Glen Enloe ~
Independence, Missouri
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The Fresh Sun in Your Eyes
There�s a chill upon the mornin�
When the white-cold sun does rise,
And that hot tin cup�s near burnin�
As the sun wakes up your eyes.
You hunker round that warm campfire,
And drink slow to heat your soul�
Then with ol� pards you do conspire
�Fore you cinch and have to go.
Oh, the day ahead is dreary
And you sure won�t win no prize�
But when you�re ridin� things are cheery
With the fresh sun in your eyes.
�2009, Glen Enloe
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Wagon Ruts
There are no thoughts of wagon ruts
And that which passed before,
Or those that bought our world with guts
That walk the earth no more.
The land is tame and life is good,
There is no call for horse;
We�re all the same and wish we could
Go back to them, of course.
We�re meek and in a private place,
Our life is nine to five;
We seek a thing that�s in our face,
We want to be alive.
The world is now a crazy mess
And it�s all filled with nuts;
It�s come unfurled, we say God bless
And dream of wagon ruts.
�2009, Glen Enloe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Why Old Cowboys Never Die
Remember me by memories that we have shared, my son�
Old cowboys never die until their work on earth is done.
And if there be such thing as that sweet immortality�
It lay within our minds as you now kindly think of me.
Do you remember how you bawled when grandpa did pass on�
Not knowing cowboys always cry when those they love are gone?
Now remember those good times, like when your first son was born�
The fresh smell of open range on a dew-touched summer morn.
So when my time runs out, think of those memories, my son�
No one lives forever unless remembered by some one.
Tell sons and daughters of these things so they may share them, too,
As I tell you of the past � tomorrow is up to you.
So if there be such thing as that sweet immortality,
It now lays within our minds as you kindly think of me.
Remember me by memories that we have shared, my son�
Old cowboys never die until their work on earth is done.
�2008, Glen Enloe
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Triggernometry
When I was just a kid,
As little as I could be�
I was too young for school,
But not �Triggernometry.�
I studied ol� Gene Autry
And Hopalong Cassidy�
But mostly Roy Rogers
And his Triggernometry!
I sure liked Champion
And Topper was fine you see�
But the smartest horse of all
Knew his Triggernometry.
Those heroes and horses
Now are things we seldom see�
But that great horse Trigger
Knew his Triggernometry!
At math I�m still not much�
That�s just how I�ll always be�
But when things don�t add up
I�ve got Triggernometry.
�2008, Glen Enloe
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Holding The Gather
They come from miles around�
Silver survivors of the sage,
To chew cuds and paw the ground,
Tell windies and act half their age.
Gathering they call it�
A revival of cowboy pride,
Seeing old pards just for a bit�
And remembering those that died.
They sit around campfires
And under spreading shady oaks�
And no one calls them liars
About old days and older jokes.
It�s more than old stories�
It is something that does matter
�Bout friendships and old glories
And the holding of the gather.
And like the herds contained
And rounded up in days gone by�
We sing the cowboy refrain,
And laugh and shout and nod and cry.
So years now round us up,
Under clear skies and on new sod�
No longer young calves or pups,
Brushed by the last brief breath of God.
�2007, Glen Enloe
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When Trails Have All Grown Over
As the city keeps encroachin�
And ranges grow up in clover,
Few cowboys ride out this way,
When trails have all grown over.
Cows are few and sparse these days
And trail drives are in the past�
You seldom hear cowboys yelp�
You fear it might be the last.
Campfires are few on the range,
They used to be near and far�
Now when there�s one on the plains,
You wish on it like a star.
Each year ranchers grow fewer�
Business bought out the drover�
Like Indians we�ll be gone
When trails have all grown over.
�2007, Glen Enloe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Sermon On The Saddle
He�s a cowboy of time and season;
Man of a different age�
An ol� cowpoke that�s full of reason�
A man of his Maker and sage.
He�s a man that they call a cowboy;
That looks just like me or you�
But inside you�ll find a peace and joy�
Because �right� is the thing to do.
Some say cowboys are reckless and mean�
Don�t always use their heads first�
But most have a gentleness unseen,
When good things go from bad to worse.
A cowboy�s all this and other things;
Not all of them are the best�
He rides on and he ropes and he sings;
He knows that by God he�s been blest.
A cowboy has to wear many hats�
He�ll cook grub or fix your fence,
He�ll break up bar fights or nurse stray cats--
Set things right when they don�t make sense.
He�ll stand by you when all others hide�
His solemn word�s his handshake�
He�s ready in an instant to ride--
He�s the best friend a man can make.
