The problem with this is that it won't keep format. This needs to be about archery, so I will say that this guy (me) turned out to be an archer. That's me on my pony.

Little Outlaw by Jimmy Blackmon

He’s a little outlaw, the old man said. Winked at my momma and shook his head. She was certain, he meant it as a joke, but she thought twice, before she spoke.

He’s a sweet little boy, she smiled and said. Not one mean strand, on top of his head. He likes his pony, and playing pretend, but he’s just a boy, and that I’ll defend.

Wild as a buck, and crazy as a loon. Shooting up bad guys, howlin’ at the moon. He’s a little outlaw can’t you see? No, he’s not, he’s my sweet pea.

He jabbed that pony, sharp in the ribs. Off they went, cross the North Georgia hills. Fences, could not hold ‘em in. Running and a’jumping, free as the wind.

Pistol whipping ghosts, that only he could see. Enforcing the law, so the people lived free. Like Dillon and Festus, keeping the peace. Down on the corner, at Miss Kitty’s place.

Wild as a buck, and crazy as a loon. Shooting up bad guys, howlin’ at the moon. He’s a little outlaw, can’t you see? No, he’s not, he’s my sweet pea.

Scarecrow standin’ in the middle of the garden. Crimes too bad, to give him a pardon. Trampled four rows, ‘fore he shot him down. Fell back dead, like a rodeo clown.

Grandpa saw them, a’kicking up dirt. Any other man, he’d a’made him hurt. But a flaw in his soul, a soft spot in his heart. Made ‘em stop and think, ponder his part.

Little bitty boy, with six gun on his side. Trusty steed beneath him, out for a ride. The whole damn thing, gave him pause. When he really thought about it, he loved Outlaws.

Wild as a buck, and crazy as a loon. Shooting up bad guys, howlin’ at the moon. He’s a little outlaw, can’t you see? No, he’s not, he’s my sweet pea.

Buckaroo by Jimmy Blackmon

We rode at least ten miles that day and tossed a hundred bales of hay. You told me ‘bout the cowboy ways, and there was nothing I could say.

Just dream of old Wyoming and of North New Mexico. Where the cattle graze the coolies, and the finest cowboys go, to work a herd of cattle and on Friday rodeo. Sing the songs of Chris LeDoux and share the things they know.

I was standing in a pasture wishing I could hold back time. Knowing happiness was fleeting it was moving all the time. Cause a cowboy’s dreams they make a song then saddle up and ride. Like the ballad of an outlaw or some old nursery rhyme.

I listened to the jingle of your spurs as we saddled up to ride. That old pony seemed a part of you, closer than your bride. A cowgirl that you met in school with dreams that coincide – just a cabin on a ranch out west and a love that will abide.

A simple life is all you ever seemed to want. A string of ponies and a modest herd you said so nonchalant. Aspen trees and a gentle breeze, a vision that’s sure to haunt if you don’t get out west where the Navajo used to walk.

I was standing in a pasture wishing I could hold back time. Knowing happiness was fleeting it was moving all the time. Cause a cowboy’s dreams they make a song then saddle up and ride. Like the ballad of an outlaw or some old nursery rhyme.

Time passed by like I knew it would. You moved out west just like you should. So, I saddled up my pony and I rode because a I could, and I dreamed of old Wyoming and the places where you stood.

I can still see that old gray Stetson pulled down on your eyes – a set of chaps and worn out boots you always looked so wise. I know you’re ridin’ herd now beneath Wyoming skies But the memories that you gave to me will never, ever die.

I’m standing in a pasture wishing I could turn back time. Knowing happiness is fleeting it’s moving all the time. Cause a cowboy’s dreams they make a song then saddle up and ride. Like the ballad of an outlaw or some old nursery rhyme.

Sharecropper By Jimmy Blackmon Raindrops slamming on a roof in the South. Daddy pulled a harp, and he put it to his mouth. Found rhythm in the rain, and he began to play. A lonesome sound that filled the air and kept the night at bay. Kelly rolled a cigarette and momma closed her eyes. A wooden porch, a rocking chair, and the music never dies.

The poets got a line on words, and the gambler plays the odds. A farmer feels the coming rains, plants, and prays to God. ‘Cause praying to the Lord above, it doesn’t cost a dime, and it always seems to make things better, even the worst of times.

Raisin’ up babies on a river bottom farm. It sounds romantic, but it lacks a lot of charm. Lines on his face and brown leather skin, work all day and he’s fence post thin. Sharecroppers worshipping dirt they don’t own, but doing what they do ‘cause it’s all they’ve ever known. Planting in the spring, and reaping in the fall, praying to God the winter don’t last too long.

The poets got a line on words, and the gambler plays the odds. A farmer feels the coming rains, plants, and prays to God. ‘Cause praying to the Lord above, it doesn’t cost a dime, and it always seems to make things better, even the worst of times.

The sun came out and it began to shine The rains came down and that was the sign. They turned up the ground, and began to sow. Sun and water, they make the crops grow. A mule and a plough, a hundred-acre tract, makes calloused hands and an aching back. Sweat all day and throb all night, back in the morning before it’s light.

The poets got a line on words, and the gambler plays the odds. A farmer feels the coming rains, plants, and prays to God. ‘Cause praying to the Lord above, it doesn’t cost a dime, and it always seems to make things better, even the worst of times.

Johny Cash inspired? Dukes of Hazzard?

That was entertaining!

Or you are? Yes you are.

Very nice, Jimmy. ^5

I write about what I know. The first was my childhood. I worked cattle farms on horseback and just wanted to grow up to be a cowboy. My great grandparents were sharecroppers, thus the last one.

