THE SIERRY PETES (OR, TYING KNOTS IN THE DEVIL’S TAIL) by Gail I. Gardner

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by George Phippen (1915-1966); request permission for use

 

THE SIERRY PETES (OR, TYING KNOTS IN THE DEVIL’S TAIL)
Gail I. Gardner (1892-1988)

Away up high in the Sierry Petes,
Where the yeller pines grows tall,
Ole Sandy Bob an’ Buster Jig,
Had a rodeer camp last fall.

Oh, they taken their hosses and runnin’ irons
And maybe a dog or two,
An’ they ‘lowed they’d brand all the long-yered calves,
That come within their view.

And any old dogie that flapped long yeres,
An’ didn’t bush up by day,
Got his long yeres whittled an’ his old hide scorched,
In a most artistic way.

Now one fine day ole Sandy Bob,
He throwed his seago down,
“I’m sick of the smell of burnin’ hair,
And I ‘lows I’m a-goin’ to town.”

So they saddles up an’ hits ’em a lope,
Fer it warnt no sight of a ride,
And them was the days when a Buckeroo
Could ile up his inside.

Oh, they starts her in at the Kaintucky Bar,
At the head of Whiskey Row,
And they winds up down by the Depot House,
Some forty drinks below.

They then sets up and turns around,
And goes her the other way,
An’ to tell you the Gawd-forsaken truth,
Them boys got stewed that day.

As they was a-ridin’ back to camp,
A-packin’ a pretty good load,
Who should they meet but the Devil himself,
A-prancin’ down the road.

Sez he, “You ornery cowboy skunks,
You’d better hunt yer holes,
Fer I’ve come up from Hell’s Rim Rock,
To gather in yer souls.”

Sez Sandy Bob, “Old Devil be damned,
We boys is kinda tight,
But you ain’t a-goin’ to gather no cowboy souls,
‘Thout you has some kind of a fight.”

So Sandy Bob punched a hole in his rope,
And he swang her straight and true,
He lapped it on to the Devil’s horns,
An’ he taken his dallies too.

Now Buster jig was a riata man,
With his gut-line coiled up neat,
So he shaken her out an’ he built him a loop,
An’ he lassed the Devil’s hind feet.

Oh, they stretched him out an’ they tailed him down,
While the irons was a-gettin hot,
They cropped and swaller-forked his yeres,
Then they branded him up a lot.

They pruned him up with a de-hornin’ saw,
An’ they knotted his tail fer a joke,
They then rid off and left him there,
Necked to a Black-Jack oak.

If you’re ever up high in the Sierry Petes,
An’ you hear one Hell of a wail,
You’ll know it’s that Devil a-bellerin’ around,
About them knots in his tail.

…by Gail I. Gardner, 1917, from “Orejana Bull,” reprinted with permission of the Gardner/Steiger family

Hear about the creation of this poem and many captivating stories of the life of Gail I. Gardner in the current Cowboy Crossroads podcast from Andy Hedges. On the show, Gail Steiger, cowboy, ranch manager, songwriter, filmmaker and Gardner’s grandson tells those stories and performs the piece in the a cappella style that his grandfather preferred.

Though he was educated at Philip Exeter Academy and Dartmouth University, Gail I. Gardner’s desire was to work as a cowboy, which he did. Later in life, he became the postmaster of Prescott, Arizona.

Gail Steiger has shared a number of great family photos of his grandfather, posted in our feature at cowboypoetry.com, along with poems and more information.

Gail Gardner’s own recitation of “The Sierry Petes” is on The BAR-D Roundup: Volume Four. The cover of that collection has a picture of Gail Gardner as a child, made from a tintype.

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Gardner continually battled the notion that his poem was “anonymous.” He wrote it in 1917 and it became an immediate favorite, recited and put to music by others, quickly entering the realm of “classic.”

Many have put the poem to music, including Michael Martin Murphy, Chris LeDoux, Rex Allen, and others. Listen to the great Don Edwards’ version.

This George Phippen (1915-1966) painting was commissioned by Gail Steiger’s parents as a birthday present for Gail I. Gardner in the early 1960s.

