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A New Land
~~ J. Wesley Taylor, Sr. – ©1962 ~~
Because they wanted room to breathe
And deep within their breasts did seethe
A will to live as free men should,
To give their children all things good,
They set forth to find … A NEW LAND.
Setting sail o’er windswept sea
Unto a land where man is free;
Within their hearts a dream they keep
And brave each peril of the deep,
To set foot upon … A NEW LAND.
Yet the perils do not cease
Although each man would live in peace.
The price of freedom . . . blood and tears,
Then toil and sweat throughout the years.
This is the cost of … A NEW LAND.
Then west unto the mountains tall
To answer there the beck’ning call.
Upon each homestead cabins raise
Yet still unto the West they gaze,
Eyes straining t’ward … A NEW LAND.
Onward to the West they trod
O’er dusty earth and sun baked sod,
Through freezing night and scorching day
That they might ever find the way
Leading them unto … A NEW LAND.
Man’s search for freedom never ends
And thus it is he ever wends
His way unto an unknown place
O’er desert, sea, and into space
Ever searching for … A NEW LAND.
First published in Eight Viewpoints, Western Poetry Publications, 2009
The Old Timer
~~ Steve Dickson – ©2010 ~~
He’s coming through the passes
Across the great Divide
Through seas of golden grasses
On this, his final ride
He’s been with us for ages
A writer of the past
Been through most of the stages
Which our short lives are cast
He’s sailed across the oceans
Fought hard in all the wars
Not one to show emotions
He opened up the doors
A cowboy or a teacher
A tailor or a cook
A soldier or a preacher
Whatever else it took
To make our country greater
We all owe him our thanks
It must be soon, not later
God’s thinning out his ranks
I’m glad I got to know him
To see all of his sides
As evening light now grows dim
I stop, and on he rides
The Right Lead
~~ Debra Meyer – ©2012 ~~
He stood there in the dust and dirt,
Sweat drippin’ down his face.
“What is it you cain’t understand?”
He then began to pace.
The bristly hairs upon his head,
(The ones that still remained),
Swirled crazily about his ears,
His countenance was pained.
“The leads you take start at the hind,
Then end up with the fore.
You’ve got to set your horse up right.”
He paused, then, offered more.
“To get the left, you cue the right,
For right, it is reversed.”
I watched him stride across the sand.
His speech was well rehearsed.
I tried my best to catch each word,
Translate them to my steed.
Again, I asked him for a right
But, got that damned left lead.
I tried at least a dozen more,
With similar result.
The trainer’s eyes shot t’ward the sky
For heavenly consult.
“Well then,” he said, “we’ll try the fence.
This has to work, you’ll see.
Just run him at an angle with
Degrees of thirty-three.”
“The moment that you reach the fence,
The left leg gives a squeeze,
The right leg lifts the shoulder up.”
His orders flew with ease.
“Push your inside seatbone forward,
The reins up t’wards his poll,
Tip his head to the outside edge,
Sit deep and let it roll!”
Though the trainer thought this simple,
My brain was chuggin’ quick.
Keepin’ up with his directions
Was harder than a brick.
Was my inside seatbone forward?
The angle thirty-three?
I was runnin’ through the checklist,
As ready as I’d be.
“Do it now!” the trainer bellowed.
I took off like a shot.
Was the right lead in my future?
The left lead’s what I got.
“Wrong lead,” he sounded weary.
A tear formed in his eye.
We both hoped not to hear it, but
He whispered, “One more try.”
That ‘one more try’ turned into ten.
My trainer had some grit.
He was sick and tired of preachin’,
But never did he quit.
He took it from the top again,
The A to Z of leads,
Just yearnin’ for the harvest since,
He’d planted scores of seeds.
His wits was workin’ overtime.
To find out what was missin’.
The answer finally popped in place,
Some folks just don’t listen.
For me the lesson is quite clear:
When next that I should ride,
Instead of askin’ for a lead,
I’ll let the horse decide.
The Tenderfoot & Nasty
~~ Larry Bradfield – ©2012 ~~
“Well, lookey here !” Bob said with glee
“We’ve got a tenderfoot !
He’s got this brand new gear , you see
He don’t know where to put”
“He says he comes from way Back East
Teach him a thing or two
Let’s put him on that unbroke beast
And see what he can do”
The hoss they gave him don’t look mean
Though Nasty was his name
He did seem sometimes really keen
On makin’ riders lame
It seemed so like an awful match
New guy on this terror
This plot somehow just didn’t hatch
We all judged in error
The greenhorn climbed upon that hoss
A move as slick as rain
He spurred to show him who was boss
And let him have the rein
Now Nasty gave him all he had
He bucked and whirled and screamed
The rider smiled, said “This ain’t bad !
It’s nothin’ like I dreamed.”
That hoss gave up, plum’ tuckered out
The rider just stepped down.
Bob said “The East you lied about!
You’ve rode before this town !”
The new guy said, “Not in the least.
This here’s New Mexico.
The whole of Texas lies Back East
I do believe it’s so !”
They called him tenderfoot no more
He made a real smart hand
He came from Texas that’s for shore
And that ole boy’s got sand
Trails End
~~ Steve Dickson – ©2009 ~~
I’m riding to the setting sun
With none to call my friend
Save for my faithful, gentle horse
And we are near the end
We’ve covered many miles today
And left our dusty track
Upon this here old mother earth
How could we pay her back
For giving us so many days
And evenings by the fire
She shared with us her sacred ways
It’s time now to retire
The path now seems to fall away
From solid ground below
We lift our eyes up to the clouds
Much higher still we’ll go
Our time it seems has run it’s course
The sun is sinking low
Pass on the word that we are near
Let’s start this rodeo
This new teachin’ just ain’t my style
It’s way too deep for me
My boy’s been learnin’ for awhile
Some things I just can’t see
A lot of things I’d just get rid
Like how we’re all brothers
He wrote about Billy The Kid
“Don’t play well with others”
His take on Jesse James is new
Somehow don’t see the crime
He’s got a different point of view
“A victim of his time”
Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid
Seemed just like Robin Hood
No matter what they ever did
“Was for the greater good”
I found my boy out near the shed
Said “saddle up your roan.
