| Rod Nichols ~ Missouri City, Texas
|
|---|
Rodeo, Ranchin' And Rhymes
The days of the Old West are over,
not likely to see them again.
The trail drives and legends that grew up
now lost to the ages my friend.
The cowboy lives on a bit diff'rent,
a workin' cowhand you will find,
exists in a trifoldin' manner,
in rodeo, ranchin' and rhymes.
The rodeo riders though younger,
still vie for an eight second ride.
The rancher, a modern practitioner,
still values his livin' with pride.
The past and the present combine now,
in verses a reader may find,
set down by the poet who pens them
in rodeo, ranchin' and rhymes.
At gath'rin's or fests you will see them
both ranchers and riders alike,
preserving their heritage proudly
recitin' the poems that they write.
A tip of the hat is deservin'
for sharin' in each of their lines,
a look at the cowboy who lives on
in rodeo, ranchin' and rhymes.
�2007, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Old Rugged Cross
My life's been blessed across the years
with mem'ries I recall.
While some were shared by lots of folks,
the best were often small,
Like the rollin' waves of prairie grass
when the wind was blowin' free,
or a simple hymn by fiddle played
that touched the heart of me.
I've heard a lot of fiddles played
at socials, dance or fest,
and no one gets a bigger hoot
from a fiddle-prize contest.
But on my oath I swear to you
just one I'd count as loss,
had I not heard that fiddle play
that sweet "Old Rugged Cross."
It weren't a church or gatherin'
just a cowboy all alone.
He didn't know that I was there
when he played that precious song.
I guess he had his special way
of prayin' to the Lord,
but when that fiddle raised its voice
I had to swallow hard.
Each note sang softly to my soul
of a hill so far away,
where God's own son had paid the price
on Calvary that day.
I've never heard nor ever felt
a hymn so deeply, hoss,
as when that ancient cowboy played
that sweet "Old Rugged Cross."
My life's been blessed across the years
with mem'ries I recall.
While some were shared by lots of folks,
the best were often small,
Like the rollin' waves of prairie grass
when the wind was blowin' free,
or a simple hymn by fiddle played
that touched the heart of me.
�2007, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Rancher's Pride
There's somethin' 'bout the land it's said
that grows inside a man:
a sense of being where he ought
a rancher understands.
Don't matter if the spread is small
or largest in the State:
it's part of him and he of it
once past the entry gate
He counts the time upon the range
in generations lived,
and cherishes his heritage
and all the pride it gives.
The father of his father and
the son he sees today,
are of a long and special line
and holds each man to stay.
There's joy in ev'ry head of stock
that bears the fam'ly brand,
for they like he are part of what
gives value to the land.
There's nothin' gets a bigger smile
than when compliments are said
about a foal from out a sire
that he, himself, has bred.
And they, like he a father, son,
he'll ride to show the pair.
A waiting saddle on the sire,
a place for his young heir.
There's somethin' 'bout the land it's said
that grows inside a man:
a sense of being where he ought
a rancher understands.
Don't matter if the spread is small
or largest in the State:
it's part of him and he of it
once past the entry gate
�2006, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Dad's Prayer
An old man's sittin' here tonight
by news-talk radio
so maybe he will hear some word
on how the war might go.
He's list'nin' hard and prayin' too
his son now in Iraq,
Dear Lord if You might see Your way
to bring him safely back.
He wasn't told he had to go,
he upped and volunteered.
His reasons made his dad feel proud
but that don't ease the fear.
I love him Lord and miss him so,
his smile and youthful ways.
Don't let the cruelty of this war
now harden him these days.
He's never faced an enemy
who values life so cheap.
He's always seen the good in man
his word a thing to keep.
He sees it as his duty Lord
to be the first to fight
and proudly stand to face the foe
of all we hold as right.
But somewhere over there tonight
he might have thoughts of home.
Would you just let him know for me
he's not out there alone.
I thank you Lord and I'll be here
by news-talk radio,
to listen and receive some word
on how the war might go.
�2006, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mornin' Shadow
Awake at dawn as usual
from out a fitful rest,
the first time it occured to him
his shadow pointed west.
