Southwest Cowboy
         Poetry Assoc.
              
    9425 W. Costley Rd.  Amarillo, Texas   79119
  1. Managing Director

To Promote The Cowboy Way of Life Through Poetry and Music

We meet on the 2nd Saturday of each month at 11:00 AM at Crossroads Country Church, 14425 Farm to Market Rd 1541 (South Washington St.) ​​​​​​​​​​Amarillo TX.
​You are welcome to join us!
Bill Crenshaw, President      806 316-7910
Bob Muncy, VP & Treas         806 674-5209
Charolyn Gouldy, Sec            806 683-6500
POEMS & SONGS

MY COWBOY
Genny Peters

I fell in love with a cowboy
Who loved me too, of course,
He was always kind and gentle with me,
But more gentle with his horse.

He told me how much he needed me,
If I left, his heart would be sore,
I knew then how much he loved me
But he loved his horse even more.

He gave me a ring and a puppy,
A beautiful Irish Setter,
He treated me like I was a queen,
But he treated his horse even better.

He wanted me always near him,
He asked me to be his bride,
So we got married in a country church,
While his horse waited right outside.

If troubles arise in the future,
When the honeymoon runs it's course,
If he ever gets tired of this way of life,
It's not his horse he'll divorce.

​​​
Alfalfa and Upkeep
Ivan Cates

You pull in your old conestoga, all rusty and dented,
It was a white one Henry Ford invented,
The feed store's a drain on your measure of wealth,
Any how, it's the way the missus always felt.

If you've got a cavvy of one stove up old roan,
Or it takes a night horse to wrangle all you own,
Alfalfa's your choice of hay for your joy and your pride,
Could be a son of old "Cutter Bill" with a palomino hide.

Or could be a line-backed dun, dishonest and mean,
Or mares and colts to fulfill your dreams.
Don't matter none, it's the way of the west,
A foot in the stirrup, rid'em and feed'em the best.

There are bales rolled in net and 1,000 pound squares,
Or meadow hay when summer rains are fair.
There are more kinds than you've ever seen,
But you like them seventy-pounders all leafy green.

The feed clerk glows when you hand him your roll,
And he tallies up the alfalfa he's sold.
 Throw in the oats, a hoof rasp, liniment and a set of reins,
A slim wallet and empty pockets are all that remain.

Your old roan don't fuss about pipe, primed and painted red,
Or the mares and colts when it's all done and said.
Your upkeep is proper that the ponies require,
Your pens are wood, but mostly alfalfa wire.

You cut the wires at the ties and then you gloat,
And carefully hang them on the cedar post,
You fool 'em every time they make a sale,
You get two free gate latches with every bale.

THE OLD PINTO PONY
Don DeHay

As I stepped out on my porch tonight
there was something that caught my eye,
an old Pinto Pony still tied to the fence
and immediately I knew why.

We've had that old horse all his life
and that's been thirty years or so,
as the things he's done run through my mind
It'll be hard to see him go.

I've seen that old horse do lots of things
in his life here on this range,
Time after time I've seen him turn on a dime,
and have a nickel left in change.

I've seen him throw many a good cowboy
in his younger days of wild,
And I've seen him working all day long
giving rides to every child.

I know that his time on the range is near
cause time has took its toll,
He's weathered the heat in the hot summer time
and in winter he's weathered the cold.

I'll just mosey on out and take his reins
I'll put him up tonight,
So, come on now, you old stick horse
I'm sure my grandson just forgot.

GIVING THANKS
Buck Wehrbein

The last Thursday in November
is what we call Thanksgiving Day.
Folks get together for a big meal;
It's a national holiday.

They mostly think about eatin';
The kids are all out of school
and they all watch the football games,
It's sort of become a rule.

But the hired men a 'horseback
are out seein' after the stock,
And Jesus Christ, the Good Shepherd,
Is always lookin' after His flock.

