Cowboys & Jackaroos - entries

Sorry to have made these poets wait to see their works posted. I thought they were in my dropbox but they were only on my hard drive at home.

Here they are!!!

Cowboys & Jackaroos
[alphabetically by title]

Remember, there are no spelling errors - just attempts at authenticity

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1
Here lies JD

I read his life and times
and visited his grave
lemon aid minus limes
recipe from a slave
In saloons of the west
quenched many cowboy thirsts
who've ridden in the best
times as well as the worst
with a ten gallon hat
and guitar on the trails
from hills to land that's flat
Jack Daniels never fails.

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2
In Search of Inspiration

I just heard the bang, and in minutes, it tumbled dead.
It flipped-flopped rocks over dust. Head first, then toes.
It rolled down to a deep gorge; to its tomb. . .

- -

For years, we galloped canyons over canyons
with my horse of thoughts.
My imagination was the sheriff, and I was the cowgirl.

We dashed into a sunset, and there, at the edge of a cliff,
he said:

"Atta boy!" ( Phew! My horse of thoughts had stopped)

But from there, mounted upon my horse,
we gazed into the ravine. Quietly.
Losing ourselves into the eyes of the canyon;
into the rivers of sorrow that with the passing of years
had evaporated into a couple of tears.
And then, as the night fell upon our shoulders,
I held tighter to him; to his waist; to his scent. I felt safe.
Safe to dream. Safe to imagine him forever with me.

He was like the saddle in my horse,
he was like the stem in a rose,
he was like the rifle in his sturdy hand,
he was like the hat in my head.
He was who inspired this verse
He was ...

who also inspired this prose.

And as the sun rose, my horse of thoughts, trotted back home.
To the reality of the world. Where my sheriff, was no more.
Where I was not a cowgirl. Where my thoughts were no longer
a horse but a rifle that shot my imagination into the unknown.

- -
And I, upon waking up:

I just heard the bang, and in minutes, it tumbled dead.
It flipped-flopped rocks over dust. Head first, then toes.
It rolled down to a deep gorge; to its tomb...

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3
Kissing Gunpowder "slang poem"

Early dawn,
milking ol Bessy
as the twinkly
sun blazes.

Cowboy posse rides
along the tumbleweed
prairie, to shoot a red one-
I suppose.

I caught a glimpse of Pa,
starin at a stranger with a
smokin gun, chewin
tobaccy and hungry for me.

A covered lady hides behind
her bonnet, red cheeks of
blushin remain unseen
from my kin.

I long to kiss a cowboy-
Hungry for madness,
fearing a savages brutality,
but hungry nonetheless.

One day I'll run free,
kissing gunpowder,
naked and in love-

but I'll run free.

Pa and Ma, the good lord
above and the devil himself
won't stop me....

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4
Multi horse town

Bells
chiming
'neath the wind
of dusty town,
determined hooves blaze
by, capturing evil
smirked moustaches of villains
ready for gunfights at sundown.
Tumbleweeds somersault past saloons;
trough's are refreshing after a day's work.

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5
Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time,
fate abandoned love
upon naked branches
of a lone tree
where two turtle doves
used to nest.

A misfired gun
in the innocent hands
of a naive child;

bang goes his conscience.

"I'm sorry Pa,
I thought I had learned,
but the trigger pulled quicker
than I blinked."

"I'm sorry Ma,
for I have sinned,
but forgive me please...
I just wanted to be like Pa."

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6
Sam Smith

Loose corrugated iron from the porch hung flapping, moving silently.
Just enough breeze to ruffle the hair,
cooling the stifling heat.
In the distance Barclays saloons accordion barely heard,
notes drifting in and out of the wind to tickle the dry air

None of the 187 townsfolk to be seen,
most hidden behind hat feathers and stained curtains.
Numb to killing numb to death,
but none queuing up to join the carnage,
better to play dead.

3pm.
The clock on the town hall shimmered in the heat,
three feet of shinny white clock face peppered with shot.
The left front corner of the hall blackened with soot.
At the rear old Archie Miller lay buried,
caught red handed trying to burn townsfolk alive,
his marbles gone from drinking Metho..

