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Tribute To A Cowboy
In Loving Memory of
March 15, 1950 - July 4, 2004
Sadly Missed, Always Remembered, Forever Loved
I'm sure God has a ranch in Heaven
A place for cowboys to call home
With dusty trails and deep passes
Where cows and horses freely roam
I picture you up on a ledge
Gazing at the draws below
Leaning forward with your Thirty X
Stetson hat pulled way down low
I can 'bout hear the leather creaking
When your gelding switches feet
Your spurs softly jingle in the wind
Your rope's tied on and coiled neat
There is contentment on your face
You're happy, but I can't pretend,
Though I'm glad you've made God's journey,
That I can truly comprehend
In my earthly ways I question
The reasons God took you away
I guess the timing was exactly right
To enter Heaven on that day
The only comfort I have found
That puts my grief to rest
Is that God only takes the top hands
Because His crew's the very best
We still cry and we sure miss you
And all the things that might have been
But God needed one more cowboy
And He felt you'd fit right in
So He sent down all His ranch hands
An extra horse stood at their side
Then he softly whispered to you
"Saddle up, my friend, let's ride"
© 2006, Diane Tribitt
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Email Diane Tribitt: tribitt@brainerd.net
Dusty Trails
by: Ronald Shultz
He lived the life of a cowboy
Now he's just too old to ride.
The years have taken away his joy
And now they're beating on his pride.
He loved the Rodeo
And for those days his heart pines
As he sits staring on the front porch
As if looking for Heavenly signs.
His face is worn and wrinkled
Like the Stetson hat he wears.
There are lines on his face
For each of his worldly cares.
There's no young person to listen
To the stories that must be told.
Lord, it's Hell for a spirit so free
To be trapped in a body so old.
He once was a hero
That men told of in their tales
Now those days are just memories
Of good horses and dusty trails.
He mouths his harmonica
And plays a mournful song.
The young cowpuncher in his soul
Never knew days so long.
Then one night as he listens
To that old lonely whip-poor-will,
The trail comes to an end
And his cowboy heart lies still.
His pardners gather around and yell
As the Parson bows his head to pray.
They let loose a volley because they know
That today the cowboy just rides away.
Copyright Jul 18,1994
Email Ronald Shultz: mavmin@live.com
Website: http://mavmin.org
TRAIL'S END
He rode in from the gather,
Where a cold rain fell all day,
A thin old grizzled rider,
His hair and beard were gray.
He carried up his saddle,
He had a bad limp to his walk,
He groaned some as he set it down,
But wasn't big on talk.
He rode an association saddle,
Basket stamped without a horn,
Once it was a beauty,
Now old and badly worn.
And on his scuffed embroidered boots,
He wore Jim Shoulders spurs,
strapped down hard from shank to heel,
It's the way that he prefers.
He scooped a plate of Cooky's stew,
Standing as he ate,
He finished up and wiped his mouth,
Cooky took his plate.
He poured himself a coffee,
Then squatted down and sat.
Trying to protect his coffee,
From rain running off his hat.
They say he once was big time,
In the world of rodeo,
He'd won a lot of trophys,
But that was long ago.
Those glory days are long ended.
And the pickings have been slim,
The money and the fame are gone,
But the memories live on in him.
He leaned back and rolled a smoke,
Gazed up at the dark clouds,
Smiled a bit as if remembering,
The cheering of the crowds.
He crawled into his old slugoon ,
And he pulled his boots inside,
Then sometime during that rainy night,
That good old cowboy died.
Del Gustafson (c) 2010
