Poems for Solemn Occasions. A Cowboy's er(Written for Mother)Oh Lord, I've never lived where churchesgrow. I love creation better as it stood.
That day You finished it so long ago. And looked upon Your work and called itgood. I know that others find You in the light. That's sifted down through tinted windowpanes,And yet I seem to feel You near tonight. In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains. I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well,That You have made my freedom so com- plete; That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell,Nor weak- eyed prisoner of wall and street. Just let me live my life as I've begun.
And give me work that's open to the sky; Make me a pardner of the wind and sun,And I won't ask a life that's soft or high. Let me be easy on the man that's down; Let me be square and generous with all. I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm intown,But never let 'em say I'm mean or small! Make me as big and open as the plains,As honest as the hawse between my knees,Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains,Free as the hawk that circles down thebreeze! Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget. You know about the reasons that are hid. You understand the things that gall and fret; You know me better than my mother did.
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Just keep an eye on all that's done and said. And right me, sometimes, when I turnaside,And guide me on the long, dim, trail ahead. That stretches upward toward the Great. Divide. Badger Clark. Sun and Saddle Leather, 1.
This poem is in the public domain and does not require permission for. Men in the. Men in the rough—on the trails all new- broken—Those are the friends we remember with tears; Few are the words that such comrades have spoken—Deeds are their tributes that last through the years.
Men in the rough—sons of prairie and mountain—Children of nature, warm- hearted, clear eyed; Friendship with them is a never- sealed fountain; Strangers are they to the altars of pride. Men in the rough—curt of speech to their fellows—Ready in everything, save to deceive; Theirs are the friendships that time only mellows,And death cannot sever the bonds that they weave. Arthur Chapman, from Out Where the West. Begins, 1. 91. 7This poem is in the public domain and does not. The o. Twister’s Prayer.
It was a little grave yardon the rolling foot hill plains: That was bleached by the sun in summer,swept by winter’s snows and rains; There a little bunch of settlersgathered on an autumn day. Please won’t you Jim?
It makes you feel plum sad. It brings the old days back again, you live them one by one. You think of things that happened then, and what you should have. They say there'll be a Judgment Day when dead men rise again.
So I suppose he'll have to stay just where he is till then. But then you reckon that the one who made the world knows best.
He takes them when their work is done and lets them have their. And when at last our strength has failed we make our last long.
We leave this world and take the trail across the great divide. So when it's time to make the change we'll go where they have. We'll meet them on another range somewhere in the beyond.
Bruce Kiskaddon. Union Stockyards Calendar poem This poem is in the public domain and does not require permission for use Me No. Grave. Make me no grave within that quiet place. Where friends shall sadly view the grassy mound,Politely solemn for a little space,As though the spirit slept beneath the ground. For me no sorrow, nor the hopeless tear; No chant, no prayer, no tender eulogy: I may be laughing with the gods- -while here.
You weep alone. Then make no grave for me. But lay me where the pines, austere and tall,Sing in the wind that sweeps across the West: Where night, imperious, sets her coronal.
Of silver stars upon the mountain crest. Where dawn, rejoicing, rises from the deep,And Life, rejoicing, rises with the dawn: Mark not the spot upon the sunny steep,For with the morning light I shall be gone. Far trails await me; valleys vast and still,Vistas undreamed of, canyon- guarded streams,Lowland and range, fair meadow, flower- girt hill,Forests enchanted, filled with magic dreams.
And I shall find brave comrades on the way: None shall be lonely in adventuring,For each a chosen task to round the day,New glories to amaze, new songs to sing. Loud swells the wind along the mountain- side,High burns the sun, unfettered swings the sea,Clear gleam the trails whereon the vanished ride,Life calls to life: then make no grave for me!
Henry Herbert Knibbs. Songs of the Trail, 1. This poem is in the public domain and does not require permission for use. Only a few of us understood.
His saddle horse and his pack- horse, as lean as a winter steer,As he rode alone on the mesa, intent on his endless quest,Old Tom Bright of the Pecos, a ghost of the vanished West. His gaze was fixed on the. As he jogged from the Rio Grande to the pueblo of Santa F. Henry Herbert Knibbs, from. Saddle Songs and Other Verse, 1.
This poem is in the public domain and does not require permission for use. When I think of the last great round- up,On the eve of eternity's dawn,I think of the past of the cowboys.
Who have been with us here and are gone. And I wonder if any will greet me. On the sands of the evergreen shore. With a hearty, . Sharlot Hall wrote in her diary: . Say that I have gone on an eternal prospecting trip. Now, I see you ride before me,as my feet trod earthly. I watch you vanish in the sunrise.
Go with God! You can. Jay. Please give the author credit when reciting or printing this poem. Dan —February 1. 4. March 2. 2, 2. 01.
For my husband, my best friend, my cowboy. It's not the end of the trail for me,I'm just headin' out to the light I see. Beyond those mountains there's a soft glow; It's gettin' brighter the closer I go. It's like the beginning of a new day,And the trail I'm followin' leads the way. I feel sure there's friends and family ahead,And they've set up camp on a brand new spread. Yes, I can hear the voices callin' my name,sayin', . You can email Jay.
Please give the author credit when reciting or printing this poem. Moonlight He was my friend and he. All alone, just me and him. But I knew no one could help him now. Because life's thread was getting thin. I'd built a campfire out of deadwood.
Wrapped him in his soogan tight. Watched the campfire challenge darkness. As the sunset welcomed night. I put the coffee on from habit. Though I knew he couldn't drink.
I hoped the smell would comfort him. Maybe give me time to think. The trip was one of many made. For twenty years and more. Just two old friends that fished high lakes.
And watched the eagles soar. I'll never know what spooked his horse. He was mountain bred and born. But something made him rear and fall. Pinned my pard beneath the horn.
His lungs were crushed past talking. But his eyes were still alert.
As I eased his saddle 'neath his head. He tried to hide his hurt. I masked the tears that stormed my eyes. There was no time to cry. Somehow I had to find the strength.
To watch my best friend die. I told him I was helpless. I had done all I could do. But I would stay with him until the end. Then the hidden tears came through. His hand moved slowly over mine. Then he raised one finger high.
His gaze seemed fixed beyond the stars. As he pointed to the sky.
His lips were slowly moving. And though they uttered not a word. I sensed that he was talking. To some presence I'd not heard. You can email Jay. Please give the author credit when reciting or printing this poem.
Jay Jones wrote this poem. You can read more about it.