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Poetry Americana

“On that saddle he courted a pretty lady and she held him tight from behind its high back seat. They ran freely through the wild blue bonnets, they were in love and life was sweet. When they said “I do” they used it as a pillow underneath the twinkling prairie skies. They partnered up for life with a love that would never die.”

—The Saddle





“Saturday mornings as a kid you’d find me in front of the old RCA. There were white hats on white horses with silver saddles to save the day. It was Roy and Gene who taught me to keep my room and my living clean. I guess you could say they taught me how to be a better human being.”

—Black and White




“Les McDowell has a rare and wonderful talent; with these poems I am instantly transported back to a simpler time. From dogs chasing my family car down a gravel road, to my grandmother's flowered apron, Les helps me relive those vivid but too often forgotten memories.”

—KATIE COOK, Television Host/Nashville, Tennessee





“Les McDowell has the soul of a cowboy and the heart of a poet. He writes about a way of life that is being crowded out as we rush to pave over paradise. But it will live on in memory and folklore thanks to cowboy poets like Les who remind us that the simple ways are the best. Here’s hoping that all his future trials are happy ones.”

—Walt Belcher, Tampa Tribune





“When Les put pen to paper it was more like poetry Americana, being that although it didn’t always rhyme, it had a charm of rural wisdom and a keen observation on values from a less complicated time.”

—JOHN McEUEN, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band

Coffee in the Morning

I sit in the stillness of the morning with my fingers around the brim. I sit and ponder in a daze of friends I’ve have known and places where I have been.

The smell wraps around my head. Ninety percent of me though is really back in bed.

I think of my day and what I need to do. I pour another cup and pinch another chew.

The bacon is in my pan just a popping and a filling up the air. As I take another sip, out in space in thought I stare.

I do a lot of thinking with my fingers through that comfort handle. They’re quick thoughts of loves, kids and pretty horses I have wrangled.

Now I’ve got my hat on and my friend I sit aside. Ok maybe just one more cup, cause I’m standing naked outside.



Black and White

Saturday mornings as a kid you’d find me in front of the old RCA. There were white hats on white horses with silver saddles to save the day.

It was Roy and Gene who taught me to keep my room and my living clean. I guess you could say they taught me how to be a better human being.

Hop-along on Topper his snow white stead taught me my word was my bond. They taught me there’s good in everyone, the bad you have to look beyond.

Then my dreams were of pure white horses with flying manes and silver studded gear. Posters of my Cowboy heroes kept away my nightmares and my fears.

There were beautiful western skies, tumble weeds and cactus in every scene. Today I can still see them running across that silver screen.

Now my cowboy heroes have taken one last rear and disappeared from sight. Times have changed but nowadays it seems nothing is black and white.



The Saddle

It hangs from the rafter in the breeze-way and there it sways. Its silver Conchos are dark and dull, its leather has seen better days.

Every time I’ve cleaned my barn I’ve come close to throwing it out. But when it comes right down to it, it’s the sentimental value I just can’t do without.

That saddle belonged to a cowboy I admire. That’s the real reason it’s been saved from my fire.

On that saddle he courted a pretty lady and she held him tight from behind its high back seat. They ran freely through the wild blue bonnets, they were in love and life was sweet.

When they said “I do” they used it as a pillow underneath the twinkling prairie skies. They partnered up for life with a love that would never die.

Their kids learned how to ride on that old saddle hanging there. The families’ little boy rode tall in his make-do high chair.

So when I look up at that torn leather, I don’t see an exposed saddle tree. I see a family tree, because that little boy was me.