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The BC Cowboy Heritage Society
Cowboy Poetry Page
Cowboy Poets, Cowboy Poetry, and Cowboy Poems are all part of Cowboy Heritage! We try
to promote and preserve our cowboy heritage, and cowboy poetry is a way of doing this.
If you write Cowboy Poetry, and would like us to use one of your poems on this page,
then send us an email including your poem, and we'll see about getting it on here!
Email: cowboys@bcchs.com
We have decided to only share a couple of poems with you on this page,
one of which is Mike Puhallo's weekly Meadow Muffin.
For more Cowboy Poetry check out the internet's premier cowboy poetry site,
www.CowboyPoetry.com
www.CowboyPoetry.com has officially named its
fourteenth Lariat Laureate today - and the "8 Seconds" winners
in a global competition. Cowboy Poet Diane Tribitt was recognized
as Lariat Laureate for her poem, "Half the Hand." and one of the
"8 Seconds" finalists was Mag Mawhinney for her poem "Winter Range.
See all the details at:
www.CowboyPoetry.com/winner.htm
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Dave Dance
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Harry Van Eaton
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Mereline Griffith
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Mike Puhallo - Mike's Meadow Muffin
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Mike's Meadow Muffins! by Mike Puhallo
Check back for a new Meadow Muffin every Monday!
Mike's Meadow Muffins August 30th, 2010
Back in the Saddle
I've been ten days in the saddle,
trying to make up for lost time.
Hunting strays, cold trailing cows,
starting out six weeks behind.
From spring range to the alpine,
they scattered far and wide.
It's a cowboy's kind of therapy,
just saddle up and ride!
With a knee brace and hockey tape,
I am fine once I'm astride.
I'm still pretty gimpy on the ground,
but I don't limp when I ride.
Mike Puhallo
PS It is absolutely amazing, that in ten days of riding I have also managed to
un-shrink all the jeans my wife shrunk while I was laid up!
To see more of Mike's Meadow Muffins check back here weekly!
or visit his web site -
www.MikePuhallo.com
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Dave "Grumpy" Dance
Sent in by Grumpy as a poem with an unknown Author - December 21st
Merry Christmas - Like it used to be.
'Twas the night before Christmas and out on the ranch,
the ponds frozen over and so is the branch.
The snow was piled 'twas belly deep on a mule,
the kids all home, on vacation from school.
And happier young folks one never did see,
just all sprawled around just watchin' TV.
Then suddenly, sometime around eight o'clock,
there came a surprise, that gave 'em a schock.
The power went off and the TV went dead,
then grandpa came in from out in the shed.
With an armful of wood, the house was all dark.
'Just what I expected." They heard him remark.
The power lines must be down, from all that snow.
Seems sorta like the times, here on the ranch long ago.
"I'll hunt up some candles," said mom, with their light,
and the fireplace I reckon we'll make out all right,
The teenagers all seemed to be wrapped in gloom,
then gramps came back from a trip to his room.
Uncased his old fiddle and he started to play,
the old Christmas song about bells on a sleigh.
Mom started to sing'n' the first thing they knew,
both pop and the kids were all singin' it too.
They sang Christmas carols,they sang Holy Night,
their eyes all a'shine in the fires ruddy light.
They played some charades, mom rercalled from her youth,
and pop read a passage, from Gods book of truth.
They stayed up till midnight, and would you believe,
the youngsters agreed 'twas a fine Christmas Eve.
Grandpa rose early some time well before dawn,
and when the kids awakened the power was on.
The power sure got the line repaired quick,
said Grandpa, and no one suspected his trick.
Last night for the sake of some old fashioned fun,
He had pulled the main switch, that old son of a gun.
Blessings enough always Dave and Viv.
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Author unknown
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Harry Van Eaton
Editor's Note: The guy that wrote this poem is not a poet, or at least I didn't know he
was. Most of you have never heard of him before so I'll introduce him first. He's actually
our ranch sitter - the top hand around here (other than his wife Judy) when we're on the
Annual Spirit of the West Cruise or at the Kamloops Cowboy Festival. So while enjoying the sun
down in Panama we got this email - with a poem attached. I guess I didn't tell Harry that he
might come across a baler belt that broke and got wrapped up in a bale ...
Dodging Cows with a Backhoe |
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The Artful Dodger has nothing on me,
I've been dodging cows with a backhoe you see,
feeding at Meadow Springs in a January thaw,
while Mark and Kathy cruise around Panama.
A good Ford tractor with bucket and spike,
moves the bales around as neat as you like,
but today's wet snow came a bit too early,
and the loose packed bale was just plain surly.
Just opened the door to see through the snow,
when the bale fell off wouldn't you know,
wrestled the spike back into place
reloaded the bale, wiped the snow off my face.
Got the bale in the meadow, lined up just fine
when the Long Horn hooked and ran off with the twine.
Rolled out the bale in the driving snow
dodging cows, making that backhoe go.
Now there is a lot in this life I don't understand,
but why did mark wrap that bale with a big rubber band?
Neat and black wrapped all around the feed,
along with 2 inches of snow I didn't need.
Unraveled the bale, put the tractor away,
then the power went off for much of the day.
The power is back on, the day's work is done,
feeding at Meadow Springs is a barrel of fun.
PS A baler belt inside a bale, that's just not right ... ?
