:
This is a great newsletter, Becky. I found it very interesting. Keep up the good work.
Hi Mothermouse--come visit me ,
Wanna know a secret? The only thing that makes a newsletter any good is the readers. When they give feed back I can figure out what works for them. So, thank you for yours. Hugs - Becky
Submitted By: daycare
Submitted Comment:
Wow! That's it. Wow! Wendie
 Hugs – Becky
Submitted By: popeye
Submitted Comment:
I just joined writing.com and I have to say this is a great websites. I have seen the rest, this is definitely the best. The newsletter is absolutely fantastic, the poems are great and the poets are talented. This is a well thought of newsletter that portrays certain qualities that makes it unique in a good way. I can't wait for the next issue to come out. I'd also like to say well done to Becky Simpson that made all this possible. Keep up the good work.
Hi popeye,
I truly hate to disappoint you but I had nothing to do with the creation of this site although I agree wholeheartedly, that it is the best. As for the newsletters, I am sure I, and the other editor’s thank you very much for your dedicated reading of them and the beautiful compliments. I cannot take credit alone for the interest and devotion to poetry on this site, all of the editor’s work very hard to bring useful information to you our gracious readers. – Hugs Becky
To the rest of you kind readers who made comments about October’s newsletter; thank you. If it were not for your kind words I would be inclined to find another way to spend the time I spend here.
If you have a question, comment or just an observation concerning this edition of the Poetry Newsletter please feel free to send it to me. I would also like our poetry newsletter readers to send me their favorite poem. Please include the poet’s name. I prefer poets from Writing.Com.
Next weeks editor:Stormy Lady 
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