POETRY PAGE 1

That Little Utah Home

The campfire burns a bit less bright, his pony waits there close

A lazy trail of smoke heads for the sky

He's riding home to meet old friends on a saddle trimmed with gold

He turns to grin, then tips his hat and bids us all goodbye

While the rest of us tend to the herd, we'll think of him and smile

Remembering how he brightened up our day

The trail boss shook his hand and said, "Good job there buckaroo.

You've done your best, now ride for home, go draw your final pay".

He's headed for the glowing sun, that's setting in the west

Singing of that last long dusty ride

There will be no more of punchin' cows, or nights spent in the rain

His pony knows the way now with a sure and steady stride

A cool breeze gently blows, the trail is smooth and low

A perfume fills the air from bright spring flowers

Days of wearin' spurs are done, there's no more need to roam

As the sun sets on that little Utah home

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

These lyrics were written following the death of Larry Sandburg in April, 2003.

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This Cowboy's Dream

Ridin' down the valley, I've got my summer wages

It's been a long drive now I'm on my way home

Got some brand new boots and I'm standin' in my stirrups

Pretty soon I hope I'm not alone

It's been a long dusty summer pushin' cows from Texas

We drove 'em up north to the Wyoming hills

Saw a lot of rattlesnakes, saw a lot of locust

With cattle drives I've had my fill

I know a pretty Mormon girl who lives just south of Jackson

I figure that she likes me, I think her folks do too

I finally have enough for a little ranch in Utah

Hopin' that my single days are through

Annie is a rancher's daughter from the lower valley

I met her in a meadow, she was standing in the sun

When she smiled and said "Hello", it touched my dusty heart

I knew my wild cowboy days were done

All the punchers on the drive, they told me not to do it

They said that gettin' hitched is a sentence worse than jail

But they've never seen the girl that I dream about

The one that sends me letters in the mail

I've pondered long and hard whether I should leave this cowboy life

With it's endless days and nights of bacon, bread and beans

But then I see her picture that I keep here in my pocket

I know that she is this cowboy's dream

That was thirty years ago, the time has passed so quickly

Our four healthy sons have grown to be fine men

The little ranch in Utah is still in the family

If I could, I'd do it all again

I hope there's many years that we're together down the trail

Annie's such a joy with her laugh and her smile

She keeps this cowboy straight with her spirit and her love

I'm thankful heaven gave her to me all the while

I think of my young days and the cattle drives from Texas

Had I listened to the cowpokes, the way things could've been

The trail calls me sometimes but I quit that dusty life

For the girl in this cowboy's dream

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

This poem is a true chapter of my life. After spending two years in Texas, I came home to Utah and rattled around single for nearly four years until I met and married a girl from Star Valley, Wyoming.

