DC
Many young men have left a dirt farm life to pursue a career more to their liking. In the late 1800’s, the life of a cowboy was what many young men were inspired to pursue. This pursuit often left then crippled or buried along some lonesome cattle trail, but if you were able to ask them if it was worth their effort, I expect most of them would say “Hell yes.”
Letter From Home
Old Cookie got back from his last trip to town
And a letter from home, had finally run me down
It said Momma’s doing poorly, and Daddy is sick
Not the kind of news that a cowboy would pick
I won’t go back to farming, or caring for crops
Nor feeding the chickens, or carrying the slop
I’ve had all of farming that this cowboy can stand
Though I left home at twelve, I was much of a man
The letter is an old one; I was hard to be found
But any news for home, is slow to get around
It was dated last year, but it’s still good to know
How things at home are, even if I can’t go
I ride for the brand now, both day and night
I wouldn’t think of leaving, cause they treat me just
right
So I’ll write Mom a letter, if I still remember how
And tell her I love her, but I can’t leave just now
© David Carlton 2015
DC
Something I did on Oct 18th, 2015, showing just one of the ways I come up with ideas for my writing….
Last night at about 2:30 AM, I awake from sleep with a line going through my mind. I lay awake for several minutes, organizing my thoughts. I was afraid that if I turned over and went back to sleep, that I would not remember the line the next morning. I keep a note pad beside my bed, because this has happened before. When an idea comes from my sleep, I have found that to jot it down for further consideration after I wake up is sometimes rewarding. This is the idea and verse that is the result. The first stanza is what I jotted down, and the rest was added this morning.
Billy
I pictured a young cowboy standing over a fresh grave, with his horse (reins on the ground) standing hip shod behind him. The cowboy is clutching his hat by the brim (held to his chest) and his chin down in prayer.
I sold Billy’s saddle today
Before we put him in the ground
He’s not the only friend I’ve had
But the best one I have found
I’ll use the money to buy a stone
To be placed above his head
To let the world know the who and when
And what the Good Book said
I’ll write his Ma and let her know
That Billy loved her to the end
That he always said his prayers each night
And he was in the company of a friend
A cowboy’s life is always tough
And each day he feels some pain
But giving the chance to change his ways
He’s do everything just the same
© David Carlton 2015
DC
Sunset
I love to sit my old pony
On a ridge way up high
As the beauty of a sunset
Lights up the western sky
When God made the sunset
He used the colors of fire
They stir feelings of passion
And the heat of desire
A cowboy knows loneliness
In so many ways
But the beauty of a sunset
Makes very special days
So I thank you Lord
For the beauty and your love
It’s a wonderful reminder
Of our Heaven up above
DC
The Breakfast Club
Sitting at an outdoor table
This bunch of aging gents
Talking politics and world affairs
Both Prosecutor and Defense
They solve the world’s problems
As they’re brought before the table
Silver haired men with steel trap minds
Who are capable and able
Sitting at the Tiki Bar
This aging group of gents
Taking time to lend their thoughts
And their justice to dispense
Their hair is thin and their waist has grown
But their brains are working fine
They solve the problems of the world
One bottle at a time
© David Carlton 2009
DC
License Renewal
I went to get my license renewed
At my local DHP
It’s a gathering place for the working class
And even a guy like me
A waiting line a half mile long
With every creed and race
Makes this worn out Cowboy
Feel lost and out of place
I took a number and a plastic seat
For a long extended wait
The sign said number 301
I know that I’ll be late
My number is only 31
I sure hope the line moves fast
If it takes longer than an hour or so
I’m afraid that I won’t last
Well it took an hour and a half my friend
To finally get it done
You’d think by all the paper work
That I was trying to buy a gun
DC
The Answer
“The Answer” by Steven Lang
Thank you Lord for sending rain
And answering this cowboy’s prayer
Things down here are kinda dry
Not as green as things up there
Cowboys don’t pray enough I’m sure
But in most things we just get by
But only you can bring the rains
That can break this awful dry
We’re glad to receive you blessing Lord
And the changes that it will bring
With your help we’ll make it through
To the packing house next spring
DC
A couple of times each year, Cowboy Poetry Web Site has an Art Spur challenge for poets. Last Christmas, after seeing the picture, I decided to enter. And yes, it was selected as one of the winners.