His politics are never correct;
He�ll say what he really knows�
His life is cows and a good horse wreck�
Hat, jeans, shirt and boots are his clothes.
Yet, he may not be a man at all;
That cowboy could be a she�
As long as she�s got goodness and gall;
A golden heart and modesty.
A true cowboy is just what he is;
He don�t put on fancy airs�
What little he has is truly his;
He don�t mind those big city stares.
A cowboy�s tough and don�t give an inch
And he can sure spin a yarn�
He�s always around in a real pinch
Or birthin� a colt by the barn.
Some say he�s hard to eye from the road
And that his breed�s dyin� out�
But he�s still there to carry the load�
Shy hero is what he�s about.
You don�t see as many now these days,
But cowboy stories are vast�
From range to hills and through sun and haze,
It�s a legacy that will last.
Cowboys don�t take livin� lyin� down;
They�ll be the best they can be�
Servin� well that celestial crown
For our Maker�s heaven to see.
Yes, the true cowboy speaks of his God;
His saddle sermon�s the word�
Till sunset falls and he gets the nod
To ride out with the good Lord�s herd.
�2005, Glen Enloe
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Faces In The Fire
On those cool summer evenings when coyotes haunt the night
And the campfire is dying--burning low, then flaring bright,
A cowboy plays harmonica while others sing and hum--
While down by the chuck wagon a lonely guitar still strums.
A few pokes like Lon Stonecipher stare silent at the fire,
Imagining old friends and folks in times both dear and dire.
Lon sees and talks to faces that flicker in gold flames--
He asks them of the weather--remembers all their names.
"There's Delton and Rosella, old Burlin and Rob Alcorn,
There's that sweet Renata Robins that kissed me one June morn.
There's Cal Shirlo and Spud Scanlon, that both died in the war,
And Addie Belle from Abilene that said she'd love no more."
Cowpokes yawned and nodded--on his wild words did not dwell--
They knew the man he used to be, but this was just his shell.
The faces in the fire gave him comfort and offered hope,
They were his last salvation--without them he could not cope.
Lon stared into the fire for many hours before sleep--
His rest was fitful, frenzied--never calm, peaceful or deep.
And often he'd awake and gaze mournfully once again
Into those glowing embers in search of friend or kin.
"I can see my last saddle pal, young Matthew Leatherwood
And a Dodge City gambler that I shot right where he stood.
I see my dear grandmother and my sister Anna Lee--
My grandpa and brother Jim who died at the age of three."
The fire burned low and so did Lon out on that prairie bow,
But this was as it always was, at least until just now.
"I see you, ma--I see you, pa--your faces smile at me,"
So said old Lon one last time drifting upon a prairie sea.
They buried Lon Stonecipher right out on that cold dark land--
And right beside him built a blaze as hot as they could stand.
Then they watched the flames dance and stared long into that pyre,
And to this day some still swear Lon's face was smiling in that fire.
�2004, Glen Enloe
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When Cowboys Rode Away
There were clear, sunny mornings with the rustle of leaves,
A patchwork of sunlight beneath the green wind-blown trees--
There were roundups and long rides that lasted all the day,
In times of our innocence when cowboys rode away.
Gone are all the clear choices--knowing the right from the wrong,
There's just too many gray shades that mute the night bird song.
The cattle are calling--it's the same old cowboy life,
You help burn brands in spring to prove you are a wife.
The West is gone they say, there are no cowboys anymore--
At least just not like the old ones that we knew before.
We've got rodeos, pokes and horses that have their way--
But nothing like those times before cowboys rode away.
That small shack is empty and a thousand acres bare,
We rode our separate ways, but it seems we go back there.
You didn't like the loneliness, but that's just my lot,
We take the cards dealt us--it's the only hand we've got.
You left your horse there and rode my sorrel into town,
Wanting to hurt me more, with everyone around.
Now the morning has turned cloudy and so is the day,
When you took all I had and those cowboys rode away.
These modern times are hurtful and stare us in the eye--
Tell us to change or else, we'll just fall behind and die.
But if this hatefulness is what we need to be real,
I'd rather live in my own world where I can love and feel.
"The world is too much with us," a poet one day said--
If this is reality, I guess I'm better off dead.
We build our worlds to please ourselves with our yesterday--
You'll find my world gone years ago, when cowboys rode away.
�2004, Glen Enloe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Big Red Lowell
He had dark copper hair, oil-slicked straight back,
A red, clean-shaven face rock hard and all stern--
A man you respected that gave you no slack,
The kind of man you trusted without concern.
