Find more poetry at the main page for the 20th annual Christmas at the BAR-D. Below are selected submitted poems for 2018:
“The Farm Cat Christmas Ball,” by Jo Lynne Kirkwood
“Christmas at the Line Camp,” by DW Groethe
“Dutchy,” by Lynn Kopelke
“Corriente Christmas,” by Robert Dennis
“Rompin’ Roy, Cowboy Elf,” by George Rhoades
“Merry Christmas,” by Gregory Matthews
Find many, many more Christmas poems at CowboyPoetry.com.
illustration by Jo Kirkwood
THE FARM CAT CHRISTMAS BALL
by Jo Kirkwood
Out in Central Utah there’s a tradition long held dear;
An annual romantic interlude marks the turning of each year.
And no matter if on the front porch, or behind the barn’s back wall,
It’s a riotous yowling ho-down: the Farm Cat Christmas ball.
It’s a yearly opportunity for the gals to meet Tom Cats,
To analyze their attributes, see who’s this or that.
Who’s been ear-clipped by Best Friends this year, and cannot cut the cake,
Who bears the scars of war and time, and has earned the right to mate.
When the Cat Committee met last fall to plan the celebration,
Ideas were flying freely, with feline contemplation.
They wanted something special, a time all would remember
Later on, when Cats looked back on this particular late December.
And so the Cat Committee, wise in field mouse ways,
Decided to invite all rodents to spend the holidays!
It would be a time to interact! Peace on Earth, among the mammals!
To commemorate that great event, when sheep lay down with camels!
Invitations were sent by Magpie. (They’ll do anything for a price.)
And those silly rodents were convinced. They showed up actin’ nice.
They’d been promised Peanut Butter! Food from inside the house!
(It’s really pretty easy to fool a hungry mouse.)
The feral Toms from miles around came to the farm in droves,
The house cats from clear over in town were wearing catnip bows!
And for a while it was plumb civilized, folks were polite, one and all,
But then things started getting frisky at the Farm Cat Christmas Ball.
The Cat-Caller was a beat-up Tom who made his living at the dairy.
He was scarred and had an ear torn off – really was quite scary!
That old Tom commenced to hollerin’, “Now, farm cats, twitch yer paws!
Lock eyes with all them rodents, an’ snag ‘em with your claws.”
“Salute yer lovely critters; now swing an’ let ’em go,
But be sure an’ catch ‘em back again! – all hands do-ce-do!”
When he purred, “Cat-a-pult yer Partners!” Each kitty found a vole,
A field mouse or a gopher, and ate that varmint whole!
And it was all so happy! Each cat will long recall
That lively gaited soiree – the Farm Cat Christmas Ball!
© 2018, Jo Kirkwood
This poem should not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s permission
illustration by DW Groethe
CHRISTMAS AT THE LINE CAMP
by DW Groethe
The cabin was sparklin’
as neat as it could,
as Jake grabbed an armful
of dried firewood.
Just him an’ his cowdog
on Christmas Eve night,
the tree was a-twinklin’,
all things were just right.
Ol’ Otis, the wonder dog,
snored half asleep,
dreams of dog Christmas
a-startin’ to creep
up through the depths of
his gray matter lump,
they lit up an’ lands
with a jerk and a thump.
A big box of doggie treats
(high on his list),
a chew toy (of leather,
he’d have to insist).
A barn cat…for chasin’…
an’ he wouldn’t begrudge
a large heapin’ helpin’
of warm corral sludge.
He squiggled an’ squirreled
in doggie delight
knowin’ that Santa
was comin’ tonight.
…Meanwhile…
Jaker kicked back,
in his ol’ Morris chair,
fireplace cracklin’,
he’d nary a care.
He figgered that Santa
was doin’ alright
with no holler for helpin’
this Christmas Eve night…
When a small rappin’ tappin’
tripped light on the door.
His lids squintered down, thought,
“What now?” and “What for?”
Easin’ up, slow like,
he got from his chair,
opened the door to see
who could be there.
Was greeted by heaven knows
how many elves,
A-laughin’ an’ shriekin’
“We made these ‘r’selves!”
They dropped off a bundle
of boxes an’ such,
all wrapped up right purty
with elf magic touch.