It's funny how a simple thing
that's always been around
will go unnoticed til one day
it strikes you as profound.
So there he stood a-ponderin'
this sight he'd always seen,
why now and for what purpose Lord
I don't know what you mean.
I only know my day lies west
and when my work is done,
My shadow will be headin' east
as home I fin'lly come.
Cowboy your life is headin' west
and toward a settin' sun
but when your labor's over pard,
it's home to God you'll come.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cowboy Poetry
Just what is cowboy poetry
I've many times been asked,
why might a cowboy start to write
and will that writing last.
I've had some time to ponder this
as the years have drifted by,
so if you'll sit and rest a bit
I'd sorta like to try.
When you've spent a lifetime pardner
doing what you love the best,
there's a thing inside you can't deny
that's a truth about the West.
He wouldn't trade a single day
for the mem'ries he has stored,
the men he's known both young and grown
fill a life with cowboy lore.
He's ridden herd and mended fence
cut 'em out and branded steers,
been wet and dry with grit in eyes
when the trail dust finally cleared.
He's lived outdoors neath starry skies
round a campfire blazing bright,
sung cowboy tunes neath a prairie moon
seen the face of God at night.
He knows his place without a doubt
in the circle we call life,
it's no surprise to reason why
a cowboy starts to write.
And will it last I'd have to say
til the cowboy life is gone,
and even then in the hearts of men
it'll always find a home.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
High Five
Here's a high-five for the rodeo clown,
a bull rider's very best friend.
He don't play a part
until the ride starts
but pardner he's there at the end.
He wears a bright face for the rodeo fans
who laugh at his act with delight.
He fends off the bull
by acting a fool
while saving the rider each night.
Bull ridin', boys, is a crazy man's game,
but one of the stellar events.
It's got no reason
'cept for crowd pleasin'
In short, it don't make any sense.
Cowboys keep tryin' for eight-second rides;
on bulls that would kill to object
except for the clown
who lays his life down.
and earned this ol' cowboy's respect.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sheer Horsepower
Now talk about a thrillin' ride,
there ain't none better pard,
than haulin' back and grabbin' reins
on hosses driven hard.
The sheer exhilaration son
from muscles strainin' taut,
the dust and sweat and screamin' fans
worth twice the tickets bought.
The sounds of wagons turnin' sharp
the slap of leather loud,
the gallop of a gallant team
The roarin' of the crowd.
And now the line of victory
is crossed at double speed.
The driver takes the final flag
a tribute to them steeds.
Now talk about a thrillin' ride,
there ain't none better pard,
than haulin' back and grabbin' reins
on hosses driven hard.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Rodeo Announcer
He's the voice that brings excitement
from start til end of show,
a friendly guide through all events
in the sport of rodeo.
He's a sense of reassurance
if things should go awry,
a welcomed touch of humor when
you feel the need to cry.
He's the "Howdy folks and welcome.
We're glad to see you here!"
He's the host and rousing leader
when fans begin to cheer.
He's a wealth of information
for new or old-time hand,
with a gift for just explainin'
what folks don't understand.
When the last event is over,
the crowd is headed home,
you'll often see him way up there
behind the microphone.
He's thinkin' 'bout that very show,
rerunnin' in his head
the things he did and might have done,
the words he could've said.
The arena now is empty,
a breeze begins to blow
the popcorn bags and hot dog wraps.
from off the stands below.
A man who earns his way with talk
to crowds of roaring fans,
finds pleasure in this calm before
he's on the stage again.
The riders have begun to leave;
they've got a way to go,
and he'll be there to do his part,
this voice of rodeo.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Will Rogers Tribute I
The newspapers spoke of a cowboy with rope,
who went by "The Cherokee Kid."
But Variety nixed the ol' roping tricks
for the humor and banter he did.
He'd found his own way into Vaudeville okay,
by riding and roping and such,
but in between jawing kept audiences awing
'bout news with a country boy's touch.
It's said that a seed will oft grow with more speed
if nurture and caring are there.
It seemed to be true of ol' common sense too,
for that cowboy drew millions, I swear.
