Ask a Cowboy Poet: Poems From the Soul
Got a Question? Ask A COWBOY POET!
August 2026
Music is from the heart and poetry is from the soul. Both have a way of keeping us healthy, grounded, and connected to what matters most. This month, the cowboy poets provide the most personal of poems as they answer this question,
What is the one poem that bares your soul? The one that says something you might not otherwise know how to say?
~ Heart & Soul
Yvonne Hollenbeck:
The one poem I wrote that probably bares my soul the most is "The Little Red Geranium." It's not necessarily about the flower, but the life of my grandmother who always had little starts of geraniums in her window sill in tin cans. Lord knows, she never had money for fancy pots like we enjoy today. She lived in a sod house in North Central South Dakota. She had no running water, indoor plumbing, or electricity, yet with so little to do with she always seemed happy.
The poem outlines her life which is a stark contrast to mine. In addition to her everyday work on their hardscrabble farm (raising garden, poultry, canning, etc.), she wrote poetry and wrote articles in our newspapers. She had no paper and wrote on the backs of calendar pages, inside of envelopes, or anything that had a little space. Every time I throw away paper, which is frequent, I think about how much she would have enjoyed using what I am discarding. She was my hero.
Yvonne
Yvonne performs “The Little Red Geranium” at the 38th Gathering.
Darrell Holden:
As a pretty private person, I tend to keep the walls around me pretty well maintained. I’m what ya might call an extroverted-introvert. Poetry has allowed/pushed me to step outside of where I’m most comfortable. And the best part is, doing that has blessed me with the connection my poetry has given to other people. It’s truly humbling when folks hear and feel what I was trying to say.
The question of which piece I’ve written that bares my heart and soul is kinda hard to decide. I wear both on my sleeve every time I recite a poem. It’s just how I am built. But one piece that keeps coming to mind is “Influenced.” It’s still tough to get through on stage and contain my emotions. We are supposed to miss wonderful people when they are gone. I know I sure do. Every single day…
Influenced
There were two old men just sitting,
In the shade of some cottonwood trees.
One was eating an apple,
The other had a Pepsi on one knee.
Their Horses stood three legged,
Dozing in the mid day sun.
Little crick kinda wandered by,
Just a trickle there as it run.
The oaks and most the maples,
Was all dressed up from the fall.
It’s was cool there in the canyon,
Granite ledges stood up tall.
I rode down off a rocky ridge,
Let my pony drink his fill.
Then I stepped down from the saddle,
Loosened cinch, you know the drill.
Left him there, just ground tied,
Grabbed my lunch from saddle bag.
Sat down in a shady spot,
On a busted Quakie snag.
Dad said, “What took ya son?
Heck we been here a while.”
I just rolled my eyes at him,
Which has always made him smile.
I took a bite of my sandwich,
And enjoyed the October breeze.
Watched Uncle Ron wipe off his pocket knife,
On a pant leg by his knees.
See, He always cut his apple up,
Into pieces he could chew.
And fed what was left to his bay horse,
When he was finished up and through.
We talked about the fall grass,
We wished that it would rain.
We just enjoyed each other’s company,
As we all sat there, free from pain.
Then my Dad, he smiled at me,
When Uncle Ron said “we best get back.”
And I had to watch em ride back to heaven,
Though they did not leave a track.
I finished up my sandwich,
Drank deep from the spring.
Shared an apple with my own bay horse,
Felt the joy a good memory can bring.
Re-tightened cinch, stepped back on,
Gave my horse his head.
Supremely grateful for the influence,
Of good men I love, who now are dead.
Darrell Ekker Holden
June 11, 2025
Doris Daley:
Many westerners can trace their family roots back to the same farm or ranch or town for four or five generations. We cherish stories about our ancestors and the West they built. I have a poem called “100 Years from Now” that asks the question, “What will our descendants remember about us 100 years from now, when we are nothing but a vintage photograph or a scrap of family lore?”
I wrote the poem in 2000, three years after a time of terrible losses for me. A December prairie fire (there was no snow cover yet that year) destroyed hundreds of square miles of range land in southern Alberta, including the ranch I grew up on and surrounding ranches belonging to all our neighbours. Before the smoke and ash cleared away, we got the news that a beloved cousin and her partner had been murdered in a senseless killing. More crapola that I won’t go into here. People kept asking, “When are you going to write about the fire? When are you going to write about Lorraine?” My answer was always the same: never. Instead, those events…and other losses that I hadn’t experienced yet…are bound up in two lines in my 100 Years poem.
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.
I am reliving December, 1997—and other seasons of loss—whenever I recite the poem. I also tear up with gratitude thinking about neighbours and friends who show up no matter what.
Dick Gibford:
An old classic by Curley Fletcher is one that embodies all that is good and wondrous above and below. Curley wrote this great poem working with a big freight outfit (jerkline teams of 20 mules per outfit). I love the way it expresses all the thoughts and feelings about the vast Death Valley region that he was traveling through so heavily laden.
I believe they were hauling Borax from mines south of Tonopah to Lone Pine, California south of Bishop. Probably in the 1920s or early 30s. Here, I am only offering a thumbnail sketch. The masterfully written poem says it all!
Out under the brilliant canopy of desert sky that night a classic western poem was written by a genius mind in tune with the land and the universe. “The Tome of Time” By Curley Fletcher. It should hang framed on the kitchen wall of all desert lovers… in my humble opinion.
DW Groethe:
I've actually thought about this over the years. Like if I had to make a top ten list of poems and songs the answer is always no way. It boils down to my mood of the moment. If I did make a list, I know it would be very different a year later. There would no doubt be a few that would stay, but in another year they might be gone, too. It's not that better poems and songs are being written (and there are some great ones showing up). For me poetry and songs are in the moment, and as a consequence I don't think I'll ever have just one song or poem that makes me say "This is it!"
Ta daa
d dub
Bill Lowman:
Great question! I'm not big on soul searchers, but I did write one that falls perfectly into that slot. It's titled "The Land of Beulah." One meaning in the Webster's Bible of Beulah is “peace and rest near the end of life’s journey.”
The Land of Beulah
Back when I was just a little tyke,
And things weren’t go’n my way.
I’d saddle up and head for the hills,
And things seemed to work out okay.
Years ago some fool dubbed ‘em “Badlands,”
But to me they were always a friend.
For the hogback ridges and deep cedar canyons,
Were where all my troubles would end.
I’d ask them questions to solve my problems,
They seemed to answer me time and again.
It’s where old dreams were buried,
And new ones would begin.
But with my childhood days by the wayside,
And my moxie youth somewhat gone.
The bond that we once grew up with,
To the outside world seemed to have tagged along.
Because when I returned some years later,
To revert back to what use to be.
I was herald somewhat a stranger,
They seemed so distant to me.
I rode down Echo Bank Canyon,
Then throw off Thunder some slack.
I asked the cliffs what had happened,
But they just mimicked my question back.
I then realized that time marches on,
It’s been chang’n since the begin’n of years.
When I asked the hills for an answer,
And their silence deafened my ears.
Then I listened—-for the unheard sounds,
Of the sun evaporating the dew.
And the wild flowers opening their petals,
To a world of brilliant hue.
I heard the stillness of the winds absence,
The ground opening in hopes of a drink.
The grass making its daily growth,
And the shadows casting at the banks brink.
I heard the sounds of the trees make’, new air,
For all of life to inhale.
And took in the vastness of the quiet strength,
In a world of unheard prevail.
Suddenly the answers came before me,
In Mother Nature’s simple plan.
Be who you are and what you are,
By just being you – your own man.
