cowboypoetrypress

We are back! Well, we rounded up two new Cowgals, Rebecca Bonham and Crystal Zeller to help in the office, so we can be on top of the state of the press. This week we are featuring some writers, and will do the same next week, until the first week of November.

So saddle up and get ready to ride!

Lissanne Lake has been a full time freelance illustrator for thirty years. She has done art for over two hundred book covers, including covers for best-selling authors such as Terry Pratchett, Thomas Disch, Raymond Buckland & David Bischoff. In addition, Lissanne has created hundreds of other paintings for magazines and game products and other publications,including a tarot deck, the Buckland Romani Tarot and also has done several large murals.She lives and works at her home in North Bergen, NJ, with her partner Alan and a bossy dog. Her above painting is titled, “Loyal Until Death.”

“Teach Me”

by Larry Bradfield

He got up his courage and knocked on the door
Of the local school marm who lived ‘bove the store
He’d seen her aplenty when he was in town
And got weak in the knees when she was around
He couldn’t keep his mind on buildin’ a fence
And the boys wondered why he’d gotten so dense
Then she opened the door and said not a word
He stammered “I’m Jim and I cain’t count the herd!
If you’d teach me numbers I’d be well ahead
And ranchin’ that’s hard would be easy instead.”
She said, “I wondered what reason to knock you would find
But counting a herd never entered my mind.
Take me to supper before we talk cattle
Then we can get past this meaningless prattle
And talk about things that we both think about
There is more on your mind than cows I don’t doubt.”
Her straightforward manner caught Jim unaware
He tried to think but all he could do was stare
He thought she might rope him before he knew it
Then he thought, “Well, thank God. Just lead me to it!”

Larry Bradfield TBA

“FORBODING”

(In a cabin near Witch Hazel Creek, north British Columbia, 1957)

by Andrew Hubbard

The winter wind, wolf-like
Claws at the door, rattles it,
And with icicle fangs
Would have it down.

Frost grows thicker on the window
Imperceptibly, in cathedral shapes
Goblin shapes
Claw-hand shapes.

A draft comes down the chimney
Scattering embers that quickly chill
Another draft follows, bolder.

Mindless yet malign
The cold wants to get in at us
Have its way with us,
Consume our fragile warmth.

It wants us stiff, blue-handed
In a rigorous pose it chose
For us to hold until we are
A feast for flies in the spring thaw.

Frankly, I think it will succeed.

I’ve little doubt
It will win out.

(You never liked the little rhymes
I made up at the worst of times.)

My dear, my dear, my precious dear
Come hold my hand.

See the frost tongue
Coming under the door?

My love for all these turbulent years:
We have so little left to fear.

Andrew Hubbard was born and raised in a small fishing village on the coast of Maine. He graduated from Dartmouth College magna cum laude, receiving awards in creative writing and psychology, and a degree in English. He completed his formal education at Columbia University, receiving a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing, summa cum laude. For most of his career, he worked as the Director of Training for a number of major financial institutions. He is a well-known speaker on the topic of corporate training, and has authored three books and dozens of articles on the subject. He is a former martial artist and competitive weight-lifter, a casual student of cooking and wine, a gemologist, a collector of edged weapons, a licensed handgun instructor, and an avid outdoor photographer. He currently lives in rural Indiana with his wife, two Siberian Huskies, and a demon cat. His previous book with IP was Things That Get You.

“Bullwhip Bob”

by Leroy Trussell

Bullwhip Bob,
with uh’pop whipper snap.
he had uh’stagecoach drivin’ job,
an his whip unwrapped, with a thunder clap.

He could take out uh’ eye,at ten feet,
strack uh’ match in mid air.
take off uh’ fly on uh’ bovine seat,
an cut uh’ umbras hair,with barbershop care.

One day took on uh’ gun fighter,
with uh’ pop of his whip.
twere uh’ split second blur,
yank that six gun right off his hip.

Why the other day,hung uh’ desperado,
with only his whip.
he was uh’ robbin’ the stage of its dough,
well right out that saddle,off his horse in uh’ outlaw backflip.

Kap tuh’ stage,n horses goin’,
with uh’ crack of his whip.
never leavin’ uh’ mark uh’ showin’,
reins tightly gripped,and loud poppin’ sound of the tip.

Leroy Trussell TBA

“Dusty Old Book”

by Poppa Mac

New cook on the wagon this year
Certainly hoping he’s a good one
Last one only here a month
Before he was on the run

Seems different than the rest
Nothing appears to get him mad
Food tastes pretty darn good
So it’s not starting out too bad

Doesn’t join in the card games
Never seen him take a drink
Sits quietly reading his book
Claims it helps him to think

Asked if I read the bible
Couldn’t say that I had
Momma used to read though
Mostly when I was being bad

One night he asked me to join
As he began to read aloud
Read about how Jesus loves us
Sat with his head bowed

Those words touched my heart
Like nothing else had before
Tears fell from my eyes
I begged him to hear more

That’s when I remembered
The book sitting on my shelf
It was totally covered in dust
Never really opened it myself

Was a bible given me by mom
Been sitting there quite awhile
Funny how now it felt right
Too take it from the pile

Can’t believe what I found inside
The words changed me forever
I now live as a child of God
And will forsake him never.

Geoff “Poppa Mac” MacKay is a Cowboy Poet, Preacher & Storyteller, and was born in Manitoba in 1960, as well as growing up throughout Western Canada.  Poppa Mac is a life-long cowboy, a poet, and storyteller Working on ranches and at rodeos throughout Western Canada as a wrangler and rodeo clown, provided Poppa Mac with lots of stories. Whenever possible, you’ll still find him on horseback in a pasture working cattle, or in a rodeo arena delivering God’s Message.

“PING”

by Mark F. Geatches

Ping

The man watched the red-brown glob ooze down the pitted face of the spittoon. His expression held a twisted smirk like a man trying to drop a stubborn ordure. The saloon was aphonic except for a couple of whores weeping and such. Wiping his forehead with a checkered handkerchief the man propped himself against the tired bar. He counted eight, mostly men, sprawled dead in odd comfortable positions.

Ping

“Damned if I ain’t still got it,” he croaked.

Walking toward the doors the man tipped his hat and wheezed, “Ladies.”
The mahogany doors continued to beat the air as he crumbled onto the parched road.

Mark F. Geatches, whether writing, reading, or riding his Mahindra tractor, Mark’s assiduity is accompanied by music. Mark finds music and writing the perfect mental connection; the nexus of focus and inspiration. Mark has been published in Romance Magazine.