“Yer the last stop
on the sleigh ride this year,
now we’re headin’ north
for some skittles an’ beer!”
“Merry Christmas!,” they chimed,
“another trip done!
We hope you an’ Otis
will have lotsa fun!”
An’ with that they all
piled on to the sleigh,
Santa a-wavin’,
they sailed away.
Jake stood there smilin’,
his heart high an’ light,
ol’ Otis, beside him,
barked into the night.
© 2018, DW Groethe
This poem should not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s permission
DUTCHY
Old Dutchy’s hands weren’t never still
When the days work was over and done.
His old folding knife a’working ’til
Some hunk of wood turned something fun.
Maybe a horse. Maybe a bear.
Or a toy soldier with a gun.
Then they’d up and disappear.
None knew what happened to ’em when done.
Now Dutchy was a middlin’ hand.
At most tasks given he did just fine,
But he was far from the best in the land
And winter oft found him ridin’ grubline.
Some years that weren’t too tough.
Folks’d trade work for food and a room.
But this year things had been awful rough.
Not much to spare midst winter’s gloom.
Two days before Christmas Day.
Near full dark ‘fore he saw the light.
Mighty relieved as he made his way
With hopes of shelter for the night.
Come to what he takes a front door.
Frozen fingers make a fist and knock.
He’s shiverin’ cold down to his core
But someone lifts the inside lock.
They’s just sittin’ down to dinner,
Heads bowed in thanks all ’round.
Children too young for sinners
And three startled nuns at that rappin’ sound.
But charity is God’s own law
And the youngest nun opens the door
Seein’ Dutchy needin’ a thaw
And says, “Come on in. There’s room for one more.
For your horse, the barn’s out back.
Plenty of hay. Tight against the wind.
Coffee’s on. Hot and black.
Pull up a chair and make new friends.”
Old Brownie thinks he’s in heaven
Underneath a roof for the night.
Givin’ how they’d been livin’
Dutchy ‘greed he might be right.
He met the children, one and all.
Bright smiles, shiny and new.
Though their names he’d not recall.
Nina and nino would have to do.
Mother Margaret, she’s in charge,
Helped out by the two younger nuns.
A dozen orphans small to large
Meant something more always needin’ done.
Sister Inez cooked the dinner.
That explained the green chili pepper.
“Ain’t leaving here no thinner.”
Thought Dutchy, after that supper;
The novice was a hand for fair.
By name, Wilhemina von Schill.
There’s a moniker that’ll curl your hair.
Dutchy just dubs her Sister Bill.
Two days spent gathering wood.
Dutchy cut and Brownie pulled the sled.
Prolly did his soul some good,
Keepin’ orphans warm in their beds.
Christmas Eve and vespers said
But no mention of presents or Santa Claus.
Carols sung and St. Luke read
But that omission gave Dutchy pause.
Christmas Day and Sister Bill
Is up before first light.
See’s the pallet empty and still.
Dutchy’d taken his leave during the night.
Then she saw the manger scene.
Mary, Joseph, wise men, and all.
Two shepherds with a lamb between
And baby Jesus in his manger stall.
All carved from different wood.
So lifelike it took your breath away.
Who’d have believed an old cowhand could
Create such beauty here on display.
And then she saw a canvas sack
And her heart leapt with hope for what’s inside.
Just bulgin’ front, sides, and back
Her excitement she could no longer hide.
Shoutin’ like a protestant
She woke every lad and lass
To come and share this Heaven sent
Miracle that had come to pass.
The children all gathered round,
Most for the first time knowin’ the joy
As that sack spilled out on the ground
It’s precious gifts of Christmas toys.
There were horses. There were bears.
And toy soldiers with guns.
There was dragons and princes and maidens fair.
A special gift for everyone.
That sack held out for fifty years,
Kinda’ like them loaves and fishes.
No child there need ever fear
The fulfillment of their Christmas wishes.
And to this day, a prayer of thanks is said
For a man whose hands weren’t never still,
Beside a simple convent bed
By an old nun called Sister Bill.