The humor he brought to a nation distraught
as welcomed as drought-endin' rain.
A cowboy with rope who gave people hope
now brought to Will Rogers his fame.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Will Rogers Tribute II
Newspapers are a Marvelous thing;
that's what Will Rogers thought.
He always found a laugh or two
in every one he bought.
He read about a lot of things
like rubes and schemes and such,
then, Will, would tell the tale to folks,
but with a country touch.
Ol' Will could act as ignorant
about a tale's intent,
but whether you were quick or slow
you knew just what he meant.
His greatest skills above the rest,
weren't reading 'tween the lines,
but bringing hope and just a smile
in Great Depression times.
Nowadays, it seems as though
we all could use a lift,
but, men like Will are hard to find,
and harder, still. his gift.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Penny's Worth
Somewhere, way up in Heaven, boys,
an angel sits with pen,
and keeps a daily record of
the words and deeds of men.
It's sort of like a tally book
of what is said and done,
for which we are accountable
when life down here has run.
The angel dips his quill in ink
before each stroke of pen,
in diff'rent shades that will reflect
an act of love or sin.
"A penny's worth," the young boy said.
The storekeep had to smile.
He hadn't heard, "A penny's worth,"
since, he, had been a child.
But, there he stood, a lad of ten,
before the candy cases,
while on the outside window, pressed.
two more, expectant faces.
"You must be new to town," he said,
"I've not seen you, before.
New customers are welcome here
at Brussell's Gen'ral Store."
"Now, let me see," he thought out loud,
"A penny's worth should be,
about two sticks of peppermint,
but, as you're new, say, three."
The sale now done, the storekeep watched
the trio gather, then.
Each child received a candy stick
with faces all a-grin.
The storekeep had to smile, once more,
"A penny's worth, indeed."
But, if his Missus were alive,
she would have, soon, agreed.
The old man now returned to work,
a loss from what he'd sold.
An angel dipped its pen in ink,
then wrote the lines in gold.
A penny's worth don't seem a lot,
but, fellers, don't you see,
that penny's worth had blessed three lives,
and one of them, was, me.
�2004, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Autumn Cowboy
When summer is over, and fall heads our way,
and brown, red and gold paint the leaves,
I guess that's the time that I'm feelin' my best
just an ol' autumn cowboy, that's me.
The Lord has His reasons for each time of year,
for each thing a time, if you please,
but I'm kinda partial to a nip in the air,
just an ol' autumn cowboy, that's me.
In spring there's the new calf and brandin' to do,
and a warm up from winter's deep freeze,
but fall ain't got summer to follow with heat,
just an ol' autumn cowboy, that's me.
The seasons that follow are like a man's life,
he's born, grows and spreads like a tree.
Then watches the branches grow withered and bare,
just an ol' autumn cowboy, that's me.
My summer is over. It's the fall of my life,
and you know, it's a good age to be.
Life is now mellow and more to my taste,
just an ol' autumn cowboy, that's me.
�2003, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rooster
We called him "Rooster"
for his two bandy legs
and a carrot-top head
and the crow'in he made,
cause like him or fight him
whatever the rules,
that sawed-off runt cowboy
could really shoot pool.
He'd put in a full day
and not miss a lick,
then dude up and brush up
and pick up his stick,
then head into town
to the local pool hall,
drink up and cue up
and challenge us all.
Then one night it happened
a stranger walked in,
with a custom made pool stick
and a yeller-toothed grin,
I've heard bout some rooster
that's known to shoot pool,
and I've come to challenge
that bird to a duel.
Now we called him "Rooster"
but us he all knew,
so he didn't take kindly
to a no-name yahoo,
what is you pleasure
old man with no name,
eight ball said the stranger
get on with the game.
The stranger broke quickly
and three stripes went in,
and two more in order
'fore Rooster began,
that's a fair piece of shootin
I'll have to say,
then he flat ran the table
'fore old Rooster could play.
Then Rooster went for him
with blood in his eyes,
but hugged him instead
much to all our surprise,
boys I've been funnin
and I hope you ain't mad,
cause this orn'ry old cuss
is my pool-shootin dad.
�1999, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~