Gail Steiger tells that Gail Gardner used to say the painting was his most prized possession and that he would have visitors sit down in front of it and “sing” his poem (listen to the recording on “The BAR-D Roundup: Volume Four” for a taste of that experience). Before he presented Gardner with the painting, George Phippen made several visits with Gardner to do “research on cowboys of that earlier era,” inquiring about what they wore, the kind of horses and saddles they rode, and so on. Gardner said that Phippen “got every detail just right.”

The painting is about 24″x 30.” The Gardner/Steiger family has loaned the painting to Prescott, Arizona’s Phippen Museum of Western Art.

Thanks to Gail Steiger and the Gardner/Steiger family for permissions, much shared information, and photographs.

(Please respect copyright. Request permission for use of this poem or image.)

FIFTY A DAY, by DW Groethe

 

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photo © Jessica Lifland

FIFTY A DAY
by DW Groethe

Fifty a day is a cowboy’s pay
It ain’t much, tho for some it’s enough.
It’s not always money
That rides a man hard
Or acquirin’ piles a stuff.

There are those who would willingly
Trade it all in
For a chance to go ridin’ the herd.
Bein’ out in the lonesome
Not feelin’ alone—
That’s somethin’ you can’t put in words.

No—This is one a them things
That money can’t buy, tho
They wouldn’t say no to a raise,
You can sure bet
They’ll give more’n they get
An’ be happy til the end a their days.

‘Cause bein’ a cowboy
Is like sayin’ “I’m broke.”
A purty good chunk a the time.
But broke ain’t a shame
It’s a part a the game,
Just a fool thinks broke is a crime.

An’ for sure it’s no sweat
The hours they get
Will sometimes be tired an’long.
But when they hit the hay,
At the end a’ the day,
What they earned is the sweetest of songs.

Oh, there’s always those times
When the best that you do
Simply will not be enough.
There are things in this world
That’ll flat make you blue
But that’s life an’ sometimes it’s rough.

Fifty a day a cowboy’s pay
More than enough for a few
Who heed not the call
Of that ol’ nine to five
An’ they’ll laugh around broke,
Tired an’ blue.

© 2002, DW Groethe
This poem should not be reprinted or reposted without permission

Montana ranch hand, poet, and picker DW Groethe includes this poem on his Tales from West River album and in his book, West River Waltz. Andy Hedges recites the poem on his latest Cowboy Crossroads podcast, which includes an interview with DW Groethe, recorded last month at the Western Folklife Center’s National Cowboy Poetry Gathering.

In the interview, DW talks about writing songs and poetry, how he came to work as a ranch hand, and more. Find the interview here, along with many other compelling interviews with people who “share stories and discuss music, poetry, and culture from the working cowboy West and beyond.”

DW performs his poetry and music at venues small and large. He’s appeared many times at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, and has been invited to the the National Council for the Traditional Arts (NCTA), The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, The Library of Congress, and other places. He has books and recordings. Find more about him at cowboypoetry.com/dwgroethe.htm.

This photograph of DW Groethe is by respected photojournalist Jessica Lifland (jessicalifland.smugmug.com; jblif on Instagram) as a part of her Cowboy Poetry Project. Other subjects to date include Sean Sexton, Andy Hedges, Jerry Brooks, Waddie Mitchell, Amy Steiger and Gail Steiger, Rodney Nelson, Elizabeth Ebert, Henry Real Bird, Doris Daley, Bimbo Cheney, Jack Walther, and others.

Jessica Lifland is one of the official photographers for the Western Folklife Center’s National Cowboy Poetry Gathering. Find her gathering photos and her Cowboy Poetry Project photos at jessicalifland.smugmug.com/Cowboy-Poetry-Project.

(Please respect copyright. You can share this poem and photo with this post, but for other uses, request permission.)

WE NEVER RODE THE JUDITHS, by Wallace McRae

wallyjbl_091607_Wally_0040_previewphoto © Jessica Lifland; request permission for any use.

 

WE NEVER RODE THE JUDITHS
for Ian Tyson, by Wallace McRae

We never rode the Judiths
when we were grey-wolf wild.
Never gathered Powder River,
Palo Duro, or John Day.
No, we never rode the Judiths
when their sirens preened and smiled.
And we’ll never ride the Judiths
before they carry us away.

Cowboys cut for sign on back trails
to the days that used to be
Sorting, sifting through chilled ashes
of the past.
Or focused on some distant star,
out near eternity,
Always hoping that the next day
will be better than the last.