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The Young Cowboy

I'm in my saddle, and I'm sittin' on a horse

We're pushin' cattle, they don't wan'to move of course

We're drivin' up the trail, takin' these dogies up for sale

Cause I'm a Cowboy

I'm young and lean, I'm a man that's in his prime

I'm seventeen, and I do my job just fine

I can ride and throw a rope, while my pony's on a lope

A good'nuff Cowboy

We'll be in St. Joe, in a week or two ... or three

This herd moves too slow, for a young cowpoke like me

I'll find a gal all pretty dressed, and I hope she'll be impressed

That I'm a Cowboy

Our camp cook Scrappy, does what he can to keep us fed

He's always happy, they say he's Texas born and bred

But I'm lately cravin' greens, 'stead of salt-pork, tack n' beans

I'm a Cowboy

Back on the roundup, Slim and me we're quite a pair

He's an old pup, but he still sports most his hair

It's a wonder he's still alive, he's nearin' sixty-five

And still a Cowboy

A bolt of lightnin', the distant rain begins to pour

It's kinda frightnin', they say those Kansas twisters roar

But it's blowin' south today, and we're drivin' the other way

We’re lucky Cowboys

This wild old mustang, I never got 'im broke too well

He’s trouble by dang, and nothin’s changin’ I can tell

He’s gonna feel my spurs for sure, if he bites my leg once more

I’m one mad Cowboy

It’s time to bed down; the herd is millin’ for the night

I’ll do my guard rounds, later on before it’s light

I’m layin’ in prairie flowers, beneath a million stars

I’m a tired Cowboy

Gazin’ at the big bright moon, hope we get there pretty soon

I’m a Cowboy

05-04-99 -- 08:00 - 12:30

10-05-04 – 04:00 – 05:00 Revised

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

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The Weber Canyon Wind

I'm running for my life this mornin'

Away, from a posse of nine men

They're nearly half a day behind me

With hand-cuffs, shackles, guns and lead

They'd like to take me back and hang me

I shot a home town cowboy dead

I'm a lone man from another county

But there's a girl who knew what was done and said

She cried that she was sad and lonely

But her eyes showed she was wild within

I could not help but to stop and stay there with her

I should have run like the Weber Canyon Wind

Her cowboy rode in last night and found us

He stopped me from leaving through the door

His shots fired in anger went right passed me

With no choice I left him dying on the floor

The eyes of the girl, they flashed like lightning

She told me she wanted me no more

I stumbled out confused and found my pony

Then the girl laughed like she's done this before

She ran to town to find the Marshall

Telling tales that were untrue

If I had known that she could be so evil

I might have ended her life too

But now my pony's getting weary

I'm in some hills that I don't know

The posse just rode in below me

And now I have no where to go

The trial lasted twenty minutes

My story fell on angry ears

They chose to believe the Marshall's daughter

With her lies and her cold false hearted tears

Please give me strength to die a brave man

Even though I cry, and then

The rope goes tight and I am swinging

Side to side in the Weber Canyon Wind

4-6-99 10:00 - 13:00

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

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Cabin Fever

The middle of autumn is a sure time to look, for strays way back in the hills

But a storm blew in early and fierce was the wind, a cowboy the fighting the chills

With help from his horse a cabin was found, he worried of gettin' home late

But after one week of unyielding snow, he could only sit helpless and wait

The weather got mean, he had not seen this in all of his twenty-five years

Deer in the hills were freezing to death, turning loose a man's mortal fears

Three weeks went by, with what little he had, the cowboy somehow survived

But there was no way to save his poor horse, so he said a farewell and cried

A prisoner of nature who longs for his girl, sometimes believing he sees her

Can he take one more day starin' at those dark walls, is he able to fight cabin fever

A strong bodied man can take more than most, but not so his fragile mind

The dreams that haunt it sometimes become real, and truth becomes hard to find

Twenty-one weeks had passed into time before the searchers arrived

As they broke throught the snow they found the dead horse, it was missing part of one side

They could tell by the tracks around the poor beast, there was no sign the wolves had been there

But the tracks of a man gave them cause for hope, is the cowboy alive somewhere

They entered the cabin and found the young man, in the shadows of hopeless despair

All though he seemed fit, they looked in his eyes, it was as if nobody was in there

They had found him too late he was talkin' to ghosts, and a girl, thought they couldn't see her

His thoughts were unable to stay in this world, he's a victim of cabin fever

He's lost in cabin fever

03-06-00 04:25 - 07:15

10-20-05 Revised

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Definition of Cabin Fever - A type of hysteria brought on by spending too much time indoors.

This poem comes from my experinces of being around people suffering from Schizophrenia. It is truly a terrible condition. In the late 1800's, Cabin Fever was a term of a more serious nature. Since I write my poetry as if I were a cowpuncher in the 19th century, there's no hope of treating this unfortunate cowboy.