Some things you’ve gotten in your head
Are better left alone.”
We rode up to the timberline
Said “son, now look real good
No other place is near so fine
Nor deep within your blood.
Lewis and Clark passed over there,
Kit Carson rode right through
Dozens of hunters looked for bear
And trappers hunted too
The miners built the first real towns
And stayed the winters through
The cowboys grew in leaps and bounds
And gave us lots to do.
Now them folks that you’re writin’ of
Gave nothin’ to this place
They only took with push and shove
And laughed in good folks’ face
There ain’t no way to make them good
They’re killers through and through
Be proud of folks we know who would
Be just like me and you.”
We rode back down to our homestead
That sheepish boy and I
He thinks of heroes now instead
Of psychos who passed by.
Wooin’ the Mule
~~ Debra Meyer – ©2010 ~~
I’s up to Ed’s one Sunday,
We was plannin’ on a ride.
I hollered at his barn door,
Then I moseyed on inside.
My eyes just took a smidgeon
To adjust to dimmer light.
N’ I found that I was peerin’
At a most engagin’ sight.
Dappled gray with great long ears,
Pickin’ hay there in a stall.
One quick glance he cast my way,
Then the mule turned t’ward the wall.
“Must be shy,” I says to Ed,
As I offer up a rub.
He turned again, deliberate,
And I took it as a snub.
“One fine judge of character!”
Ed was chucklin’ as he spoke.
“They’s some he just don’t take to,
Guess you ain’t his kind of folk.”
“What’s that to mean?” I queried.
“Not his kind of folk, indeed!”
And then as if to comment,
The mule stretched hisself and peed.
“He just needs time to know me,”
I spoke up on my behalf.
“I’ll get a chair,” Ed spluttered,
No attempt to hide his laugh.
I sat and watched the south end
Of a northern-facin’ john.
I’d prove that I was worthy;
I was one to count upon.
“Just consider this, my friend,”
We debated as I sat.
“I’m good and kind,” I told him,
As he dodged another pat.
I then began some sweet talk,
Even tried to share my chuck.
His negative reaction,
Made me cuss and damn my luck.
The words I strung together,
Would have served a sailor well.
“Told you so,” Mule seemed to snort.
“You’ll be goin’ straight to hell!”
That fiery accusation,
Made me pause and look within.
It seemed my knack fer cussin’,
Wasn’t near my greatest sin.
I am a might impatient.
I’ve been knowed to take a drink.
‘N’ I’m quick to get a mad on.
Mule agreed, with gaseous stink.
“You’re right,” I then conceded.
“I’m unworthy and a fool.”
I was judged a sinner and,
Out-debated by a mule.
Moonlight in Montana
~~ Steve Dickson – ©2012 ~~
I was a young bull rider
She was a rodeo queen
We made the rounds together
There was much we had not seen
She rode a barrel racer
I stayed on the rankest bull
From town to town we traveled
Summer days were always full
I never had the courage
To take her soft hand in mine
Until one moonlit evening
In Montana in the pines
I told her that I loved her
while we stood there in the night
From then we were not parted
Long sweet nights by firelight
We built a home together
Worked our days hard side by side
Life was good, it was our time
But it ended with that ride
A cold day in September
Brought her young life to an end
The horse slipped and fell on her
I said goodbye to my friend
She’s up there in those mountains
I spend much time with her there
The moonlight in Montana
Still so hard for me to bear
When Sam has broke a horse,
you’ve really gotta say
that Old Sam broke it well
in his own gentle way.
You might say it’s well broke
and fit for western trails,
as gentle as can be,
’cause Old Sam never fails.
Except, of course, in town,
that’s where he drops his pay,
drinkin’, gamblin’ and such,
’cause that is Old Sam’s way.
So Sam is without cash,
he spent it havin’ fun,
livin’ high on the hog,
and now his spendin’s done
There’s just one thing to say,
which shouldn’t be misspoke,
Old Sam’s just like his horse
’cause both are really broke.
A Cowboy’s Last Will
~~ Larry Bradfield – ©2012 ~~
The old cowboy struggled for breath
Heartbeat faint, his eyes set,
He whispered softly before death
“Wait ! I ain’t finished yet !”
“Don’t lay me where my feet are cold
Or where the lightnin’ plays
Keep me from rushin’ waters bold
And where the rattler stays.
“Don’t put me where they might stampede
I’ve seen enough of that
Or where the cliff face might recede
I’d rather see it flat.
“Keep me from where the Norther blows
And ice grows on your chin
I’ve seen enough of sleet and snows
And brutal killin’ wind.
“And most of all protect me well
From sandstorms in my face
I’d rather face the fires of hell
Than sand in my last place.
“I know I’d rather be laid down
Where I can feel at home
Maybe I could be laid in town
Where I won’t feel alone.
“Why not just put me in a place
Where I can hear a tune
Just lay me underneath the stage
In that Longhorn saloon.”
Those were the last words that he said
They shrugged and said “Why not ?”
A cowboy in a bar who’s dead
That ain’t a brand new thought.
When you pass by in your new Fords
And wish to say a prayer
You’ll find him undeneath them boards
The Longhorn S’loon’s still there.
© 2012 Western Poetry All Rights Reserved
