I've never seen your face.
I have only but a name.
Yet, if I were to meet you
I would know you.
Our hearts are both the same.
There are many years between us,
But your blood is in my veins.
I know you loved the spotted pony.
Your spirit was young and free.
Above all, most sacred to you
Was the closeness of family.
A vision in your soul
Placed there by others long ago,
Transcending down to me.
by Regina Richardson
Springfield, Missouri
FOLLOWING THE GOODNIGHT-LOVING TRAIL
About fifty-eight years ago
I did not ride alone
On the long trip up from Texas
To my Wyoming home.
We left the Gulf Coast and the trees
Ti1 as the miles rolled by
We came to Amarillo and
The big wide open sky.
It wasn’t long before I felt
The riders at my right,
The cowboys moving a herd north,
All real, though out of sight.
I thought of how they made that trip,
One step, then another,
Until we reached that early June
The bright yellow clover.
It lined the highway for the bees,
Recalling memories
Of fishing trips when I was small.
Those memories did please.
Right soon I saw my Daddy’s smile,
Was in my Mom’s embrace.
Those ghostly riders brought me safe
Up to my native place.
— Helen Schmill Casper, Wyoming
In Our Minds He’ll Always Ride
He was despised and admired often for things he never did
Some called him, “El Chivato”, others “Billy” or “The Kid”
When war came to Lincoln County, he picked the losing side
The odds were stacked against him, but still he chose to ride
And you have to admire his principles, his loyalty to friends
His hopes for frontier justice when so many came to violent ends
He was there when Tunstall, McSween, and Bowdre died
His war would soon be over, but still the young man chose to ride
He could have gone to Mexico, changed his name again, laid low
But he stayed and became a legend that folks around the world would know
We know him from his picture with that rifle by his side
We know him, buy our souvenirs, and wonder why he chose to ride
We’re familiar with getting out the safe and easy way
With running from a fight to live and fight another day
So who is the kid behind the smile; what secrets does he hide?
What kept him in Ft. Simmer when we would have chose to ride?
Winners write the history books and choose their facts of course
So we read that Billy was a killer who liked to ride a stolen horse
But there was another side to Billy that the history books can’t hide
And a feeling if we were in a fight, we’d want Billy on our side
Billy’s fate was sealed, the end of course we’ve read
How Pat Garrett went hunting Billy and how he shot the young man dead
And while the things that Billy rode for were lost the night he died
As long as folks still wonder, in our minds he’ll always ride
— Mike Moutoux
The Cowboy
He went in search of adventure; a wondering soul
Set his sights on becoming a cowboy; that was his goal
He learned to ride and lasso; with a six-gun he was darn good
Was a buddy to fellow cow-hands, ‘cause he thought he should
As he was out on the range, riding happy and free
He would sing to his horse, though a bit off key
He’d think of what he’d do, when the long trail-drive was through
Get a hot bath, eat a good steak, and relax with some ‘brew’
Only it happened sometimes, at the end of the trail
He’d wind up in a fight, and end up in jail
He’d play his harmonica as the cattle would feed
His roving spirit was as wild as a tumbleweed
But he met a good woman, and took a notion to settle down
So he bought a little ranch—with it came an old hound
When he got old, he looked back on the years
Remembering the good times, he’d shed a few joyous tears
Then he would hoist a grand-kid up on his knee
To tell him stories under the big oak tree
And when he finally took that last long ride
He knew the Almighty would be there, by his side ...
— Jay Harman Parkersburg, WV
WHERE I COME FROM
Where I come from, men wear cowboy hats,
And boots, and jeans, and things like that.
Some carry pistols on their hips
And grow mustaches o’er their lips.
Where I come from, the folks are nice.
They look you over once or twice,
Then give a nod or make a smile,
And you feel welcome all the while.
Where I come from, the trees grow tall,
And mountains soar above them all.
A million stars come out at night,
And I am awed by such a sight.
No discount stores, no shopping malls,
And tourist buses don’t make calls.
But folks around are proud to say
That here is where they want to stay,
In this little town where I come from.