David L. Carlton
Winter’s Night
"A Winter’s Night" by David Graham's
Old Roy just dropped in
On a cold winter’s night
To drop off our grub
With the snow shining bright
A hot cup of Coffee
To heat up his cold core
Before time finally pushes him
Back out that front door
A few minutes of company
Makes things seem so right
For his trip back to headquarters
With the moon for his light
Winter time brings joy
Even to a line shack
When an old friend drops by
With some food in a sack
DC
The following is a poem that was inspired by a gravestone in the Navasota Cemetery.
Little Melvin
They put an angel upon my grave
Though I was only three
I’m sure that when you see the stone
That you will think of me
Though I was buried in this cold hard
ground
So many years ago
You’ll feel my presence when you visit
me
And then I think you’ll know
I wasn’t old enough for you to mourn
My passing from this earth
But as I left I went to sleep
To experience another birth
DC
George Armstrong Custer
Custer led the 7th
In glory and in fame
The Indians knew him as Yellow Hair
They didn’t know his name..
Upon the morning ... into the draw
He led his brave young soldiers
Their death and destruction are his to
carry
Square upon his broad dead shoulders...
DC
As a young boy growing up in the 50's, my life was more simple in so many ways. Here is a short poem based upon my memories of that time.
Boy Again
When we were young, so long ago
The pleasures didn’t last
Like drinking water from the hose
And never from a glass
We wore no shoes as we ran and
played
Times were simple then
I’d give a lot to turn the clock
And relive it all again
Even sand spurs between the toes
I think that I could stand
Just to be a boy again
Before I became a man
Lightning bugs they lit the sky
As I remember when
I wouldn’t change a single thing
To be a boy again
DC
I wrote this poem a couple of years ago. It’s based upon the fact that cowboys aren’t the best paid employees in today’s economy. Many a young cowboy has been faced with making a choice between living and fun. As a young cowboy, Uncle Sam helped make that decision for me. If I had been able to choose my own career path at the time, I would have still been on a ranch doing the things I love.
Many a young cowboy has had to give up the saddle and take a job in town. Once that move was made, and his income improved, it was impossible to turn the clock back. It’s easy to make a decision for higher pay, but once a lifestyle has changed, it is hard to give up income and go back to a job for less money.
Gates
A mildewed old saddle
With a frayed mohair girth
With one old wooden stirrup
Hanging down in the dirt
It’s seen better days
When it was used now and then
But it ain’t seen a horse’s back
In only the Lord knows when
A one eared old headstall
With a curbless old bit
Back in the day
Most horses it’d fit
But now the barn spiders
Have made it their home
It serves a new purpose
As it hangs all alone
The same with the cowboy
That’s moved into town
He gave up his dreams
With the new job he found
He still dreams of freedom
Under an ocean blue sky
Where his heart was so happy
But he was barely getting by
So he hung up his dreams
And found a new life
With a steady paying job
An a nagging young wife
Yep, he’s had second thoughts
But he knows it’s too late
Cause when he headed to town
Life closed all the gates
DC
This poem has a lot of personal meaning. No one wants to get old, especially me, but it sure beats the heck out of the other option.
Getting old
We all feel good for most of our life
But as we get along in years
We reach a time when our health is bad
And we realize all our fears
We’re not ten feet tall.. nor bullet proof
Our age has worn us down
But it’s easier to accept with a smile on
our face
Than a wrinkled and ugly frown
DC
I read a line on Facebook recently that inspired me to write this poem. The line went something like, “Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a visiting time in Heaven?” If there was, I can think of several people that I would like to visit, but my Mom would be my first trip.
Visiting Time in Heaven
If there was visiting time in Heaven
What a blessing it would be
I could visit with my Mom
And she could visit me
I’d give her a great big hug
I’d tell her how much she’s missed
And let her know that things down here
Could still use a mother’s kiss
I’d tell her that it won’t be long
Before I move to Heaven too
Though I’m not in a hurry to make that
trip
There are some things I still need to do
I have got to try and leave a trail
For my loved ones here to find
That they may know how much they’re
loved
Before they too… are left behind
I know we don’t get to pick a date
To make our trip to our Heavenly Home
But I need to do a few more things
Before I leave my family alone
I’ll work real hard to do the things
Provided I can have my way
I’ll do the things I still need to do
And pray for a visit on Mother’s Day
DC
I saw a painting on my Facebook page by Steve Lang that motivated me to write the following poem. Many young men have left a dirt farm life to pursue a career more to their liking. In the late 1800’s, the life of a cowboy was what many young men were inspired to pursue. This pursuit often left then crippled or buried along some lonesome cattle trail, but if you were able to ask them if it was worth their effort, I expect most of them would say “Hell, yes!”