Beneath the flapping iron, barely hidden within in the shadows,,
one hand stiffly resting on his revolvers butt,
quivering like a restless tick.
Yet Sam Smith's gaze was impenetrable,
it didn't waver nor flinch.
He'd been pushed too far for that,
yet still a bead of sweat stole from the back of his neck,
trickling down between his shoulder blades,
To catch at his belt.

Sam was no gunfighter,
sure he could shoot, everybody could shoot.
Varmints critters and all and wasn't a bad shot,
but he wasn't born to it.
Heck no, he was farmer pure and simple.
a man of the land,
a family man

But that was gone, shot to hell,
buried with his wife and 10 year old daughter,
back on his farm just outa town.

The saloon doors cracked open,
three men strode out and into the street.
"Smith you there son,
You want a piece of us?"
Laughter echoed down the main street
"You ain't no gun fighter son
Don't wana get yourself killed and all"

Cockiness and alcohol oozed from the their pores as they ambled towards Smith
Yet all had hands on their guns, cocky not stupid
"Come out farm boy, where we can see ya ?
we won't hurt you none".

Sam shifted his weight, pushing away from the leaning post, gun in hand.
He walked straight into the street straight at the three.
No time for talking.
Time for shooting.

He fired, the first bullet missed, the second taking one in the gut.
The third took another in the shoulder..
But three guns against one.

He was hit in the hip, the bullet striking bone spinning him to the left
Another in the left shoulder, knocking him off his feet.
But he wasn't done.
He fired two more from the ground.
Hitting the one with the damaged shoulder in the neck

One bullet left, one man standing.
Pain exploded in his chest,
another took him in his stomach.
He gently lay back, face in the sun, resting on the dusty street
The sound of the accordion still drifted in the air
Mary's face slowly drifted into focus
He smiled.
Her hand reaching out, Yet just out of reach
The shadow of a Stetson loomed above
The explosion never reaching his ears.

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7
We wear
paisley bandanas to protect
our bones from dust storms and
the rough midnight terrains
of legends, that still wail
on the ranch and prairies.

They're coming for us, son,
murderers of the moon
riding horseback with
silver blood on their
manes.

Cattle lowing,
shaking as we herd them
into another rebellion.

But the harvest is imminent;
can't you hear the reapers
grazing? The bison wallowing,
the Colorado pasture
protesting like rusty spurs
on stolen heels.

Noose around your
heart, throw that pistol away -
take me instead
to that hanging tree.

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8
West

It was the dust-clouded, sunset-orange
roads that I remember the most -
Potholes and roadkill avenuing
an arrow-like promise through
cactus populated scrub.

And I loved how the gold-rush wind
jigsawed my hair as we drove,
cowboy and cowgirl, past a gas station,
a fifties diner, a grizzled man surveying
the world from his rocking-chair porch.

And as ghosts of gunslingers and heroes dueled
in the dark of the sun's sleep, I looked at you
looking at me in bed light,
the reflection of a westerner hiding in your iris,
hiding behind a black and white horizon.

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Damn, these are good so good. But voted

Awesome work!

Very hard to choose, all of them were so good! Awesome job everybody!

Are we voting on these poems? Or are they being sent to judges? :\

Nice work everyone!!

Oh wait they might be sent to judges, ugh. I have been out of sorts lately. Sigh.

I think Larry mentioned in the previous thread there would be anonymous judging...

Lol oops... I didn't even pay attention if it was voting or for judges, sorry! I should have read more closely.

Go ahead & send me votes
It be interesting to see how the public vote compares to the judges' votes.

Update on results?

Dang it's only been 2 days, give the judges a chance! :P

Lol, I've been reading the entries since posted and I think the judges may need at least a week. XD

I can't decide which one to vote for.

Waiting on judges
They are underpaid & don't drink
and are better poets than me

[what else can I offer them?]

Waiting for one more judge