So thank God for all His blessings,
and without ceasing, pray,
and not just at Thanksgiving time---
we better do it every day.

So always count your blessings,
whether things are smooth or in strife,
'cause every day is Thanksgiving
if Jesus is the Lord of your life.

EIGHT-SECOND DREAMS
Janet Eggleston

(When I was a child growing up, my father participated in small rodeos around our hometown. We were exposed to many rodeo cowboys-some talented, some not- and we learned about their lives by our associations. I have written this in memory of those cowboys, who though they gave it all they had, were never quite talented-or blessed-enough to become world champions. I have wondered what they thought about in their old age. This is my answer to that "unasked question.

He graduated, with top honors,
From schools of hard work and hard knocks;
His body bore the brunt of learning...
From broken bones to jarring shocks.

He never quite could make it happen,
He was always one ride shy;
But he never lacked in courage,
And he never lacked in try.

His past is more real to him
Than the life he lives today;
Inside, he's young and fearless,
But, in truth, he's old and gray.

He's got two scrapbooks full of pictures
Underneath his old bedframe...
Newspaper articles and photos
From his days of rodeo fame.

He spent his youth and years beyond that
Riding horses fighting mad;
But he never reached the National Finals,
Though he gave it all he had.

Some dreams last longer and die harder,
But then, one day, we wake up old;
And the life we wished had happened
We know, now, will never unfold.

There are trophies in the corner,
Dust-covered moments from his life;
They cost a lot for him to earn them.
He left behind his kids and wife.

But if you turn the clock back fifty years,
You'll see a young man in his prime;
He's full of dreams and hope and courage.
He's got grit and lots of time.

Yet... in his mind, he's still bronc riding...
He can smell the horse's sweat;
He climbs aboard that prancing demon
Sure this will be his best ride yet!

 He can hear the crowd now cheering.
The gate swings open, and he's free!
He jerks awake and lies there, silent,
Remembering how it used to be.

He grew up a simple ranch boy,
Not too much different from the rest;
But God gave him special talent...
At riding broncos, he was the best.

So, now he lives a life of memories...
Eight second rides fill up his head;
And if you'll stop a while and visit,
He'll pull out scrapbooks from the bed.

There are many of us like him...
We've all had dreams that fell apart;
But I tip my hat to old bronc riders...
 And to dreams we carry in our heart!

Straight from the ranch to the arena,
 He came with saddle and worn rope;
Full of dreams of fame and glory,
On each wild horse, he pinned his hope.

He and danger were acquainted.
They met at every rodeo;
The cowboy used his skill and strength
to ride each bucking, wild bronco.

THE HORSE
Jake Holster

We should never forget what the horse has done,
Many great men of history have had at least one.
He's been a real friend, a pal to talk to,
He's been faithful, worked hard, but asked little of you.

Them who tears the fences down
Should be the ones to mend 'em
And them that starts the feuds should be
The ones who hafta end 'em.

He likes what he does when working our cattle,
 And he's led roaring charges in many a battle.
He's pulled our forefathers over many a trail,
And with speed and endurance, he's carried the mail.

It's easy to start a feud,
But it's harder to quit it,
When you know you're in the wrong,
It's better to admit it.

He's plowed our fields until ready to drop,
Then at harvest time, he'd haul in our crop.
We rode him to town on a Saturday night,
Where sometimes he'd stay hitched 'til early daylight.

So before you start a ruckus,
Stop and think of how to end it.
If you're the one who breaks the fence,
Then you're gonna' hafta mend it.

He's driven our cattle to a distant rail head,
And in times of danger, run 'till he's dead.
Some of the bucking horses work with great pride,
And it takes all your skill to make a great ride.

You can't take back a nasty word,
Shudda thought before you spoke it,
So get you ready to mend that fence,
If you're the one who broke it.

But he's just hide and bones, some people would say,
Yet in many tough times, he helped make my day.
If Heaven is filled with trails long and wide,
There surely will be some good horses to ride.