Letter From Home
“Letter from Home” By Steven Lang
Old Cookie got back from his last trip to town
And a letter from home, had finally run me down
It said Momma’s doing poorly, and Daddy is sick
Not the kind of news that a cowboy would pick
I won’t go back to farming, or caring for crops
Nor feeding the chickens, or carrying the slop
I’ve had all of farming that this cowboy can stand
Though I left home at twelve, I was much of a man
The letter is an old one; I was hard to be found
But any news for home, is slow to get around
It was dated last year, but it’s still good to know
How things at home are, even if I can’t go
I ride for the brand now, both day and night
I wouldn’t think of leaving, cause they treat me just
right
So I’ll write Mom a letter, if I still remember how
And tell her I love her, but I can’t leave just now
DC
I recently watched the great western movie Red River (1948) starring John Wayne and Montgomery Cliff. According to Wikipedia, this movie was based upon the Chisholm Trail. I have wanted to write a poem based upon this important point in American History for some time, and last night I put my mind to work.
Wikipedia also had the following to say about the Chisholm Trail.
The Chisholm Trail was previously used by Indian hunting and raiding parties; the trail crossed into Indian Territory (present-day west-central Oklahoma) near Red River Station (in present-day Montague County, Texas) and entered Kansas near Caldwell. Through Oklahoma, the Chisholm Trail generally follows the route of US Highway 81 through present-day towns of El Reno, Duncan, and Enid. Over the period of 1867 to 1871 an estimated 5,000,000 head of cattle went up the Chisholm Trail.
On the long trips (up to two months) the cattlemen faced many difficulties. They had to cross major rivers such as the Arkansas and the Red, and innumerable smaller creeks, plus the topographic challenges of canyons, badlands and low mountain ranges. The weather was less than ideal. In addition to these natural dangers, rustlers and occasional conflicts with Native Americans erupted. The latter demanded that drovers, the trail bosses, pay a toll of 10 cents a head to local tribes for the right to cross Indian lands (Oklahoma at that time was Indian Territory, governed from Fort Smith, Arkansas). The half-wild Texas Longhorn cattle were contrary and prone to stampede with little provocation.
(The towns in this poem were not towns during trial drive days, but the names are used to indicate the true route of the trail.)
“Chisholm Trail”
Three thousand head of longhorns
Were thrown upon the trail
Moving cattle to feed a nation
To ship them East by rail
They were gathered in the Valley
Just above the Rio Grande
From a group of small ranchers
They were wearing several brands
They were held around Lockhart
For just a week or so
The numbers kept on swelling
Waiting for the word to go
They skirted along the Brazos
Staying to the western side
Waiting to above Waco
Where the water wasn’t wide
Up through Fort Worth and headed
north
They were strung out like a thread
Dreading to face the quicksand bottoms
Of the deadly roaring Red
Indian Territory and outlaw trails
They were living off the land
Pushing hard and keeping watch
Not anxious to make a stand
Up through Duncan the cattle moved
With the Washita in sight
By this time they were pushing hard
Not resting much at night
The South Canadian and then the
North
The rivers seemed never to end
Swim them across then bed them down
Then throw em on the trail again
Just above Kingfisher and the
Cimarron
Enid was a small trail town
They purchased some coffee and a little
flour
But the herd didn’t even slow down
Then the Salt Fork of the Arkansas
With the Kansas line in sight
Just the thought of leaving the
Territory
Made it easier to sleep at night
When the Arkansas was finally reached
They herd was allowed to slow down
The last dangerous water along the trail
And the last opportunity to drown
Then the herd reached Abilene
Where the cattle met the rail
Where beef was shipped to feed the
East
That came up the Chisholm Trail
enough