© 2018, Lynn Kopelke
This poem should not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s permission
illustration by LE Stevens
CORRIENTE CHRISTMAS
by Robert Dennis
Seems sometimes I can go crazy, probably not news to most
But it seems I get plumb foolish, like the jam slid off my toast
Christmas time seems to be the worst, it grabs me once again
And despite all my good intentions I commit some terrible sin
Like this year for instance, I seem to have forgotten past vows
I went and got plumb crazy and bought some Corriente cows!
For those who are not enlightened, Corrientes are one of the breeds
Who come from down in Mexico and love to eat just brush and weeds
You seldom see a fat one, seems most are lanky and thin
Team ropers love to chase them, tho’ they cuss and curse, but grin
‘Cuz there ain’t another cow who will run and try to leave
Like a crazy Corriente with tricks stuck up his sleeve
He will duck and stop and setup, run like a bat out of . . .well
Time after time after time, but they sure are hard to sell!
Team ropers are usually broke or at least that’s what they claim
Just like to rope ‘em, ’specially yours, I won’t mention any name
When Corriente cows calve, babies are painted every hue
Brindles and spotted and few solid, natures camouflage, yes it’s true!
In the fall most ranchers sell the calf crop that were born that spring
But Corriente calves are small, they won’t bring much thru’ the sale ring!
So we kept them colored up boogers, fed ‘em hay all winter long
But still no buyers wanted them, no bidders to hit the gong!
Then I got a little crafty, pasture them out, away from here
Them ropers would love to have them, every heifer and every steer!
And the real beauty of this plan was they would then pay me!
Instead of the other way around, I would then get the fee!
I wouldn’t make a killing, but it would bring in some extra dough
Maybe impress my banker with my marketing genius, you know
Only problem with it was them ropers liked them on short feed
To keep them small and run hard, dang, that’s not what I need!
I got them all back this late fall, some were bigger maybe a little fatter
But there were some who weren’t and that’s what seems to be the matter
That has me in a quandary, so what am I supposed to do
With all these colorful critters eating grass, they chew…and chew…and chew…
In the past we have butchered some, when fat, they taste just great
Tender, delicious and nutritious, never any meat left on the plate
But we got more than we can eat, even with ten grandkids runnin’ ‘round here
Feed is expensive and getting scarce, so here is my plan for this year
If you’re on my Christmas gift list, I hate mentioning it to you right now
But I hope you got a stout pen outback, ’cuz your getting a Corriente cow!
© 2018, Robert Dennis
This poem should not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s permission
ROMPIN’ ROY: COWBOY ELF
by George Rhoades
Rompin’ Roy wore his boots,
Janglin’ spurs, wide-brimmed hat,
And all the other elves
Really didn’t cotton to that.
Roy was too loud, stompin’
Around Santa’s workshop
In his Levis, red bandana,
Twirlin’ his lasso non-stop.
Santa warned him once or twice
That he should get to work
With the other elves makin’ toys,
Stop bein’ a cowboy jerk.
Roy wore his big belt buckle,
Bragged about bein’ a hand
Way down on a reindeer ranch
In a distant wintry land.
All the elves rolled their eyes,
And scoffed at his tales
Of ridin’ and drivin’ herds
All along the reindeer trails.
“Roy, stop actin’ like a fool,”
They would sneer and say,
“You’re keepin’ us from gettin’
Things ready for Christmas Day.”
Roy would sing cowboy songs,
Try to rope and ride the reindeer
In the barn and the feedlot
At almost any time of year.
It was a stormy Christmas Eve,
Santa was loadin’ up the sleigh,
When a freakish clap of thunder
Brought sudden shock and dismay.
The reindeer panicked and ran,
A good old-fashioned stampede,
Dancer and Vixen and Rudolph, too,
Whole herd runnin’ full-speed.
They charged across the snow,
Right around the North Pole,
Comet and Cupid and Donner,
Runnin’ wild, out of control.
Santa didn’t know what to do;
That’s when Rompin’ Roy,
Ridin’ and spurrin’ a reindeer,
Like a real old-time cowboy,
Came outta the barn full blast,
Streakin’ hard for the lead,
Gettin’ in front and turnin’ ’em,
Stoppin’ the reindeer stampede.
