To celebrate one of the cowboy traditions, every so often we will be sharing the work of a different cowboy poet. Enjoy!

100 Years From Now

100 years from now, if the world’s still in the game,
May the earth recall our footprints, may the wind sing out our names.
May someone turn a page and hearken back upon this time,
May someone sing a cowboy tune and someone spin a rhyme.

History buffs will study us and time will tell its tales
Our lives will be a brittle pile of cold and quaint details.
A scrap of faded photograph, a news headline or two...
But life was so much more, my friend, when the century was new.

100 years from now, don’t look back and think me quaint,
Don’t judge and call me sinner, don’t judge and call me saint.
We lived beneath the arch with a mix of grit and grace,
Just ordinary folk in an extraordinary place.

So 100 years from now hear our ancient voices call,
Know that life was good and the cowboy still rode tall.
Wild flowers filled our valleys and the coyotes were our choir
We knew some wild places that had never known the wire.

We raised stouthearted horses; we’d ride and let ‘er rip
We burned beneath the summer sun and railed at winter’s grip.
We took a little courage when the crocus bloomed each spring
We loved beneath the stars and we heard the night wind sing.

We buried and we married, we danced and laughed and cried
And there were times we failed, but let the records show we tried.
And sure, I have regrets; I made more than one mistake
If I had it to do over there are trails I wouldn’t take.

But the sun rose up each day, we’d make it through another year
We’d watch the skies and count our calves and hoist a cup of cheer.
We knew drought and fire and heartache, we knew fat and we knew bone
But we were silver lining people and we never rode alone.

So, Friend, if you are reading this 100 years from now
Understand that we were pilgrims who just made it through somehow.
We’ve crossed the river home and we left but one request:
100 years from now, think back kindly on the west.

And ordinary folk, no special fate, no special claims
But 100 years from now, may the wind sing out our names.
Know the times were good and we rode the best we know.
We loved the west; we kept the faith, 100 years ago.

© Doris Daley
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

HANDS

There’s a special pair of hands assigned to do each task,
And to do a job the best we know is as good as we can ask.
You can try to stand alone but your world will start to drift
So the good Lord struck a plan and gave each one a special gift.
So God, bless the hands that are brown and scarred and rough,
But hands that reach to help you when the trail is looking tough.
Bless the old and gnarled hands, no longer strong or stout,
But hands that still can teach you what a handshake’s all about.
Bless the hands of buckaroos, young and full of pride
That teach us when we get bucked off to get back on and ride.
Bless hands that make the saddles and hands that stack the hay,
Hands that speak to horses in a mystic, magic way.
Hands that till the land, fix the fence, and catch the bids.
And Cookie’s hands that punch the dough and slam the bean pot lids.
Bless hands that tell the story of a lifetime chasing steers,
But hands that aren’t too big to gently wipe a child’s tears.
Hands that reach across for yours to say the table grace,
Calloused hands that tenderly caress a sweetheart’s face.
Bless her soft and gentle hands that wear your ring with pride
And show their share of scars and scrapes from standing by your side.
Bless artists’ hands and sculptors’ hands and guitar pickers’ too,
They’re only trying to tell the story in a way that honours you.
And if you’re feeling generous Lord, and if you’ve got the time
Even bless the hands of those who write and try to make it rhyme.
God gives each hand a gift, with his grace we’ll stand the test.
Bless each one—we need each one—to build this place we call The West.

© Doris Daley, from Rhyme & Reason and Poetry in Motion
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Doris Daley
Cowboy Poetry for All Occasions and in all Weathers
www.dorisdaley.com