Ask a Cowboy Poet: Rodeo Poems
Got a Question? Ask A COWBOY POET!
June 2026
Rodeo season is in full swing. And while not every cowboy poet rodeos, the feats that take place in arenas across time and space have inspired this bunch of cowboy poets to reminisce on their various rodeo experiences. Whether in the announcer’s booth, in the grandstands, or on a bull, the cowboy poets have stories to tell in rhyme and meter as they answer this month’s question—
“Have you ever rodeoed? If so, did the experience inspire a poem? (Or, do you have a favorite rodeo poem?)”
~ Bucking Bronco
DW Groethe:
My rodeo experiences all came around 35 years ago when I moved to Montana. I ended up joining the local saddle club and within a year was helping them with their annual rodeo. Eventually, we started a ranch rodeo too, and every year during the county fair I ended up being the announcer. I did that for about 16 years till doing poetry gatherings kinda got in the way and it turned into one or the other kinda thing and the poetry won out. Here's a couple poems I wrote about it way back when. I was never a rider, but I had a great time workin' at puttin' 'em on.
Let ‘Er Buck
None remember ‘zactly when
The first man sat atop
A four-legged fury on the plains
An’ rode it to a stop.
Like as not he chucked straight up
Then landed with a jar
That shook his brains an’ bones apart
An’ left him seein’ stars.
He prob’ly crawled back to his hole
An’ gazed upon the horse
An’ made a vow, right then an’ there,
To take the thing by force.
No matter when, no matter how,
He knew he’d ride that beast.
Since time began in all them years
Nothin’s changed the least.
There’s always one more horse to ride.
Always one more go.
Always one more last time
For one more rodeo.
There’s some who think they never learn
But that ain’t it at all.
It’s not who gets the money
Or the one that takes the fall.
It’s your basic one on one
‘Tween nature’s very best
That gets their blood a-boilin’
When they put it to the test
Out there in the arena
Man an’ horse just temptin’ fate
An’ there flat ain’t no denyin’
Everyone of ‘em is great.
So here’s to all them cowboys
Who dare the great divide
When they muster up the courage
To make another ride.
Let ‘er buck!
Roughstock
Thunder,
Wrapped in hoof,
Hide and hair,
a-waitin’
the storm rider.
A nod,
an opening,
and like a July
squall out of nowhere
blows into being
a sleek eight seconds.
Heart poundin’ hell
tipping Eternity’s edge
gone
in the breathless blink
of a mind’s eye
gettin’ set on
the next go.
Doris Daley:
In 2012, when the Calgary Stampede celebrated its 100th anniversary, I wrote a poem honouring Guy Weadick, the flamboyant wild west showman who had the dream that started it all. He was convinced that the fledgling western town on the edge of the Canadian prairies had the scenery, the cowboys, and the can-do zip that would bring spectators and contestants from all over the west to the banks of the Bow River for an exhibition of cowboy skills. Weadick's life partner was fancy trickroper Flores LaDue. They lived out their lives in the Alberta foothills (just south of where I live now). Before I wrote the poem, I made a pilgrimage to the High River Cemetery where they are buried. Flores died first, leaving Guy to choose her headstone. On it are three little words—nothing fancy or pretentious—but to me they told a big, big story of two people who left a big legacy.
Here's the poem, with this postscript about the assignment: When we got the topic for July, "Have you ever rodeoed?" it took me several minutes to get over my laughing fit at the very thought (it takes me 17.5 seconds just to swing my right leg up). The closest I have ever been to arena dirt was at the Calgary Stampede, as a grateful guest of a bigwig car dealership owner, sitting two rows up right behind the chutes in the infield. So close to the action that when the cowboy nodded and the gate swung open, clods of snot and dirt almost flew into my margarita. Not quite an athletic event, but you have to admit it takes a certain kind of agility and quick-wittedness to cover your drink in time. Okay, here's the poem.
A Real Partner
My name is Guy Weadick, how do you do?
A pleasure to meet you, Miss Flores LaDue!
The horses are saddled, would you fancy a ride?
I'd love to step out with you by my side.
I'll tell you my dreams about a big wild west show.
I'm throwing a big loop by the banks of the Bow.
