Ron's Cowboy Poems
Cowboy Poet Ron Wilson recites an original
poem at the dedication of the
Discovery Center in Manhattan, Kansas.
Terror on the Trail
By Ron Wilson, Poet Lariat
It was cloudy `n dry, that hot day in July,
As we drove cattle up the trail.
We were needin' rest, in our dogged quest,
To drive `em to the Kansas rail.
But in the western skies, where we turned our eyes,
A cloud bank started to build.
Then the clouds turned dark. We saw lightning spark,
As the black clouds grew and filled.
The air was muggy. Hosses' eyes went buggy.
The cattle were restless and flighty.
As the clouds drew near, the boss made it clear:
He said, "This storm is gonna be mighty."
Then the sky turned green, like nothin' we'd seen.
The air was so still it was eerie.
With nary a bicker, we pulled on our slickers,
Even though we were bone-tired and weary.
Rain started a'fallin,' the cattle were bawlin,'
And the clouds started whirlin' around.
We heard a distant roar. Then the noise seemed to soar,
Till it filled our ears with the sound.
To our terrified stare, from the devilish air,
A black rope dropped from the skies.
With a roar like a train, it plowed `cross the plain,
Tossin' men, dirt and cattle like flies.
"It's a cyclone, boys," the boss yelled through the noise.
"Now it's every man for hisself."
My loyal horse spooked, despite my rebuke,
As I rode him off a sidehill shelf.
The cattle stampeded, and ran unheeded,
While brave men rode for their lives.
Critters ran pell-mell in the face of this hell
And a desperate race to survive.
Then the roar started fading and the sound started trading,
The raindrops for the cyclone's roar.
The rain came in torrents, to the riders' abhorrence,
Like an ocean tide pounding a shore.
Then we saw the rain stop, with a few stray raindrops.
Of a sudden, the sky was clear blue.
But the path of the storm, and the death it performed,
Came fully into our view.
Dead cattle and a horse, along the storm's course,
Gave the killer storm mute testimony.
Two cowhands were dead, and forty-one head
Of longhorns plus one cow-pony.
We grieved for our pards, and though it was hard,
We buried `em there on the plain.
Then I mounted my steed and resumed the deed
Of gathering the herd that remain.
Now we've made Abilene, but the sights that I've seen
Will stay in my nightmares without fail.
For I saw bodies fly, that hellish day in July,
When a cyclone hit out on the trail.
© Copyright 2010
"National Day of the American Cowboy"
by Ron Wilson, Poet Lariat
This is a day we set out to give praise
To those who honor the Cowboy ways.
The American Cowboy is a true hero,
Who helped our nation to thrive and grow.
The cowboy was a true pioneer,
Who braved the wild western frontier.
Not only did he tame the American West,
He stood for the values which we think of as best:
He believes in hard work, and playing hard too,
And in honoring women in all that they do.
To be independent and stand up for what's right,
To be courageous and honest and not run from a fight.
To be brave and loyal, to ride for the brand,
And be a good steward of his livestock and land.
Those are timeless values that still hold true,
Still used every day in what modern cowboys do.
Now the U.S. Senate has voted to have a day
To honor the American Cowboy in this way.
We give thanks for all that cowboys and cowgirls do,
To keep the Cowboy way alive and true.
So we honor this legacy for the values it will employ,
As we celebrate the National Day of the American Cowboy.
© Copyright 2010
The Perfect Name
by Ron Wilson, Poet Lariat
Three new horses were talkin' over the pasture fence.
They thought they'd get acquainted so their grazing could commence.
"What's your name?" they asked the first horse, and he swelled up with pride:
"My owner calls me Champion when we go out to ride.”
They turned to the second horse and said, "So what's your name?"
Just as the first horse swelled with pride, the second did the same:
"I got a cool name when I was just a colt.
You see, my owner always calls me Thunderbolt."
Then the other two turned to the third and final horse,
And they asked for him to tell his name, of course.
"Well, I'm not exactly sure," the other horse finally said.
"From what I hear, I think it’s `Whoa, you stupid knucklehead.'"
© Copyright 2010
Why There??!
by Ron Wilson, Poet Lariat
When we’re movin’ cattle, every time it seems,
There’s something that happens that just makes me steam.
We’ll have the cows goin’ in the way that they should,
Movin’ along in a bunch, and everything’s good.
But then intervenes a stroke of ill fate:
I speak of the dog that stands in the gate.
We have several stock-dogs here at the home place.
The way they herd cattle puts a smile on my face.
With their master’s direction, they gather the herd,
And then bring `em by with a nod or a word.
But some of our dogs just aren’t quite that smart.
They want in on the action but not the right part.
They end up in a spot that makes me irate:
I speak of the dog that stands in the gate.
Is it contrariness or a brain that is slow
That makes him stand there where the cows are to go?
It’s that spot we’re trying to drive the cows through,
But the dog runs `em off with his hullabaloo.
It is the one thing that is sure to frustrate:
I speak of the dog that stands in the gate.
We’ll have to gather cows till dark
To bring `em back from his cussed bark.
It’s the kind of performance that I’ve come to hate:
The sight of the dog that stands in the gate.
Now you can be sure, if the picture was changed,
And we’re tryin’ to keep the cattle contained,
If we want the dog to stop `em right there,
The dog’s somewhere else like he hasn’t a care.
But when we start drivin’ the cattle in through,
The dog comes a`runnin’ where we don’t want him to.
It’s something I can’t stand to contemplate:
The sight of the dog that stands in the gate.
I’ve threatened to shoot him, but that’ll never do,
Cause the kids like the dog, and Ma likes him too.
Now don’t get me wrong, I like all my hounds.
On a ranch, they are handy to have around.
And a cowboy’s life is a good one, outside,
In the wide open spaces with a good horse to ride.
But one part of this life that I don’t celebrate,
Yes, it’s that dog that stands in the gate.
© Copyright 2010