Out somewhere in the future,
where spring grass is growing tall,
We rosin up our hopes
for bigger country, better pay.
But as the buckers on our buckles
grow smooth-mouthed or trip and fall
We know tomorrow’s draw
ain’t gonna throw no gifts our way.

And we never rode the Judiths
when we were grey-wolf bold.
Never rode the Grande Ronde Canyon
out north of Enterprise.
No we never rode the Judiths,
and we know we’re getting old
As old trails grow steeper, longer,
right before our eyes.

My horses all are twenty-some…
ain’t no good ones coming on.
The deejays and the Nashville hands
won’t let “… Amazed” turn gold.
We’re inclined to savor evening now.
We usta favor dawn.
Seems we’re not as scared of dyin’
as we are of growing old.

I wish we’d a’ rode the Judiths
when we were grey-wolf wild.
And gathered Powder River,
Palo Duro, and John Day.
But we never rode the Judiths
when their sirens’ songs beguiled
And we’ll never ride the Judiths
before they carry us away.

© 1992, Wallace McRae
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission

 

Andy Hedges, in his current podcast—the 50th episode of Cowboy Crossroads—recites “We Never Rode the Judiths” as an introduction to his standout interview with the iconic Canadian songwriter, singer, and rancher Ian Tyson.

Tyson tells about his early music career and the other cowboy-influenced performers in Greenwich Village, including Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Peter La Farge, Harry Jackson, and others; Elko and the beginnings of his involvement with the Western Folklife Center’s National Cowboy Poetry Gathering; traditional cowboy songs; the genius of Bob Dylan and his influence on his own writing; the creation of “Four Strong Winds”; ageing, and much more. Don’t miss it.

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Andy Hedges’ deep respect for cowboy music and poetry tradition informs all of his podcasts. He’s creating a precious oral history archive that includes interviews with Dave Stamey, Waddie Mitchell, Vess Quinlan, Ross Knox, Joel Nelson, Mike Beck, Corb Lund, Jerry Brooks, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Don Edwards, Michael Martin Murphey, and many others. Find them all here.

Wallace McRae, third-generation Montana rancher and National Endowment for the Arts Heritage Fellow is most well known for his own least favorite poem, “Reincarnation.” A closer look at his work shows a body of serious work, thoughtful poetry.

For a wonderful look at this complex man, watch a recent Western Folklife Center video in which he “… tells a true story about Northern Plains ranching, with a moving tribute to a neighbor.”

His stirring, masterful poem, “Things of Intrinsic Worth,” performed in 2013 and a part of WESTDOCUMENTARY, a feature-length documentary work-in-progress by H. Paul Moon.

Wallace McRae has retired from public appearances. Find more of his poetry and more about him in our feature at CowboyPoetry.com. He relishes being known as “The Cowboy Curmudgeon.” You can share this post, but please don’t otherwise use his poem without permission.

The above photograph of Wally McRae is by popular photojournalist Jessica Lifland (jessicalifland.smugmug.comInstagram) as a part of her Cowboy Poetry Project. Other subjects to date include Sean Sexton, Andy Hedges, Jerry Brooks, Waddie Mitchell, Amy Hale Steiger and Gail Steiger, Rodney Nelson, DW Groethe, Elizabeth Ebert, Henry Real Bird, Doris Daley, Bimbo Cheney, Jack Walther, and Bill Lowman.

Jessica Lifland is one of the official photographers for the Western Folklife Center’s National Cowboy Poetry Gathering. Find her gathering photos and her Cowboy Poetry Project photos at jessicalifland.smugmug.com/Cowboy-Poetry-Project.

The photo of Andy Hedges and Ian Tyson is courtesy of Andy Hedges.

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This 1942 photograph by John Vachon (1914-1975) is titled “Lewiston, Montana (vicinity). Judith Mountains.” It is from the Farm Security Administration (FSA) collection at The Library of Congress.

Find an interesting video and more about the FSA collection at The Library of Congress “Documenting America, 1935-1943: The Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information Photo Collection,” loc.gov/rr/program/journey/fsa.html.

(Please respect copyright. You can share this post and photographs with this poem, but for other uses, request permission. The John Vachon photo is in the public domain.)

CATTLE, by Berta Harte Nance

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CATTLE
by Berta Harte Nance (1883-1958)

Other states were carved or born
Texas grew from hide and horn.