His name was Wesley, but we called him Big Red,
Stood six-foot four inches, near three hundred pound.
He was stronger than most men I heard it once said--
He could win bets lifting a horse up off the ground.
He tried to teach me right and keep me from bad
As I gave it my best, learning cowboy ways--
And sure enough I was proud to call him Dad,
Though I wasn't up to snuff on rough riding days.
Seems every horse I mounted bucked me high,
No matter just how gentle or old it be--
And each cow I herded, ran off on the sly,
Seemed like that cowboy pride I'd just never see.
Well, I suppose at some point Big Red gave up;
Realizing his ranching life wasn't my real style.
And though I sensed disappointment with his pup,
I didn't want to admit it for awhile.
Then the two of us alone on the trail one day
Stopped atop a hill--and Big Red, who seldom spoke,
Said, "Son, each of us has ta find his own way."
And with those simple words, it seemed I awoke.
Then I knew I wasn't cut out to ride the West
And tend the cow herds, as was my father's skill--
You have to be true to yourself and do your best
With whatever talents the good Lord has willed.
So I put words on paper as seemed my art
And left the ranch and home of Big Red Lowell--
Yet when he died from sickness to his old heart,
It was like I'd lost a piece of my very soul.
And though the cowboy life wasn't in me then,
It's now part of these words I pen on this night--
I think back to my Dad and remember when,
We made our own decisions, and we both were right.
�2003, Glen Enloe
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The Cowboy That Found Life's Creek
He'd searched those plains for many years until he had grown weak,
He had all but given up on ever findin' ol' Life's Creek.
But there it was before him 'twixt the butte they called Tin Cup,
He and his horse needed water but Life's Creek was all dried up.
In cattle herdin' and each man's life, we often do ask why,
When things at last start goin' good, we just grow old and die.
Seems when young ol' death ain't somethin' that we think about,
Until our life just goes all wrong and we become devout.
We ride 'round final questions and it seems we don't even think--
We say that the only answer is to live life on the brink.
Yet we know the sad alternative of dyin' right in our prime--
There's much we don't accomplish when we leave before our time.
Yet now that this agein' cowboy had found that fabled stream,
Had it all been worth the journey for a tumbleweed dream?
And do all of our life's answers simply trick and mock us
Or is there some higher mountain in which to put our trust?
We just keep tryin' and it seems we always need a friend
To prod us into ridin' down that ol' trail to the end.
We know that we're just small specks in some eternal eye--
Yet we do the best we can, till we just grow old and die.
�2003, Glen Enloe
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Hoppy
There's lots of cowboys come and gone,
From Hoot, to Tom and Johnny Mack,
But there's just one that I admire--
That smiling man all dressed in black.
His name: Hopalong Cassidy,
For short we just call him Hoppy,
Gray hair that's combed neatly in place,
A big black hat that's not floppy.
His sidekicks numbered Gabby Hayes,
And there was that old Andy Clyde--
Edgar Buchanon was there too;
They joked and stayed right by his side.
He liked you when he gave a smile--
If not, then you could sense his wrath;
He was the man on the white horse
Who warmed you with a crackling laugh.
Yet, now he's gone except in minds,
Riding the screens of gold again--
His likes are rare this day and age:
A cowboy, gentleman and friend.
�2002, Glen Enloe
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He Who Sees Dreams
That wrinkled old Apache:
He Who Sees the Dreams,
Is said to be half-crazy and old
As the rivers and the streams.
He says he saw two great mountains
Made of iron and of glass--
And then two silent Thunderbirds,
Before his dream did soon pass.
And then there came great lightning
As the birds hit solid rock,
Then both the mightly mountains fell
And all the world stopped in shock.
What next I asked He Who Sees Dreams:
He said it was unfulfilled.
Enemies like wolves surround you
And your great land goes untilled.
I trembled and then I shuddered
To hear of this dreary foe:
"There are those brave and those that die--
But rewards are what you sow."
These were last words of He Who Sees--
As he pointed to the moon so high,
The two twin mountains were now gone,
But eagles filled morning sky.
�2002, Glen Enloe
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An Ol' Cowboy Still Remembers
When that cold autumn wind comes a blowin' hard
And a sharp rain slaps against his wrinkled face--
The lonely prairie starts a turnin' brown and charred,
While all the cattle start movin' at a slower pace.
The winter's jest over that far distant hill
And the chill of the next season is right near--
But an ol' cowboy yet remembers still,
The sound of a flowin' stream bright and clear.
