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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.

Old Sentinel

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


Quietly, he watched

With clear, beady eye

Toward snow-freckled landscape,

Ghostly, grey sky.


Frigid wind knifed

Into feathery bone.

Old Canadian Goose

Now completely alone.


Southern fly-ways beckoned

With their annual ring.

Members of his flock

Disappeared on strong wing.


Too old and weak,

No strength left to fly.

Instinct forbade him

To even try.


He honked farewell tiredly

With his remaining might,

As last departing stragglers

Disappeared from sight.


Primary flight feathers,

Ragged, unpreened —

No protection from freezing wind,

Unchecked, unscreened.


Soon white snow

Would blanket the land,

Bringing silent death

To hapless animal and man.


From gosling to maturity,

Years long since gone,

He would die where he hatched

On this small lake he knew as home.




The Path

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


A son of the dirt since my birth,

I look back without rancor or mirth,

And — I remember.


Polished words did not pass my lips,

Nor fine clothes touch my fingertips,

And — I remember.


Without inheritance in the land,

Through struggles and hunger, I grew into a man,

And  — I remember.


Beaten but never bowed,

In the School of Hard Knocks I was endowed,

And — I remember.


Wealth and power were never my goal.

I wanted water for thirst, food for my soul,

And — it happened.


No longer hungry or thirsty, I’m fed and gird.

I’m finding the answers, written in the Word,

And — I won’t forget.


I’ve found the path that’ll take me home,

And I’ll go in peace, remembering,

As I say, “Shalom!”



This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


I’ve climbed snow-capped mountains,

Searched lush valleys below.

I’ve trekked through high aspen meadows,

Drinking where hidden streams flow.


I’ve climbed over lofty crags

And walked through wildflower meadows where you roam.

I’ve smelled spruce-laden air

In the untamed beauty you trod and know as home.


I’ve searched when hot and thirsty,

Muscles crying out in pain.

I’ve hunted while wet and hungry

Against your allies, snow and rain.


When matching wits, my hunter’s tricks

Have all seemed to fail,

Yet your courage and strength never falter

As nature helps you prevail.


Each year, aspen trees

Begin wearing coats of red and gold,

When campfires flicker in the mountains

Against night air, crispy cold.


My ears strain to catch a bugle call,

Which splits the clean, clear air.

The mighty stag, Wapiti,

Is moving in his lair.


Yes, I’ll answer his ringing challenge,

For not to respond would cause me pain.

It’s time to once more play hide-and-seek

On his terms, in his terrain.


This poem is from Autumn Leaves:

I’ll never be a big star, shining on millions where they roam,

But I can be a small candlelight in the darkness,

Helping to guide one solitary figure home.

This is the idea behind why I write, for there is always some good idea that is transmitted. Enjoy!

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