Other states are long and wide,
Texas is a shaggy hide.

Dripping blood and crumpled hair;
Some fat giant flung it there,

Laid the head where valleys drain,
Stretched its rump along the plain.

Other soil is full of stones,
Texans plow up cattle-bones.

Herds are buried on the trail,
Underneath the powdered shale;

Herds that stiffened like the snow,
Where the icy northers go.

Other states have built their halls,
Humming tunes along the walls.

Texans watched the mortar stirred,
While they kept the lowing herd.

Stamped on Texan wall and roof
Gleams the sharp and crescent hoof.

High above the hum and stir
Jingle bridle rein and spur.

Other states were made or born,
Texas grew from hide and horn.

…by Berta Hart Nance

In his 1941 book, The Longhorns, J. Frank Dobie (1888-1964) writes, “The map of Texas looks somewhat like a roughly skinned cowhide spread out on the ground, the tail represented by the tapering peninsula at the mouth of the Rio Grande, the broad head by the Panhandle. But ‘Cattle,’ by Berta Hart Nance, goes deeper than the map.”

Berta Hart Nance (1883-1958) was the daughter of a rancher, who was also a Confederate veteran, Indian fighter, and cousin of Jefferson Davis,” according to the Handbook of Texas, which includes more about her life and writings. In 1926, her book-length poem about Texas, The Round-Up, was published, She had two other books of poetry published,
and her work was included in many anthologies.

Andy Hedges recites the poem on a recent Cowboy Crossroads podcast that also includes an interview with Joel Nelson.

Linda Marie Kirkpatrick recites the poem on Volume Six of The BAR-D Roundup” from CowboyPoetry.com.

Find more about Berta Hart Nance and her poem at cowboypoetry.com.

This circa 1904 photograph by W.D. Harper is titled “Open range branding” and summarized, “Photograph shows cowboys branding cattle on the open range in the Texas panhandle.”

(This poem and photograph are in the public domain.)

>>>This is a scheduled post. We’ll be back Monday.

THE OLD HANDS, by Vess Quinlan

vessquinlanphoto by P’let Tcherkassky

 

THE OLD HANDS
by Vess Quinlan

It’s good to set and listen
to their talk of long ago,
these men with skin like leather
and hair as white as snow,

to hear how the world was run
a little different then,
produced a tougher breed of cattle
and a rougher sort of men.

The cows were lean and ringy
and working ’em was hard;
you could melt a hundred head
and not get a pound of lard.

There were damn few gentle horses
like we’re used to now;
it don’t take much to figger horses
had to match with man and cow.

A horse was five or six years old
before they’d run him in;
the idea of starting colts
was considered wrong back then.

Their days were long and lonesome
and the camps were far away;
they got to town about once a month
to spend the hard earned pay.

But the thing you hear most often
is the whole damn deal was fun,
in spite of winter’s biting cold
and summer’s scorching sun,

In spite of rank and spoiled horses,
or maybe ’cause of them.
You wonder if you’d have made a hand
had you lived back then.

You say you wish the old days
would come rolling back around
to see who could stay the camp
and who’d go back to town.

A grey head shakes, “No son,” he says,
“Not that, leastways not to the letter.
We done some things the way we did
’cause we just didn’t know no better.”

© 1990, Vess Quinlan, from The Trouble with Dreams
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission

Colorado rancher, writer, storyteller, and poet Vess Quinlan has been described, “Vess Quinlan is an American Cowboy Poet, who is widely considered to be one of the most respected poets of his genre.” There is no argument with that.

Find more poetry by Vess Quinlan in our feature here.

In July 2019, Andy Hedges’ Cowboy Crossroads podcast aired an outstanding interview with Vess Quinlan. It is filled with thoughtful insights about work, cowboys, poetry, and people in general. You’ll hear about his family’s and his own history and learn something about his perseverance and the wisdom he’s gathered. Listen to the episode here.

Find Vess Quinlan’s recitation of his poem, “The Barn Cats” and find more video at the Western Folklife Center’s YouTube channel. Vess Quinlan has been a part of all but two of the Western Folklife Center’s National Cowboy Poetry Gatherings.

The above photo of Vess Quinlan is by artist and friend-to-many Californian P’let Tcherkassky, taken at the Arizona Cowboy Poets Gathering. Find more about her at paulettespalette.net.

