Cowboy/Western

The Man in Black

The man in black comin for ya

 

in the night when you least expect

 

A shadow in the distance

 

this undead fiend

 

who sends his respects

 

when he puts two bullets in your chest;

 

you won't know want hit ya

 

and your lifeless corpse dragged by his horse

 

across the wasteland and left behind

 

to be dried by the blazing sun!!!!!!!

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 
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Whiskey and a Bed

Whiskey and a bed

 

Whiskey and a bed

 

I say

 

Take me away

 

for the night

 

give me a place to stay

 

Some peace of mind

 

from the grind

 

Its been a long time

 

since I felt sane

 

Whiskey and a Bed I say!!!!!!!!

Author's Notes/Comments: 
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Death Valley

All out of blood,

no more to shed

 

All out of tears,

nothing left to give

 

Dried up and course

the sands of time continue to take

 

Once a beautiful lake,

where life would congregate

 

But the birds barely chirp now;

just passing through

 

and the Morning dew

evaporateing so quick

 

and the air that is hot

making it hard to think

 

makes me feel suffocated

by the change that has taken place

 

 

 

 

 

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Gunfight

 

On a dusty, vacant street,

an earie silence hovers.

Two men stand on opposite ends-

sizing up each other.

 

The townsfolk hide behind windows,

some peeking through cracked doors.

They all scattered quickly,

and now cluster in shops and stores.

 

Only these two remain,

their shadows, long on the ground.

As they slowly begin walking forward,

~spurs are the only sound.

 

Their sights remain fixed,

into each other's stare.

Both looking for any nervousness-

or apprehension there.

 

Keeping a steady pace,

with all the courage they can muster,

each one carefully lifts a hand-

and moves aside his duster.

 

Lying low upon their hips,

weathered from the sun,

each man wears a leather holster,

cradling their gun.

 

Both of them, stop right then,

boots rooted where they stand.

Their arms are poised at their sides,

~fingers twitching on their hand.

 

Waiting for a move from each other,

with still no sign of the law-

It'll come down to the one man,

who's quicker on the draw.

 

Then in an instant flash,

like that of a lightning bolt,

each man flicks a hand

___and fires off their Colt.

~

 ~

   ~

The air is thick and acrid,

the townsfolk filled with fear.

They curiously peer on out,

as the smoke begins to clear.

 

Only one man remains standing-

alive and still alert.

He survived the gunfight.

~The other lies prone, in the dirt.

 

 

The Old Bunkhouse

Alone and abandonned,
Boarded up and closed down.
It sits perched on a hill, 
Miles from the nearest town.

It's seen many years of living, 
By tough men who worked the land.
It has even heard some music,
From a cowboys solo, front porch band.

The paint is chipped and faded.
The floor is full of cracks and holes,
Probably made by men, 
and their scuffed up, old boot soles.

Here the cowboys layed their heads, 
After a long days work.
The desert dust and smell of cattle,
in this building will always linger and lurk.

It has sat alone for decades now,
As it will in the years that follow.
The memories will fill the cracks,
Even if the building's hollow.

It's seen years of tears and laughter,
From ranch hands day after day.
It will remain a part of their hearts forever, 
Even though some have passed or are old and gray.

Although it will stay abandonned until it's in the ground, 
And see the lives of nothing, except maybe a mouse,
The years of life and memories will live forever,
In this dusty, old Bunkhouse.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I'm new to this so I'll take all the advice I can get!

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A Lonely Ballad

I am just a cowboy
Alone is how I ride
Nothing but my horse and me
I only live to pass the time
Travelin' underneath the sun
Sleepin' neath the moon
My journey ain't gunna end
But my end may come soon

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His Name Was Ono

Speakers of the easy vice
may call upon their chosen twice
and claim a deed was owed by one
and they say his name was Ono.

A western draft of samurai,
made of guns and dirt and knives
with which to throw and shoot and such
at a passing cowboy leisure.

Avoided by each tumbleweed
along their slow and blind stampede;
Ono called to towns at large
and sank his hand to hip.

And as the desert fly did rise,
so did sheriffs meet his eyes;
a man alike with blood and sweat,
who felt the lead and exit-wound.

Purposeless and void of greed;
to slay was Ono's vice indeed.
So slay he did to best his woes
of foregone love and loss and throes.

This walking man of leather stitch
with hands and bones and teeth that itched
would sweep the side of county plains
in search of scratching, clawing, biting things.

So loose his thoughts would tend to be
but sharpened sense would pull his feet
towards an end that may result
in resolve for a man like Ono.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Don't call him Yoko.

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I Wait for You

Folder: 
Songs

The moon shines bright
in the sky tonight
casting long shadows
on the pale limestone

The warm wind blows
on the tumbleweeds go
as I wait for you
to return, my love

The clouds roll in
and the moon grows dim
hiding the stars up high
from my weary drawn eyes

As the warm winds blow
on the tumbleweeds go
as I wait for you
to return, my love

Lightning fills the sky
thunder rolls on by
and the rain falls down
not a soul to be found

Still the warm winds blow
on the tumbleweeds go
as I wait for you
to return, my love

The moon so bright
in the sky tonight
lost in the Heavens above
as I wait for you, my love....

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01-29 Wrong Turn at Aldeberan

Folder: 
DailyPoetryProject

Sleep overtakes me. I struggle against

the ambush that pounced on my brain.

It leaves me to wonder, “why can’t I decide

when to leave this or when to refrain

from searching of dreams and scenes of color

swirling through thoughts not my own?”

The only thing left is to give up the battle

no longer to have the control.

I’m going all in, the cards have been turned,

bet my mind and I’m showing my hand.

I cannot surrender, whenever I try

the flag is removed from my grasp.



Faces contorted as laughter erupts

now I’m waving a finger of foam,

as fists pounding tables in fits of hysteria

scatter the chips as we roam

through deserts and mountains on horseback we travel

in search of a path through the stars

meandering as we attempt to discover

saloons between Venus and Mars.

We’ve been here for days that have turned into hours

to years we no longer keep track

but soon, we agree, we must fill up our rations

return to our horses with tack.



The journey is calling to tear us away

we’ve stayed in one spot for too long.

Finally restless, we’re ready to saddle on up

to continue our song

of gun battles waged against meteoroids

for planets’ and galaxies’ sake.

These villains and all of their deputies

all made their final mistake.

Outlaws together with six shooter stories

and melodies woven in streams

along with the strums of guitars as we venture

through wild west outer space dreams.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Eat some strawberries, read this poem, go to sleep, and tell me what happens.

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