| Our Cowboy Artists, and their Bronze Sculptures, Drawings, Paintings, Music, Poetry, and Photos cover several pages. Please click on the title of the page below that interests you and then click your back button to return here to choose another. | Artists in several media | | | | | | | | Con Williams - Original Western, Wildlife, and Rodeo Bronzes |
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Historical Books by Dale Wooley
for sale | | | | | | |
Gary's Turquoise Money clip shown | 
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Quality Custom Silver & Gold Buckles and Jewelry | Meeker Classic Championship Sheepdog Trials
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| | | | | | Kim Klass Custom Jewelry Design | 
Mother's Bracelet |
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offers
dogs, wool saddle pads, custom jewelry
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| Cowboy Poetry and stories: |
Cowboy Poetry by Carole Jarvis |
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| Cowboy Poetry by Audrey Hankins | 
| | | | | | | Cowboy Poetry by
Charlotte Thompson | 
| | Cowboy Poetry by Gary Vorhes
"Maybe cowboy luck is some kinda apology for
being a cowboy in the first place."
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Award-winning RANGE
magazine, published quarterly, is devoted to issues that threaten the West, its people, lifestyles, lands and wildlife. RANGE has subscribers in every state and several foreign countries, and is an advocate for a national resource—the American cowboy.
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Artist's Showcase:
 Gary Vorhes-
Falcon, Colorado
This poem is based on an actual story.
Some folks just have a way with words and Gary's words are as good
as it gets.
We periodically feature an artist's work in this area. Submissions are welcomed. |
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RANGE BULL
By Gary Vorhes
The young doctor stepped back to take a
deep breath,
And he spoke to the man he’d patched up.
How old are you, sir, and how did this happen?
Seventy-three, came the answer; a little bad luck.
The main herd was five days gone from these pastures,
Scattered ’cross the rich winter meadows of home.
But a yellow ton-plus bull had waged war on the men
And horses, so they’d dropped him to sulk all alone.
So now came the hand and his partner to find him.
Sometimes bulls cool off and come in on their own.
But this one had sulled up and staked him a homestead.
He was hungry and dry and bull-mad to the bone.
He’d hardly budged from the spot where he’d bellered
And hooked and thrown dust and took on the world.
It looked like he’d stay till the buzzards dined on him.
Just a lump of tough meat -- his battle flag cased and furled.
So the hand sent his dogs to rouse him back upright,
Once moving, the bull might move down to the tanks.
If he watered, later somehow, they’d get him into a trailer,
And save his damn life, not expecting his thanks.
Two cow dogs launched full-tilt straight at that old devil,
Who came up on the run with blood in his eye.
The hand jerked his hat down and took off for the pickup.
And as he went he was wishing he’d learned how to fly.
A few steps and he knew well that he wouldn’t make it,
The ground shook behind him, it was judgment day.
The man assayed his chances and then gave up on the pickup,
Parked 50 yards and 50 years way too far away.
The hand faced the bull, thinking that he just might dodge it,
But the first hit broke his sternum and took all breath away,
Still the bull came hunting as the human fell to hard ground,
As if the hammered body still owed a debt to pay.
And the lifeline could have ended way out there in the
sagebrush,
Not the first and not the last to have left cowboying that way,
But there came a savage scream and a figure from the pickup;
As the partner of the hand charged headlong into the fray.
And although the bull did bruise her, she roused the dogs to
battle,
The bull could not match courage with the forces that he faced.
So he fled the screaming woman and the raging of the cow dogs,
And a desperate call brought help at a life-saving pace.
On the jarring trip to Elko, the hand peered at his partner,
And he said, why do you stay with me, year after year?
This sure is not the first time this life has almost killed you.
She gazed into his eyes and smiled, yes, but we’re still here.
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| | Poetry Showcase |
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You Want To Be a Cowboy?
You
want to be a cowboy?
That what I heard you say?
These
old ears is stuffy,
‘n I was lookin’ ‘t’other way
Son, ‘taint like them dime novels,
Or who’s fastest with a gun.
Its heat ‘n sweat, cold ‘n froze.
All
work ‘n not much fun.
It’s
ridin’ mean, green horses
While chasin’ deer wild cows,
It’s
stakin’ hay, ‘ pullin’ wells,
‘n dippin’ for the louse.
It’s
all alone in a blizzard,
Your coat round a frozen calf.
Can’t
see the knob on your saddle.
Hopin’ your horse don’t miss the path.
Wearing
out three broncs a day,
The wagon and wormy chuck.
‘n you do it all with a smile son,
Sayin’, “Powder River, let'er buck.”
Means,
I’ll ride it if its wearin’ hair
I’m here to make a stand.
Son
if’n you’ll try come hell or breakfast
Then we might make of you a hand.
©
J E Moon
Bemidji MN
12/01/2008
| The American Cowboy by Rick Church
There's a
certain attitude, or code, if you will,
Of the rancher, westerner, or American cowboy, better still,
It's not the hat, the boots, or spurs so much,
That gives these Americans, the cowboy touch.
First and foremost, always keep your word,
Your word is your bond, I've always heard,
There are people that depend on you, to do what you say,
Sometimes it's inconvenient, but it's the American cowboy way.
Words like honesty, integrity, courage, and grit,
Are as natural as breathing, much like taking to a bit,
Helping out a neighbor, you've found has a need,
Expecting nothing in return, fine qualities indeed.
This truly is the American cowboy, for many I've known,
Seem cast from the same mold, American hewn,
No, it's not so much the clothes they wear,
Simply put, it's a way of life, a breed so rare.
Rick Church, copyright 2003
ricklanachurch@juno.com | | | | |
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