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The Tail Of Ol' Bud

One sunny summer day me and ol' Bud

Were travelin' out on the trail

I was whistlin' n' singin' a song that I knew

And ol' Bud he was swishin' his tail

The weather was warm not a cloud in the sky

We were movin' along through some trees

When a swish of Bud's tail made a nightmare appear

He knocked down a hive full of bees

I reckon I didn't think all that much of it

Until ol' Bud started to kick

He was swishin' his tail, n' jumpin' around

I had to get thinkin' real quick

So I clinched my knees into his side good n' hard

Grabbin' onto the saddle horn tight

Then Ol' Bud reared up and he danced back and forth

Like some cowboy on Saturday night

I could see all those bees were swarmin' n' mad

They were flyin' around everywhere

A buzzin' n' hittin' n' divin' n' stingin'

n' stickin' in poor ol' Bud's hair

I was feelin' real bad for the pain he was in

Hangin' on for a terrible wreck

Then one of those critters buzzed down there and stung me

Right hard on the side of my neck (Sweet Martha it hurt)

I've felt some bad pain in my life once or twice

When I've taken a fall off a horse

Or grippin' the arms of an ol' barbers chair

While gettin' teeth yanked out with force

I been stepped on n' kicked hard n' bitten real bad

My leg caught between Bud and a tree

I've never been shot but I'm sure that the pain

Is the same as the sting of a bee

In the buzzin' n' dust n' confusion

Ol' Bud n' me got turned around

And headed back there to that beehive

It was spread out all over the ground

That swarm of them angry bees hit us as if

It was buckshot that's fired at a barn

Was eternity showin' up next on the trail

Could this be how I buy the farm

Ol' Bud's always been, a nice gentle horse

I've loved him and treated him kind

But the mustang that's in 'im is comin' out now

I bet money he's losin' his mind

A spinnin' and screamin' like Satan himself

Then he bucked n' I started to fly

He threw me as high as a buzz bomb from China

That you'd see fired off in July

I hear tell when you get close to leavin' this world

That you see your whole life with your eyes

So I knew the Grim Reaper was not chasin' me

When all that I saw was the skies

But then as I tumbled up there through the air

I started to comin' back down

Religion came quick as I yelled out a prayer

Cause all I could see was the ground

I hit like an old burlap sack full 'a spuds

That's been tossed off the second floor

With the dust and the bees still flyin' 'round me

And gettin' stung many times more

Ol' Bud he ran off and I felt like a fool

For the way that I'd got myself thrown

I think I know now how that old cowboy felt

That stepped up on the Strawberry Roan

I soon found my feet and I ran down the trail

A whistlin' n' yellin' fer Bud

I spied him at last he was rollin' around

On a creek bank there in the cool mud

Still wearin' the saddle I bought just last week

With my favorite bridle and reins

Right now I don't care so just make some room where

I can jump in for some of the same

We finally got over that day with the bees

And the swelling went down in a week

But we won't forget how we got in that mess

And were saved by that small muddy creek

So now I'm keepin' my one good eye open

For trouble out there on the trail

And I've noticed a curious change in my horse

Ol' Bud has quit swishin' his tail

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Before I was born, my granddad had a working team in Davis County, Utah. Their names were Bud and Tarzan. I write my poetry and songs as if I were a cowpuncher in the mid to late 19th century. Edgar Rice Burroughs didn't create Tarzan until the early 20th century, so I could only write about Bud.

MY CHRISTMAS POETRY

A Day In December

In a line shack in the mountains of Utah

In late December so cold

My ol' dog Ry, with his two light blue eyes,

Lays watchin' the warm glowing coal

Soft wood and a jackknife keep me company

As I carve out a small wooden horse

On the long winter nights, the old oil lamp lights,

Those bare walls of timbers so coarse

My memories go back to my young days

When my mother and I went to town

This same time of year, 'cause she wanted to hear,

A preacher that was comin' around

He spoke of a mother and father

And a young baby just barely born

I remember a star, and three men traveled far,

And angels that played golden horns

I recall there was somethin' said of cattle

And how they were quiet and still

Near the baby so small, as he lay in the stall,

In a stable near the top of a hill

"The babe was a king", said the preacher

"That shepherds and rich men would praise

He was sent to this earth, in a humble, quiet birth,

In December we remember that day"

I've seldom set foot inside a church

Only two or three times at the most

I'm a cowboy that rides, and kicks dogies sides,

And goes searchin' for strays that are lost

But when snow falls my thoughts are of mother

And the preacher who stood there so tall

On a day in December, and a tale I remember,

Of a star and a baby so small

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

The above picture and poem was my Christmas card for 2005

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"Seein' Santa" by Charles M. Russell - 1910

The painting at left is displayed at www.cowboypoetry.com, and was the inspiration for the following poem.