He remembers a ridin' a warm summer breeze
And the soft touch of the sun's sorrel rays,
As the girl that he loves waits fer 'em in the trees
And evening sky gently blends into a purple haze.
Yep, an ol' cowboy still remembers the day
When he realized the range would be his wife--
And that girl that he loved moved far away
To seek her summers in another man's life.
So the wind blows cold and this cowboy grows old,
Set in his ways with the cattle that he oversees--
Yet cowboys have dreams in which they are bold,
And the soft, sweet memories of a summer breeze.
�2002, Glen Enloe
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The New Gun In Town
I shot Jim Joe Waco and did the same to Silent Bill--
Chased John Wesley Hardin clear up to boot hill--
Whupped Apache Gringo and sent many to their end--
Paid Wes ten bucks, thanked 'em--it's good to have a friend.
The town folks, they like me--and Marshal I was made,
Said my draw was fastest on which their eyes had laid--
They handed me a star and called me mighty brave--
Then aimed me toward the street to find an early grave.
I been the scourge of Baxter Springs, a year or two,
But there's one faster who in with the wind jest blew--
Folks fear my gun for now, but word is gettin' round:
There's one thing that I fear--the new gun in town.
My time is drawin' short, I kin see it in their eyes--
They ain't expectin' me to see another ol' sunrise--
I feel it in my bones; I know it by the sound,
It's all now in the hands of that new gun in town.
I see him from a distance, he's one bull of a man--
Pearl-handled six-shooter, low slung holster of tan--
He must be six foot, six inch and all dressed in brown,
There ain't no denying--he's the new gun in town.
I hear he's makin' trouble and been callin' me out--
Looks like this showdown won't be nothin' but a rout.
He knows my final minutes are surely numbered now--
But at least I'll good down a shootin' for my final bow.
And now he stands before me: young and big and mean,
He's got to have the fastest gun that I've ever seen--
His lead's like silver lightning: snakebite to my chest--
I draw but know already, I have not passed the test.
We both stand there a waitin' for one of us to fall,
Then I turn and walk away as town folk hoot and call--
I look down at my boots and see blood on the ground
As everyone keeps a cheerin' for that new gun in town.
I got a flesh wound for my trouble, sixty miles to ride--
Varmints stop and stare at my dirty, bloody hide.
I finally come to Grub Wood and wonder what I found--
At least now I am a stranger: that new gun in town.
�2002, Glen Enloe
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College Cowboy
Dad and me had always been real close,
But then college seemed to get right in the way--
I got my degree and started out to teach,
And when we talked, we didn't have much to say.
Time went by, Dad began to show his age--
Started phoning for me to lend him a hand;
Guess he depended on me more since Ma died--
Calling all time of day to upset my plans.
"College cowboy," one morning Dad's voice said,
"Got a mare that's foalin' and need some help."
Said I'd be over--I hung up the phone--
When my bare feet hit that cold floor, I gave a yelp.
Must have been about 5 A.M. that snowy morning
When my car slowly drove down that icy road--
As I pulled up by the barn, Dad was grim;
Standing by the mare, he looked tired and old.
He called me "college cowboy" as a joke,
Since I left the ranch and was out on my own--
He didn't understand then and was hurt
I wasn't ranching and had left him alone.
Now I helped him out whenever I could--
Guess he was getting too old to run the spread--
He'd not admit it and I liked the work,
Using my back and muscle as well as my head.
"They's somethin' not right," my Dad slowly said,
As the mare flailed in the hay and kicked and moaned--
"At least it's not breach," I replied as I pulled hard
On the new colt's tiny hooves and groaned.
But the colt wasn't coming like it should
And my Dad and me knew something was real wrong--
"Have ta use the puller," Dad then said--
We hooked it up, ready to help her along.
"Not too hard or fast," Dad said as I cranked;
"Ya don't want ta tear her up," he declared with dread--
Finally, the colt came loose from the womb,
But by the smell we both knew it was long dead.
The mare trembled hard--and looked back at her colt
As we then sadly watched the bloody display--
Not only had we lost a colt to death--
We'd have to end the injured mare's life that day.
The snow in the field turned to a pastel pink
As I helped Dad clean up that hopeless mess;
I then washed up and headed into town
To get ready to give my college students a test.
It seems nature has a way of using death
To right what's gotten twisted in the wrong ways--
I found myself spending more time on the ranch
Alongside my Dad in his dwindling days.
Dad never called me "college cowboy" again--
And then he passed away last year in late fall;
The ranch is now mine, I rent out the land--
But each morning, I keep half-expecting Dad to call.
�2002, Glen Enloe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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