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(Please respect copyright. You can share this poem and photograph with this post, but for other uses, request permission.)

Vess Quinlan: Three Poems

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photo © 1993,  Kent Reeves; request permission for reproduction; find more below

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POEMS

The Old Hands
Mamma’s Cowboy
The Soul of a Cowman

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THE OLD HANDS
by Vess Quinlan

It’s good to set and listen
to their talk of long ago,
these men with skin like leather
and hair as white as snow,

to hear how the world was run
a little different then,
produced a tougher breed of cattle
and a rougher sort of men.

The cows were lean and ringy
and working ’em was hard;
you could melt a hundred head
and not get a pound of lard.

There were damn few gentle horses
like we’re used to now;
it don’t take much to figger horses
had to match with man and cow.

A horse was five or six years old
before they’d run him in;
the idea of starting colts
was considered wrong back then.

Their days were long and lonesome
and the camps were far away;
they got to town about once a month
to spend the hard earned pay.

But the thing you hear most often
is the whole damn deal was fun,
in spite of winter’s biting cold
and summer’s scorching sun,

In spite of rank and spoiled horses,
or maybe ’cause of them.
You wonder if you’d have made a hand
had you lived back then.

You say you wish the old days
would come rolling back around
to see who could stay the camp
and who’d go back to town.

A grey head shakes, “No son,” he says,
“Not that, leastways not to the letter.
We done some things the way we did
’cause we just didn’t know no better.”

© 1990, Vess Quinlan, from The Trouble with Dreams
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission

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MAMMA’S COWBOY

It’s been over fifty years
and mamma blushes like a teen,
red as a desert sunset,
when one of her brothers says,
remember the time Bearcat Bearden
fell in love with Marjorie,
hung around the telephone office
all winter just to walk her home.

I am a son amazed,
not to learn that mamma
had a boyfriend before dad
but at the idea of old Bearcat,
who would saddle a horse
to ride to the outhouse,
walking her home.

© 1990, Vess Quinlan, from The Trouble with Dreams
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission

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THE SOUL OF A COWMAN

When we had enough of shopping,
grew tired of “Don’t touch that,”
“Behave yourself” and “Come back here”
little guy and I escaped, set off afoot
down a handsome tree lined street,
the best town offers with great white homes
and yards penned in by wrought iron.
Little guy took in the plenty grass,
and said, “Grandpaw where are all the horses?”
I swelled with pride to know that genes ran true
and the soul of a cowman was in that child;
barely two he damn sure knew what grass was for.
Then thoughts of pure clean genes running true
vanished in an old man’s grin of understanding.
Raised water short on our desert outfit,
the poor little buckeroo had never seen a lawn.

© 1990, Vess Quinlan, from The Trouble with Dreams
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission

vessquinlanphoto by P’let Tcherkassky

Colorado rancher, writer, storyteller, and poet Vess Quinlan has been described, “Vess Quinlan is an American Cowboy Poet, who is widely considered to be one of the most respected poets of his genre.” There is no argument with that.

In July 2019, Andy Hedges’ Cowboy Crossroads podcast aired an outstanding interview with Vess Quinlan. It is filled with thoughtful insights about work, cowboys, poetry, and people in general. You’ll hear about his family’s and his own history and learn something about his perseverance and the wisdom he’s gathered. Listen to the episode here.

Find Vess Quinlan’s recitation of his poem, “The Barn Cats” and find more video at the Western Folklife Center’s YouTube channel. Vess Quinlan has been a part of all but two of the Western Folklife Center’s National Cowboy Poetry Gatherings.

This favorite photo of the book Vess Quinlan carries with him was taken at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering  by Idaho photographer and filmmaker Betty K. Rodgers (imarriedthewar.com):

Quinlan Book B&W© 2010, Betty K. Rodgers; request permission for reproduction

The color photo up top of Vess Quinlan is by artist and friend-to-many Californian P’let Tcherkassky, taken at the Arizona Cowboy Poets Gathering. Find more about her at paulettespalette.net.

The circa 1993 photograph of Vess Quinlan at the top of this page is by Kent Reeves from the landmark book Between Earth and Sky: Poets of the Cowboy West, by Anne Heath Widmark, with photographs by Kent Reeves.