Uncle Charlie's Christmas Eve

Before every Christmas, we'd revel in glory,

As great-uncle Charlie, would tell us the story

Of a cold Christmas Eve, back in nineteen n'ten

Out near Johansen's, dear Karin and Sven.

He was ridin' from town after gettin' some things,

To give to my folks, for the joy such fun brings.

A generous man, quite sober and straight,

Bein' happy was why Uncle Charlie was great.

The sun had not set, but was floatin' real low,

Above the horizon of fog and light snow.

The air was dead calm, with nary a sound

'Cept the breath of his horse, as its hooves hit the ground.

He heard in the silence, but sure didn't know

Whether sleigh bells were ringing, or a voice said; "Ho ho."

When stopping his horse in its tracks on the trail,

The sound seemed to come from way down in the vale.

Then all became quiet, as a corpse in a tomb.

After listening awhile, nudged his horse to resume.

Most likely the Frogget boys out on a tear.

But weren't they in Texas, on a roundup down there?

Next he heard sleigh bells from the ridge up ahead,

As an old soundin' voice spoke to someone and said,

"Girls and boys it's hopeless, I'm afraid we're lost!

In this thick winter fog, my directions got crossed."

"We just need to find a good soul who well knows,

Where Johansen's place is, to leave'm these clothes."

Upon hearin' this Uncle Charlie spoke out,

Through the fog he acknowledged, with a half-hearted shout;

"Peace to you friend! I know Karin n' Sven.

You're not too far off, I'll just whistle, and then

Follow the sound over here, to the trail.

I'll give you directions good enough you won't fail."

Charlie puckered his lips and began Silent Night.

A voice through the mist cried, "Circle to the right!"

Charlie had doubts of what to expect,

There was no sound of hooves, which he could detect.

Sleigh bells were ringing as if all around,

And back to his left, 'bout a foot off the ground

Came a team of small reindeer all hitched to a sleigh,

With an old driver guidin'm down Charlie's way.

Charlie's whistle went dry and his eyes got real big,

When seein' how this old man handled that rig.

The team bore in close, at a gallopin' speed,

Then stopped in a wink as those reindeer took heed.

The old gentleman smiled, then said; "Th' name's Kringle."

Charlie froze stiff, with his skin in a tingle

Knowin' full well from the stories he knew,

That a legend of fancy, must somehow be true.

Kringle told Charlie, "You've saved us dear friend.

We got turned around when we had to descend.

This cloudbank you're in, as near as I've seen,

Runs from Sigurd to Preston, and all towns between."

Great-uncle Charlie soon started to grin,

Then thought of the hurry that Kringle was in.

"Take this trail back, to a lone poplar tree,

Turn a hard left to Johansen's, you'll see."

For kindness received, Kringle reached in the back

Of his sleigh to retrieve, a brown paper sack

Full of oranges and candy, and a bottle of cheer,

That Charlie kept always, as his own souvenir.

Old Kringle shouted, "Take it up boys and girls!"

They disappeared quick in the fog and snow swirls.

The sound of the bells, helped Charlie to trace

Whether Kringle had made it to Johansen's place.

Their last visit finished, away they did fly.

Looking up, Charlie glimpsed through the haze in the sky

A sleigh and eight reindeer, off to the west,

As he held hat in hand, up close to his chest.

I realize it's hard to have faith in this yarn.

Let me be clear, I could not give a darn.

My dear sainted uncle convinced me it's true.

I'm here to say now that I'll prove it to you.