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Harry Van Eaton © 2009
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Mereline Griffith
This was written for my nephew Captain Brian Griffith, who was
in Afghanistan in 2009. This poem is meant to be an inspiration to
anyone who has, or has had loved ones in Afghanistan. Mereline
He's In God's Hands |
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Dust blows across the round pen,
a silence greets the dawn
A gate swings sadly in the wind,
the horses are all gone
The pleasant sound of morning chores,
are missing on this day
No feeding sounds, no jingle bob's,
the cowboy's gone away
His saddle hangs there in the barn,
the bridle's on the wall
The cowboy's in Afghanistan,
he's answering a call
It's a call to serve humanity,
in a hostile war-torn land
He's gone to fight for freedom,
in a country we don't understand
With pride he serves his country,
with sorrow he must part
He's left behind his loved ones,
now carried in his heart
His mission in this foreign place,
is a role that he must play
But the sacrifice is beyond compare,
as he goes to join the fray
But that long trail home is built on hope,
and it's blessed by humble prayer
It's washed by many countless tears,
and it's maintained by those who care
Now snow blows across the round-pen,
winter's spread across our land
In a few more months, he'll be home,
and for now, he's in God's hands.
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Mereline Griffith © 2009
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GaLynne Millard
Hi Mark, Just thought I'd send along this poem that I wrote last year before the
Cowboy Festival; it's in memory of my nephew, Todd Millard (1966 - 1994).
GaLynne Millard
BORN TO RIDE BULLS
(In Memory of Todd Millard) |
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He was destined to be one of the best
His love of the sport was sincere
Practicing both day and night
There was no such thing as fear
His parents took him thousands of miles
To high school rodeos to compete
Taking many other young folks -
You could go if there was a seat
He worked his way up to the top
Lane Frost became a friend
At fifteen he was second to none
His future looked bright to the end
But an accident left him powerless
In a wheelchair the rest of his life
Can you imagine the pain in his heart
Fighting the anguish and terrible strife
Yet as they say 'life goes on'
And make the best of it, he did
He continued on with the bulls
Just raising them with his dad instead
His grandpa built a device for his gun
That he could bite on to pull the trigger
He shot a wolf from his porch one day
The book of records show few that are bigger
Many times friends took him out in a boat
To enjoy good fishing for the day
Even hunting for a grizzly bear
He let nothing stand in his way
Meeting people and making friends
Was something he loved you could tell
There are still seat-mates at the NFR
Who remember his smile so well
Why it happens, no one knows
But another car wreck took him away
Yet you can bet you'd surely find him
Riding bulls up there today
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GaLynne Millard © 2008
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Gary Robertson
I would like to submit my poem The Horseman for consideration.
You can see my web site at:
www.garyscowboypoetry.com
Thank You, Gary Robertson
THE HORSEMAN |
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I was standin' by the fire
As the sky was turnin' grey.
Twas the hour before the sunrise
The coldest time of day.
He walked up with his hat in hand
As I stood there all alone
Sais "Boss, I hate to say it,"
"But I'm chilled right to the bone."
"I never knew I could be so cold"
"Or could ever hurt so bad"
"N I'm wonderin' why I ever left"
"My mother 'n my dad."
He was somethin' short-a sixteen then
Had just hired on with the brand
but I knew he had the heart 'n mind
To make a first-rate hand.
See, he sat natural in the saddle
Was firm, yet gentle with the rein
He'd ride any mount you gave him
"N he weren't one to complain.
I poured us both some coffee
Handed him his cup
'N we stood there without talkin'
As we watched the sun come up.
That eastern sky turned light, then bright,
Then exploded into day
It was while we watched that sunrise
I decided what I'd say.
I said, "You've got to feel the bitter cold,"
"To see the day's first light,"
"N you've got to sleep out on the ground,"
"To touch the stars, at night."
"N you've got to live life lonely,"
"To cherish kith 'n kin,"
"N it's livin' as you're ment to live,"
"That comforts in the end."
"N you, you were ment to live life horseback."
"I've known it from the start."
"Why, the first time that you climbed aboard"
"The Good Lord touched your heart."
"N it's God who picks the Horseman"
"It ain't us fellers who decide."
"See, it's 'need' not 'want' that drives us"
"To live so's we can ride."
"Oh, you're a Horseman now, He's made that plain,"
"You're one of the proud 'n the few,"
"N the way you live, it's who you are,"
"It's not just what you do."
"There's no goin' back to Mom 'n Dad,"
"You can't return to pushin plow,"
"For you've seen the world from horseback,"
"You're a Horseman, like us, now."
"N, we ain't built like other fellers,"
"We're cursed as much as blessed,"
"For once we've forked a saddle,"
"We can't live like all the rest."
"Once we've smelled them lathered horses,"
"N, a wood-fed brandin' fire,"
"We're hooked on workin' horseback."
"N, we'll live our life bone-tired."
"We'll put up with the heat 'n dust,"
"Or the ice 'n freezin' cold,"
"N, we know that long before our time,"
"This life will make us old."
"But we take the cards life deals us,"
"N, we gladly play that hand,"
"Cause, when you're sittin' horseback, son,"
"You don't look up, to any man."
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Gary Robertson © 2009
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Do you have a poem to add to this page?
Email:
cowboys@bcchs.com
If you like Cowboy Poetry then "The Bar-D Roundup CDs" are a must
from Cowboy
Poetry.com - they is available on their web site:
www.cowboypoetry.com
For more info or to order one of several CDs click here:
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