cowboypoetrypress

“Better late than never!” our managing editor Ms. Stelling says. It’s been busy around the pub office since we began 1 year to the date publishing authors poetry and flash fiction books. And we look forward to more manuscript submission for next fall! We would love to see some western genre manuscripts come out way, since there are so many of you submitting to this ezine.

See our submission guidelines at http://www.reddashboard.com for more information, dates are Oct 1st – Feb 28th.

Enjoy this months issues 1, 2, 3 & 4!

‘Gypsy Colts Winter Day’ photo by Linda Woods

“They are two year old Gupsy Vanner Colts at Magic Gypsy Ranch.”

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Whining Dog Road

Bumpy and narrow the gravel road
Twisted up the mountain
A red streak like a rusted spiral staircase.
No guardrail gave false assurance.
No warning signs marked the way.

The skidding tires on hairpin turns
Shushed the already quiet forest.
Only a lone raven glided overhead
Cackling caution.

From the back of the truck
Came a whimper and whine
As the dog registered his unhappiness.
The driver chuckled, “That dog must have to go.”

In a wide spot the truck halted,
The driver released the dog.
But, the passenger and the dog both knew
Nature’s call wasn’t the reason for the stop.
It was the wild ride on Whining Dog Road.

Donnaa Meyer lives in Prescott, Arizona with her husband and dog. She’s been a professional storyteller since 1980. Recently, having been exploring poetry as a vehicle for story. Donna is a graduate of Southern Illinois University with a Masters in Instructional Technology. Now retired, she was a children’s librarian for twenty-five years.

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Coyotes and Cowgirls

for Buffy St. Marie

1
Yes, the occasional rock was tossed,
but they were free to go and never left,
coyotes of the sidelong glances
and sidling steps and delicate paws.

2
No yellow eyes in my headlights tonight
but The Morning Call’s full of corroborated tales

3
Stories of the breasts of cowgirls
whose dresses rode over their calves.
More stories of the miners’ daughters
and sad parental sieves and pans.

4
And on her hip, a silver dagger.
That’s why I’m yodeling cowboy songs.

Ken Fifer’s poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Ploughshares, and other journals. Sometimes he wishes he were a cowboy.

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A Prairie Frost

Woke up this morning to a prairie frost.
Saw warm breath rising through cold air.
Rolled a bedroll in an oilcloth stiff with cold.
Hard frozen ground
and the crunch of frosted grass.
Heard the message and felt the change in the season.
Thought of warmer mornings in southern climes;
of lush evenings on coral shores.
Stood up, looked east into the rising sun.
Breathed deep the cold clear air.
Turned into the wind,
let it brush aside the years,
and clear my mind.

Rode in this morning through a prairie dawn.
This was a gift I could not ignore.
Stopped and spread my arms
across a golden arch.
Felt the sun push back the chill.
Felt blood flow.
Heard birdsong.
And from the Dawn came clarity
in that slow reveal.
Vision and understanding
not from a rising star
but from the turn of a wheel.

Rode home this morning through a prairie night.
Only thing bigger than a prairie sky.
Reached up to touch infinity.
Saw my hand washed by eternity.
Starlight from all of time.
All moments, in one moment.
All places, in one place.
All my life – an instant.
All my travels, home.
Time is not a prison
The future is no escape.
We are…All…Here…Now.

Andy Kerr-Wilson  is a member of “LiPS”; a rural slam poetry collective in Lanark County, Ontario, Canada. After a lifetime of writing poetry in his head, he began performing and publishing 5 years ago and competed at the 2011, 2012 and 2013 Canadian National Slam competitions. His published works reflect his 40 years as a wilderness guide and a love of horses and back country rides. When not riding in the ring or on trails, he and his wife Nancy, live ‘off the grid’ on 9 acres of rock and trees and swamp in a self-built passive solar home.

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An Old West Hymn

Drag back his body alone and dead.
Sky bleeds dawn come a holsterin’ gun–
When he lassos moon by deed of dread.
Drag back his body alone and dead.
He shall see no stars from shallow bed!
Hunt sovereign beast, and if low he run:
Drag back his body–alone and dead.
Sky bleeds dawn come a holsterin’ gun.

Gabe Russo recently graduated from the University of North Carolina School of the Arts with a BFA in film-making. His films have played at various film festivals in Florida and North Carolina. Gabe enjoys writing poetry, flash fiction, and screenplays, and currently reside in Melbourne, Florida. He is also also an avid John Ford cinephile.

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