Throwback Thursday: Cowboy Poems, Part 3!

Oh hey there, readers. You’re in luck! It’s time for our next installment of Throwback Thursday, the most recent series of which recounts my childhood obsession with cowboys and my propensity toward god-awful poetry.

Are you sick of these yet?

Here’s another:

Three nooses swayed loose in the breeze like a sigh.
Three men stood informal for this brand of necktie.

Exists a trail, a quick inhale,
In the depths of the old frontier.
It houses dregs, and spider legs,
And sounds that bite your ear.

The path he chose, knew all his foes,
Was one of fear and dread.
And none would choose to walk that way
Who were not walking dead.

But ‘long the path, out broke the wrath,
Amongst the murky gray
Of a rider spent, and deeply bent
On revenge against those who betray.

A woman sat weeping against a cold floor,
Thinking maybe she’d dreamt that she’d opened the door.

She’d bid him to stay, in her courteous way,
And insisted he sit by the fire.
Her smile was sweet, and her tiny home neat
And her dress was of brilliant sapphire.

The rider, next morning, was first to awake,
And rushed home on a paranoid whim.
He had dreamt of his life, and his satisfied life,
But came home to none other but him.

His wife sat up straight, and did not have to wait
For the man at the door to react.
She assumed he would break every precious keepsake,
But alas, he’d left each one intact.

And what do you think any sane man would do,
Despite what the judges and laws told him to?

Upon the horses weighted back,
Two bodies rose and fell.
And all of the trees, like the poor horse’s knees,
Were submersed in a terrible hell.

The man in the front, who was drained from the hunt,
Slanted forward in bone-weary slump.
His bloody companion, whose breath now was still,
Rode as cargo on the horse’s bare rump.

The rider now sped, for just up ahead,
Lay a shovel and a hill
And next to them, a six-foot hole
Where he would dump his kill.

Three nooses swung loose as a clergyman prayed,
Three men were marched forward – and two were afraid.

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Throwback Thursday: More Cowboy Poems

Happy Throwback Thursday, everybody.

For those of you who weren’t here for our last Throwback Thursday installment, this week I’ll be continuing with my series of cowboy poems.

I have to chuckle when I read these, because they very literally have no rhyme or reason. There’s no clear plot line, sketchy scenery descriptions, and usually a pretty abrupt ending because my brain started hurting trying to sculpt a cohesive rhythm. So I hope you’ll forgive my total lack of general storytelling etiquette.

But in any case, I’ve been thoroughly enjoying binge-walking down memory lane lately, so I’m gonna share. Here’s another:

A defined black silhouette cut through the brilliant orange sky.
It grew quickly as it neared where Dr. Kelly heaved a sigh.
The man rode hard as beads of sweat ran sideways ‘cross his face,
And fourteen miles away, made Dr. Kelly start to pace.

The woman stirred in bed, and doing so, let out a moan.
The doctor only shook his head and thought, “I should have known.”
The man on horseback yelled a slew of loud, impatient words.
The sky darkened behind him as he raced a flock of birds.

His horse was panting hard when that first star shone clear and bright.
Others like it took their place in the icy threatening night.
He shook the reigns again, last trace of purple drowning east…
The gap closed now to twelve miles, and Dr. Kelly’s fear increased.

The rim of his old cowboy hat was wet with sweat and blood.
The bottom of his boots and jeans were caked in orange mud.
His shirt was ripped, his jacket torn, his face upset and scared…
But Dr. Kelly stood convinced that he just didn’t care.

Another painful moan came from the woman on the bed.
The doctor wandered to her side and felt a burning head.
“There’s nothing I can do,” he whispered with a silent tear.
More followed with the blatant lie, “Your husband’s almost here.”

Eight miles away, a tired shadow pushed against the cold.
He’d been riding for hours, now, from the moment he was told.
The messenger had brought the news that made his heart stop dead.
“Your wife’s in grave condition, sir,” the poor young man had said.

And grave was too cheerful a word to apply in his wife’s room,
For death was hovering nearby, and toward her bed it loomed.
Six miles to go, the ride pressed, and screamed a silent prayer:
“Dear God, I know I’ve made mistakes, but this just isn’t fair.”

Throwback Thursday: Susie and her cowboy poems…

Hardly anyone I went to high school with reads my blog, but if they did they’d be rolling their eyes right now.

I may have mentioned my obsession with poetry in a previous post… and I believe I also mentioned how absurdly god-awful my poems were. What I haven’t discussed yet, was my perpetual fascination with cowboy-themed poems. (I was reading a lot of Zane Grey at the time.)

There was just something about the romance of riding horseback, kicking up dust and adventuring into the great wide nowhere with nothing but a bandana around your neck and a revolver at your hip.

It grabbed hold of my heart and hung on tight – as it did so many writers before me. And as such, my crude attempts at poetry began to assume the tropes of the Wild West.

In the next Throwback Thursday series, I’ll recount a few of the poems here… as long as I have your assurance, dear reader, that you won’t judge them.

(Note: None of them are titled. I’ve always struggled with titling things – a trait that has followed me into my current writing career. Also, I know I change tenses and I use adjectives instead of adverbs. I’m sorry, okay?)

Late at night, in the dark and the wet
When the light is teased and shunned,
There rides a man weighted down with regret
And the thick metal sheath of his gun.

He slumps on his saddle, tired and worn
His silhouette not but a clod:
A sorrowful cowboy whose jacket is torn
And whose morals are tragically flawed.

Yes tragically flawed are the morals of he,
Who sits in his hollow, on heaps of debris,
And grins as he waits for his poor enemy,
Yes, flawed are the morals of he.

A labyrinthine cavern, just miles away
Was where he’d established his lair.
He had good intentions, although I daresay
That his victim had hardly a prayer.

The hapless approached as his murderer waited
And as he arrived at the den
Sat a man with a pistol, all conscience abated.
A shot rang out once – then again.

Yes, two shots rang out that night, painfully clear,
And out of the cavern, two bodies appear,
The live one discernibly bearing a sneer,
Yes, the shots rang out painfully clear.

And now as he rides, he is ridden with shame
And can taste acrid guilt on his breath,
For he knows that he deserves all of the blame
For that miserable, undeserved death.

 

Happy Throwback Thursday, world!