Before passing on, he left in his will,

The sealed antique bottle, which I possess still.

In print, on the label, the words clearly state:

"North Pole Distillers - 1908"

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

The above picture and poem was my 2004 Christmas card

I actually have the bottle mentioned in the last verse.

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St. Nic's Beginnings Pt. 1

In the mid 1800's when St. Nic was young

In the days when he started that long midnight run

He knew there were children who needed some joy

With a sock full of candy, or a small hand carved toy

Though the way to accomplish this feat of good cheer

Was not yet perfected, using sleigh and eight deer

A system of transport from the old wild west

Was tried early on and put to the test

A twenty mule team, with wagons behind

Would carry those gifts the children would find

Yep, that spry jolly elf was once a muleskinner

Of course he was younger and quite a bit thinner

His mules were all sturdy, with strength that would last

But a method was needed to help them move fast

An old man from Persia told St. Nic to try

A secret, when used, would make carpets fly

With effort and practice it worked like a dream

Though acres were needed to maneuver the team

Calling twenty names caused more than frustration

Only half were acknowledged 'til their next destination

Because of the size and length of the rig

There were no housetop landings, there was no roof that big

The weight of the wagons was prohibitive too

When resting on buildings, they'd fall right on through

If one mule would bray the rest would begin

And wake each poor soul of the town they were in

After two years, with problems and noise

A better way was needed to deliver the toys

Then he met a young lady, she captured his heart

When they married forever the magic did start

This sweet blue eyed beauty he loved and adored

Conjured sleighs and a carriage, from a pumpkin or gourd

Next was needed a hard working critter

That's loyal, instinctive, and won't be a quitter

He searched the world round 'til finally he chose

A beast from the north, where the ground's mostly froze

Yes, reindeer are used to pull that small sleigh

They are graceful, fleet of foot, don't eat that much hay

They are perfectly suited for altitudes cool

And besides, no one's seen a red nosed mule

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"Bringing Home the Tree"

Christmas In Logan 1952

I lived with my Uncle 'n Grandma for a time,

when my folks found work out of town

Times were tough, but the family of this five-year-old,

had love, and would not let him down

Melvin, my Uncle, was a cowboy at heart

He knew horses, was a rodeo man

But that life of wild broncs left him sick and a cripple,

when a horse bucked him off in Cheyenne

He still loved good horses, enjoyed ridin' tall

'round the streets of his small town in Utah

I'll always remember that bitter cold winter

spent livin' with Melvin 'n Grandma

Christmas was comin' as it did every year,

Melvin told my sister and me

And Santa would need a place to leave presents,

preferably under a tree

So dressed in warm clothes, Melvin saddled his horse,

then I watched as he rode away

He went East to the mountains, up the canyon 'n back,

that ride took him most of that day

I sat at the window, watching and waiting,

the sunlight was starting to dim

When around the corner came a horse and rider,

was it Melvin? It had to be him.

He rode up the path by the side of the house,

I saw a tree tied on the back

The breath from the nose of his horse looked like steam

from an engine, hauling cars up the track

It was nearly forever 'til he came from the barn,

cause the horse needed caring and feed

Finally, through the back door, with a pine tree in tow,

he said: "This is what Santa will need"

I believe that's the first time I'd noticed the smell

of a fresh cut, trimmed evergreen

Then Grandma showed boxes full of crystal and glass,

like nothin' that I've ever seen

As we'd hang each trinket on the tree, she would tell,

a story of a person or place

How the bobble was special, and a part of her life,

which was clear by the look on her face

A little bird's nest on a branch of the tree,

had survived the trip comin' back

I was told t'was an ornament made just for me,

Mother Nature's own knick-knack

Three small stones, painted robin egg blue,

were placed in that nest so small

As a symbol of life, the message of Christmas,

that is offered to one and all

My memories of Christmas are few at the most,

but thinking back, the first one I see,

is a man on his horse in a cold Utah winter,

riding off to fetch home a tree

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

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