Mr. Weadick, I'm told, you talk big and bold.
That's fine with me, 'cause ordinary leaves me cold.
I'd love to go riding, as it happens I'm free
Any horse that has hair is just dandy with me.
I've had my eye on you from the start
When you're throwing your loop, you might aim for my heart.
She had her trick rope and he had a dream,
They aimed for the stars and they pulled as a team.
With sparkle and spunk they could conquer the world.
A gamble, a promise, a plan was unfurled.
They rode side by side and they rode to succeed,
And they did it! They started the Calgary Stampede.
A daring-do husband, a plucky young wife
Hell bent for leather, lived larger than life.
They were partners in work and partners in play
They rode by a standard that lives on today.
A heart full of Try. A world full of Yes...
A legacy branded the C Lazy S.
1951, her last setting sun.
Her saddle is empty, her last race is run.
A cowboy heads west, a grave stands alone
Three little words are carved on a stone.
Three little words, but they stand true and tall:
A Real Partner, and that, in the west, says it all.
Bill Lowman:
Yes, my two brothers and I did rodeos in a tri-state region of home. Jim rode bareback while Chuck and I rode bulls. I have fun telling of my very first rodeo. I was a senior in high school when Jim and I went to the two day Ekalaka, Montana, “Days of 1885” rodeo. Chuck was off “girling” that weekend so I “borrowed” his Northwest Ranch Cowboys Association Card because I didn’t have one yet. I covered both bulls for second place in the day money and third in the average. I walked out of there with 55 bucks burning a hole in my pocket. Jim and I stopped for a hamburger on the way home. I was far too busy making history back then to write about it, but we did know a verse or two of “The Bad Brahma Bull.” Back then we trained “in the bars, not on the bars.”
Darrell Holden:
I spent most of my 20s falling off of bulls. I could ride the heck out of them until they would open the chute, and then they’d fling me like a frisbee. I loved chasing a buckle, but I also knew it wasn’t my whole life. I liked to ranch and hunt and other things as much or more than rodeo. But it was sure fun while it lasted. The guy I looked up to the most was Layne Frost. His personality and grit just spoke to me. I wrote this poem thinking about the day he was killed in Cheyenne and I was watching the rodeo live in California. I’ll never forget that moment. I’ve only written one rodeo poem. It’s because of him. Utah has had some incredible rodeo athletes…Louis Feild, Kaycee Feild, Cody Wright, all of the Wright kids competing now, Dean Thompson just to name a few. I’m grateful for the time I spent in the sport. Just the best people.
Frost
The smile. The eyes. The feathered hair.
The grip as strong as steel.
The will to win. The stubbornness.
The personality so real.
The long nights down the highway,
Chasing the rodeo trail.
The hours spent with fans and kids,
Signing autographs without fail.
The steady climb up to the top,
The champion at last.
The work, the guts, the bruises.
All part of his story and past.
The friends he made forever.
The rivals who had his respect.
The bulls who brought him fame and glory,
With every ride and every wreck.
A barber shop chair in California,
As I watched the Frontier Days rodeo.
The heartbreak I felt as he fell,
To that arena dirt below.
The silence of not knowing,
And then, the pain when we all knew.
The empty lonely feeling
As I’d lost a hero, so true.
Never to be forgotten.
Never to be cast aside.
He was the reason I rode them bulls
And the reason I always tried,
To give my all, to chase my dreams,
To try and be like him.
The feathered hair and devil’s eyes,
And that supernova grin.
Lane was my only idol.
And I sure miss him even today.
It’s been 34 years since he died,
And my hair is getting gray.
But I will forever remember,
His grit and try and pride.
And that’s my small memorial,
To the man who’s made his last ride.
Miss ya, Lane!
Darrell Ekker Holden May ‘23
Dick Gibford:
I did ride and rope in high school rodeos some, and I tried saddle bronc in college, but as I was raised on a cattle ranch, my dad was an old school vaquero who was the primary inspiration that set the course of my young life and all through my life. The real open range and big outfit cowboy life I chose to follow has inspired all my cowboy poetry to this day, and I didn’t ever write one single line about my rodeo experience, not that rodeo life doesn’t hold some sure enough good material for poems, stories, and songs.
