Monthly Archives: November 2013


This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


Seek not for that which is not,

Nor ever was.

Follow not after lies

Or man-made cause.


Seek out truth and

“Peace be still.”

Let your heart and soul

Be filled.


Seek for that which was

And still is.

Love and LifeĀ  —

Both are His.


More precious than the Rubaiyat

of Omar Khayyam.

Seek and find the one

And only true “I AM.”

Cowboy Heaven

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


The cowboys are gone,

At least so I hear.

“Not so,” said my friend,

“Lend me your ear.”


Acting very quickly

On my friend’s good advice,

I went to Cowboy Heaven

And did a double take — twice.


The dance hall was crowded,

And, folks, I will swear

There were cowboys and cowgirls

Dancing everywhere.


One tall wrangler

Stood out so stark…

He wore a neon hatband

That glowed in the dark.


He wore an oilskin outbacker

That reached his boot tops.

He was sweating and stomping

To fast country pop.


Another short puncher

Cam shufflin’ along.

He was dressed up for dancin’

And bad-to-the-bone.


He wore a flannel checkered shirt

While his partner wore lace.

His huge belt buckle shone.

Mascara ran down her face.


Another wrangler came driftin’ by

Wearing sandals and socks.

He bellied up to the bar

And ordered Schnapps on the rocks.


It sounded like thunder

As boots shook the floor.

They did the Boot Scootin’ Boogie

And were anxious for more.


One huge cowgirl

Dancing and struttin’ around

Must have weighed in

At three hundred pounds.


She and her puncher

Were having a fling.

She was large enough

To rope steer with a string.


The music was so loud

My nerves were a-tingling.

This one rowdy romped by…

His spurs were a-jingling.


Cowboy Heaven, Do-si-dos,

Electric Slide, and Cotton-eyed Joe,

Achy Breaky, sweat and strain,

Cowboys and cowgirls feelin’ no pain.


The music slowed down…

You could even hear the tune.

Some crooner was singing

About a Neon Moon.


Why did I worry myself

About the cowboys being gone?

They’re all at the Cowboy Heaven,

And they’ve all found a home.

The Cowboys Are Gone

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


A season for all things,

Boot prints faded from the land.

The cowboys are gone

Like Custer’s Last Stand.


No more night herder singing

A lonesome cattle call.

No friendly campfire banter

In soft Texas drawl.


No more loaded chuck wagon,

Clattering over the trail,

And no crabby trail cook

Giving the cowboys pure Hell!


No more dust and sweat,

Long hours in the saddle.

Riding swing or drag,

Always herding the cattle.


No more painted ladies.

No wild cattle town.

The sun for the cowboy

Has already gone down.


The prairie’s plowed up

Thanks to a man named John Deere.

The cowboys are long gone,

But the cows are still here.


They’re kept in large feedlots,

Fed good every day —

Never to graze on green grass

The old fashioned way.


They’ll never smell a branding fire

Or feel a branding iron.

They’ll know only force-feeding,

And they’ll sure know barbed wire.


I watched a rancher

Out in the rain and muck,

Feeding his cattle

From his old pick up truck.


It’s written that the West isn’t a place,

But a state of mind.

Yet something is missing,

Like yesterday’s wine.


It’s the end of an era,

But shed not a tear.

The cowboys are gone,

But the cows are still here.


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