Cowboy Poetry

By Harold Roy Miller

 

Mustang Band

 

Up in the pinions that cover the high land,

I came upon a wild mustang band.

There were 6 rangy horses grazing out there,

counting the stallion and the lead mare.

 

I stood and stared at the beautiful sight.

There were four bays, a roan and one mostly white.

The big muscled stallion stood perched on a rise

and he followed my every move with his eyes.

 

Then somehow he signaled to the lead mare

in a language that only wild horses can share.

She turned and led the herd up a winding trail

and her movement broke my hypnotic spell.

 

I admired their surefootedness and survival skills

as they followed the boss mare up the rocky hills.

The stallion was last as he brought up the rear;

it was a protective maneuver, and not out of fear.

 

It was an inspiring scene to watch the band flee,

but a wistful, melancholy feeling overwhelmed me

The mustangs, like the cowboy, symbol of the old west,

drifted into the sunset and vanished over the crest.

 

 

The Flight of the Phoenician

 

I left Phoenix, Arizona in 1998

and entered into a blissful matrimonial state.

We tied the proverbial knot down close to L.A.

and moved to northern Nevada the very next day.

 

We ate at the buffets till we were about to choke

and played the slot machines till we were darn near broke.

But despite the neon lights, there was one thing I always knew-

that though I lived in the city, I was a country buckaroo.

 

Something we had heard of and couldn't wait to see

was a herd of Nevada horses roaming wild and free.

One day we skipped the buffet and skirted the casino

and drove to Virginia City, in the mountains east of Reno.

 

We sighted our first mustangs as we came around a curve

and I wanted to show my sweetie that I had a cowboy's nerve.

I handed her the camera and asked her to take a shot

of me and the horses, so folks could see how close I got.

 

I moved into a clearing and walked slowly toward the band

as Sweetie aimed the camera just like I had planned.

I heard some hooves moving and I thought that they had fled.

That's when I saw the stallion, his ears pinned flat to his head.

 

I lost him for a second as he went behind a tree

and when he came back into view he was headed straight for me.

His demeanor said it all, as into the clearing he broke,

and my dreams of being a horse whisperer went right up in smoke.

 

He closed the gap between us and he was big and stocky,

and suddenly I felt mighty small and not so doggone cocky.

I turned and ran in panic, making a beeline for the car

and it seemed it took forever, though it really wasn't that far.

 

It was the most embarrassing moment of my married life

and I can still remember the words of my new wife.

She said, "Honey, slow down! Don't be in such a hurry

or else all these great pictures will come out much too blurry!"

 

 

 

About the author:

Harold Roy Miller was born in Mississippi, raised in Arizona and now lives with his wife in Nevada on a small ranch raising gaited horses. Harold is a correctional officer at the state prison and he writes cowboy poetry, mostly about horses, for fun.

 

 

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