He got ’em millin’ in a circle
And halted the frantic runaway,
Moved ’em calmly and carefully
Back to Santa’s sleigh.
All the elves were amazed
At the skill Roy showed;
They were happy and hilarious
Readyin’ the sleigh’s heavy load.
Now they’re singin’ Roy’s praises –
And that’s how it came to be
That they’re wearin’ Western garb,
Whoopin’ it up with cowboy glee.
So all around the North Pole
The elves, and even Santa himself,
Are smitten and delighted
With Rompin’ Roy, the cowboy elf.
© 2018, George Rhoades
This poem should not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s permission
MERRY CHRISTMAS
by Gregory Matthews
I was ridin’ the line one Christmas eve night,
About an hour away from the shack,
The snow was a snowin’ and the blow was a blowin’
And all that weren’t white was pure black.
I pulled up my collar and yanked down my hat,
To keep me from gettin’ froze,
And I guess somewhere between here and there,
I must’a started to doze.
I was dreamin’ ’bout my folks and Christmases past,
And how it was when I was a boy.
Mamma in the kitchen, Daddy playin’ fiddle,
And the front room all scattered with toys.
When all of a sudden, a big clap of thunder,
And old Tike he gave me a throw.
Ten feet in the air I woke from my slumber,
And landed face first in the snow.
I pushed myself up and got to my knees,
And checked me for broken parts,
When all of a sudden I heard someone cussin’
A blue streak out there in the dark.
“That dadgum Dasher, that no good Dancer,
That miserable Prancer and Vixen,
If I ever catch that old Comet and Cupid
They’ll be as sorry as Donder and Blitzen.”
There stood a man in a dirty red suit,
With a red hat pulled half down his face.
A big red sack that was only half full,
And presents all over the place.
Quick as a whistle I located Tike,
There wasn’t a minute to spare.
That crazy old dude was from the lunatic fringe,
And boys, I was gettin’ out of there.
Then I heard, “Hey you, where ya’ think you’re goin’,
Can’t you see I’m in a spot.
My herd all ran off, my sled’s on it’s side,
And you’re all the help that I got.”
“I know who you are and don’t think I don’t,
So, son you better think twice.
It won’t take but a minute to get out my list,
And move you to naughty from nice.”
So, I turned around and hollered, “Who might you be,”
And he said, “Son, they call me St. Nick.
Now give me a hand with this sleigh and these gifts,
Then we’ll round up them reindeer right quick.”
He explained old Dasher didn’t know his left from right,
And he zigged when he should have zagged,
And there he went, you know what over teakettle,
Along with the sleigh and the bag.
So, after we got everything fixed back up,
I said, “Now what are we gonna do.”
He said. “There’s one thing them deer can’t resist,”
Then he said, ” Ya got any chew?”
I said, “All I got’s an old pack of Beechnut,”
And he replied, “That’ll do.”
Then he opened the pouch and the smell wafted out,
And darned if what he said wasn’t true.
Out in the brush I could see sixteen eyes,
Then I could make out some horns.
I thought they were elk, but they were only pint size,
And they were reindeer as sure as you’re born.
The old man then hollered, “Where you boys been.
Come on, I’ll give you a dip.”
Then he walked over and gave each a hug,
And put a big pinch in their lip.
After the deer were hitched, an inspection was done,
And the toy bag was cinched down tight.
He turned and he said, Merry Christmas son,”
And his coursers flew out of sight.
Then another clap of thunder shook me awake,
And there weren’t no one around.
No sign of Nick, no sign of the deer,
No sign of nothin’ to be found.
When I looked up, there sat the shack,
Old Tike had made sure I got home.
So I brushed him down good,
And gave him some oats,
And let him rest his weary old bones.
I thought, ” man what a night, it all seemed so real,”
But I knew it couldn’t be so.
All I could see was the moon in the trees,
And an undisturbed blanket of snow.
But then I saw somethin’ I couldn’t make out,
So I reached down and grabbed me a scoop.
And folks, so help me, right there in my hand,
I held a pile of reindeer poop.
© 2018, Gregory Matthews
This poem should not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s permission
photo © 2015, John Michael Reedy; request permission for use
Brigid Reedy and DW Groethe, © 2019, 
