Cowboy Poetry by Harold

Poems by Harold Roy Miller


First Trailered Trail Ride


I sprang out of bed at half past seven.

I had to be at the staging area by eleven.

This was to be my first trailered trail ride

and I was feeling nervous and antsy inside.


I went to the corral and gave the horses their feed,

then checked out the trailer for the things I would need.

I loaded up a tool box with wrenches and pliers

and checked all the pressures in all of the tires.


Then I put in my saddle and my new bridle

and all the other tack I considered vital.

I put electrolytes in the water in a five gallon pail

and some hay for my horse, nearly half a bale.


I prepared myself mentally for the equine haul

as I connected the trailer to the hitch and ball.

I drove very carefully to where the ride would start

with a smile on my face and a glow in my heart.


When I got out to unload and show off my stock

as I opened the doors, I got quite a shock.

I stood there gaping with my mouth open wide.

The trailer was empty - there was nothing inside!


Embarrassment spread all over my face

as I stared at the glaringly empty space.

I'd paid attention to detail ‘cept for one little thing -

and that'd be the horse I forgot to bring!


The Path of the Storm


I went for an afternoon trail ride

on a horse I nicknamed Stormy Hyde.

I wanted to see if she'd climb hills

and I could hone my riding skills.


The first rocky knoll that I came to

the mare seemed to know just what to do.

She climbed that hill full steam ahead,

then we made our descent to a dry creek bed.


Then she saw something and she got scared,

and it caught me totally unprepared.

She snorted hard and then she shied,

and bucked and tossed me side to side.


I stayed with her till she calmed down.

then I quit the saddle and hit the ground.

I was so relieved the fight was done

that I dropped the reins like a total moron.


That's when Stormy Hyde, she fled,

right down the middle of the dry creek bed.

Little puffs of dust begin to form,

marking the path of the departing Storm.


I walked home tracking Stormy's hoof prints

and I found her waiting by the backyard fence.

So if you're out riding, if you have any brains

and don't want to walk, hold on to those reins!


And the sequel ...


Dude Ridin'

'When you're riding, use both hands,"

said my wife with scorn.

I said, 'Honey, I don't believe I can.

They won't both fit around the saddle horn.'


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.