Kent Reeves writes in the book’s Acknowledgments, “…I owe my work in this book to all the poets who allowed me to interrupt their lives and who took me in for a few days. I do not feel that I ‘took’ these photographs; I believe that each poet gave them to me.” In addition to Vess Quinlan, the book includes chapters with Buck Ramsey, Wallace McRae, Joel Nelson, Rod McQueary, Linda Hussa, John Dofflemyer, Shadd Piehl, Paul Zarzyski, Sue Wallis, Henry Real Bird, and Drummond Hadley.

See a gallery of photos from the book here and find more about Kent Reeves at cowboypoetry.com, at his site cowboyconservation.com, and on Facebook.

(Please respect copyright. You can share this poem and photograph with this post, but for other uses, request permission.)

WHEN YOU’RE THROWED, by Bruce Kiskaddon

jmr816photo © 2016, John Reedy; request permission for use

WHEN YOU’RE THROWED
by Bruce Kiskaddon (1878-1950)

If a feller’s been astraddle
since he’s big enough to ride,
And has had to throw a saddle
onto every sort of hide;
Though it’s nothin’ they take pride in,
most of fellers I have knowed,
If they ever done much ridin’,
has at various times got throwed.

It perhaps is when you’re startin’
on a round up some fine day,
That you feel a bit onsartin’
’bout some little wall eyed bay.
Fer he swells to beat the nation
while yore cinchin’ up the slack,
And he keeps a elevation
in your saddle at the back.

He starts rairin’ and a jumpin’
and he strikes when you git near.
But you cuss him and you thump him
till you git him by the ear.
Then your right hand grabs the saddle
and you ketch a stirrup too,
And you aim to light astraddle
like a wholly buckaroo.

But he drops his head and switches
and he gives a back’ards jump.
Out of reach your stirrup twitches
and your right spur grabs his rump.
And, “Stay with him!” shouts some feller.
But you know it’s hope forlorn.
And you feel a streak of yeller
as you choke the saddle horn.

Then you feel one rein droppin’
and you know he’s got his head,
And your shirt tail’s out and floppin’
and the saddle pulls like lead.
Then it ain’t no use a tryin’
for your spurs begin to slip
Now you’re upside down and flyin’
and horn tears from your grip.

Then you get a vague sensation
as upon the ground you roll,
Like a vi’lent separation
twixt your body and your soul.
And you land again a hummick
where you lay and gap fer breath,
And there’s sumpthin’ grips your stummick
like the awful clutch of death.

Yes the landscape round you totters
when at last you try to stand,
And you’re shaky on your trotters
and your mouth is full of sand.
They all swear you beat a circus
or a hoochy koochy dance,
Moppin’ up the canyon’s surface
with the busom of your pants.

There’s fellers gives perscriptions
how them bronchos should be rode.
But there’s few that gives descriptions
of the times when they got throwed.

…by Bruce Kiskaddon

Andy Hedges has a fine recitation of this cinematic poem in his current “Cowboy Crossroads” podcast. The episode (#47) includes a captivating interview with musician and songwriter Ned LeDoux, who talks about his ranch upbringing; his famous father, rodeo champion, singer-songwriter, and artist Chris LeDoux (1948–2005); and performs a new song, “The Next in Line.”

This poem was printed in Kiskaddon’s 1924 book, Rhymes of the Ranges, and John Lomax included a version of it in 1919 in Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp.

As we’ve told many times about Bruce Kiskaddon, he worked for ten years as a cowboy, starting in 1898 in southeastern Colorado’s Picketwire area. He published short stories and nearly 500 poems. His poems are among the most admired and the most recited classic poems.

In the new triple-CD set from cowboypoetry.com, MASTERS: VOLUME THREE, the poetry of Bruce Kiskaddon, Randy Rieman recites “When You’re Throwed” and other top poets and reciters present over 60 Kiskaddon poems.

Find more in the Kiskaddon features at cowboypoetry.com.

This great 2016 photograph is by John Reedy, Montana photographer, songwriter, musician, and poet. John and his talented offspring, Brigid and Johnny “Guitar” Reedy, each recite Kiskaddon poems on MASTERS: VOLUME THREE.

See additional impressive photography at John Reedy’s site: reedy.photoshelter.com. Find more about him at cowboypoetry.com and visit twistedcowboy.com.

(Please respect copyright. You can share this photograph with this post, but please request permission for other uses. The poem is in the public domain.)