The Preacher and the Kid

By William Guthrie

Some of us thought we'd live forever
and some of us had a little more sense,
but we all went to Meetin' on Sundays
for the girlin' and surely not for
too much repentance.

One Sunday mornin' I saw this kid
on the pew right in front of me.
He was sittin' up straight,
his back ramrod stiff, and listenin'
with both ears, he seemed to be.

"1985"

By Rocky Georg Rutherford

I've just hit town not a penny in my jeans,
Been living on candy bars, coffee, and beans.
I been out on the road better part of a year
And what I been doin' just ain't no longer clear.

I been chasin' a dream I can't hardly see
So it's high time I stopped and took a good
look at me
To see if there is one good reason to go on...
Not one, so come morning I will be gone.

God Made the Cowboy

By William Guthrie

The boots may be dusty
and the heels all run down,
but that's just 'cause
he ain't had time to run into town.
His hat's all grimey from sweat
but he'll tell you it's the
best one he's had yet.

That creaky old saddle
fits his backside just right
and the riata he uses
holds a dally real tight.
Speakin' of ropin' and ridin,'
aw, that's just tricks of the trade,
and he'll tell you no time's much better
than when roundup's been made.

The Yondering Man

A Tribute to Louis L'Amour
By William Guthrie

The Yondering Man ? the Yondering Man ?
look down the road,
here comes the Yondering Man ?
give him a place in front of the old camp fire ?

he'll tell you a tale
of a man named Bowdrie who rode for the law,
or maybe of a man called Baker
who was The First Fast Draw.

Listen as he yarns of
How The West Was Won,
or the high flying adventure
of The Heller With A Gun.

A Paint Cain't

By James J. Griffin

I was the new man at the Circle Bar J
Hired for roundup, I’d arrived that same day
Riding my own horse, my faithful paint Jed
An old time cowhand eyed him and said,
“Paints cain’t.”

The Saturday Trail

By Patsy Anne Bickerstaff

When I was just a kid, me and my pardners rode the trail
Long dusty days, to drive the ranchers' cattle down for sale.

We'd sit around the fire at night, spin yarns, count shootin' stars
And hear coyotes wail. We sang, to mouth-harps and guitars.

We hunted buffalo and bandits, too. We used to ride
Up hills, down canyons; all alone, or at the sheriff's side.

Jesse James Poems

By S. Thomas Summers

Absolution

I see `im walk out into the rain
as if he’s wantin’ his skin wet,
his clothes heavy on `im. Just stands
there lookin’ at the mud poolin’
round his feet, but he’s more lookin’
through it than at it – like he sees
somethin’ we all can’t grab hold of.
I hear `im mumble sometimes ‘
maybe prayin’, askin’ that little Jesus
to drip some holy blood on the peak
of his head – let it wash down
over `im like a sweet song.

The White Blanket

By William Guthrie

I am dressed in my family’s finest array.
My body is tense, I feel I am trembling.
My heart is alive, anticipating.
Just beyond the spider-web shadow of a cottonwood tree
with a gentle spring sun caressing my face
Mother Earth blossoms before me.
I go to pray, draped in a blanket of blue.

Miles From Minot

By Bob Moreland

Amber prairie grass bows before
west zephyrs, undulating sea.
Horizon endless, range adore,
just my dappled grey mare and me.

Some would fear this rare solitude,
breathing matching kiss of the wind…
High in the saddle, stretch, gaze shrewd;
God's paintbrush, beginning to end.

Burning daylight with miles to go,
small ranch house warm awaits beyond.
Sun caressed black hills, touched with snow,
whisper to my horse, she responds.

He Roams Alone

By Allen Coyle

He roams alone down country roads,
And plays in small-town bars.
A poor young man raised on a ranch,
Who strums a worn guitar.

He composes tunes within his head,
With sad and mournful lines.
His lyrics are past experiences,
Rewritten with notes and rhymes.

He'll nod his head and tip his hat,
And play alone onstage.
And a room, or beer or pretty girl
Is all he'll ask for wage.