Gray Ghosts of Autumn George D. Stout

September whispers soft and low with gentle winds that ebb and flow

Among the maples, ash and oaks adorned with multi-colored cloaks As oak trees drop their rusts and reds upon the fresh autumnal beds

Of littered past-life s shards and shreds, the gray ghosts dance in archer s heads

For as the summer wanes to fall, October speaks of northern squall

The cooling clouds and shortening days, bring morning fog and evening haze

This time of year the woods are still with morning frosts on leafless hill

The only sounds from shuffling paws that dig in leaves in search of haws

Or acorns, beech and hickory sheds to carry back to brown leaf beds

The archer loads his back berond with cedar shafts of feather frond

His longbow braced and drawn to bring a thumb to ear and cheek to string

His arrows cut to cloth-yard length to feel the surge of springing strength

From taut drawn limbs of elm and yew so deftly crafted to pursue The fleeting tails and whiskered face that dodge and dart at frantic pace

For as the archer tops the hill he knows there is no greater thrill

Than pure fair chase in greenwood dale of cutting-teeth and bushy tail

The shadows darting to and fro from nature s circus high wire show

Will stir the soul of all who dare pursue the gray ghosts near their lair

Of hickory hollows, hills and dales where ultimate adventure dwells

Oh can there be a fairer game to put an archer s skill to shame

To dodge and duck and seem to laugh at lack of aim on our behalf

For as the shaft seems sure to bring as fingers join the cheek to string

A furry quarry to his low amidst the littered sticks below

Yet once again they fail to meet as oak bark talks of scurried feet

But still the archer dares to dream of laden oaks of field and stream Of cool fall days in northern tier to sally forth with little fear Of filling larder to the top with overflow of squirrelly crop On still he goes with back berond of cedar shafts with feather frond For him the great success you see, is not to get, but just to be Amid the oak and the hickory tree

Well that didn't format for schlip. ;)

Try this:

"Shoot low Sheriff, he's riding a Shetland pony!"

Enjoyed that Mr Blackmon, THANKS.

And with a scream of "Currahee" he made a Lightning fast Charge on the intruder and another Varmint Bit the Dust!! :)

Bill's in Trouble I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West, An' my ol' heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast, To think the boy whose future I had once so proudly planned Should wander from the path of right an' come to such an end! I told him when he left his home, not three short years ago, He'd find himself a plowin' in a mighty crooked row— He'd miss his father's counsel, an' his mother's prayers, too; But he said the farm was hateful, an' he guessed he'd have to go.

I know thar's big temptation for a youngster in the West, But I believed our Billy had the courage to resist, An' when he left I warned him o' the ever waitin' snares That lie like hidden sarpints in life's pathway everywheres. But Bill he promised faithful to be keerful, an' allowed He'd build a reputation that'd make us mighty proud; But it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind, An' now the boy's in trouble o' the very wustest kind!

His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o' knowed That Billy was a trampling on a mighty rocky road, But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame, An' in the dust'd waller his ol' daddy's honored name. He writes from out in Denver, an' the story's mighty short; I just can't tell his mother, it'll crush her poor ol' heart! An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her— Bill's in the legislatur', but he doesn't say what fur. by James Barton Adams (1843-1918)

We Was Mountainmen, by Ron Laclair

I remember when we was mountainmen

seems like it wern't long ago

We was Bullhide tough and we played real rough

there wern't a man that we couldn't throw

When we drawed down on a deer our eyes was clear

an that critter was soon on a pole

We Mountainmen,... you'd a thought back then

that we would ever grow old

We shoot light bows now, bad shoulders ya know

but we stalk an we get real near

we hone them arraws till they'll shave hair

an we still manage to kill us some deer

We still rendezvous an we still count coup

but it ain't like it use ta be

Our joints is worn an it's hard ta run

when ya got a titanium knee

Then there's them pipes, ya just never know

if they're in the shape they should be

So the Doc he say's, Son I think it's time

ya got a colonoscopy

Can't sleep no more on the cold hard ground

since we got that new plastic hip

use ta drink a whole jug round the fire at night

now it's just a few little sips

The day will come...not far down the road

when they'll wanna put us in a home

They'll say we're too old ta be out in the cold

too old ta hunt on our own

When they come ta take me to that old folks home

on some cold dark rainy night

They'll sure be surprised when this old Coon say's

"BOYS, THAT'LL BE AFTER THE FIGHT!"

But if they win, an I'm put in to that fearsom lonely place

to swaller pills cuz I got the chills

mongst wrinkles on my face,

Then remember me, ya all that's still free,

an hold to the mountain creed

To never rest, but fight yer best

Til the old coon is finely freed

"Memories of yesterday" by Ron LaClair

Yesterday, when I was young

there were so many bows

just waiting to be strung

so many feathered shafts

to send upon the wind

I never thought the time

for that would ever end

A thousand hunts I planned,

I dreamed they'd be so grand

but some just slipped away

like weak and shifting sand

I never seemed to have

the time to make them real

now late in life it seems

I've lost some of my zeal.

Yesterday, when I was young

the hills I climbed were steep,

but I crested on the run

now it seems the valleys

are where I prefer to be

my legs are old, no longer

do they want to carry me.

Youth and strength it seemed

could conquer anything

no challenge left untried,

no bow I couldn't string

I gave no thought to what

the future held for me

I only knew that arrows

on the wind would set me free.

Now Yesterday, has past me by

but I still like to watch

my arrows as they fly

the bows I shoot are not

as heavy as before

and I don't shoot them

quite as often anymore

Those hunts of years gone by

though they're in the past

I have such sweet memories,

and those memories will last

So I can relive again,

those Golden times back when

back when,... I was young

FOR AN ARROW TO FLY STRAIGHT, IT MUST HAVE A STRAIGHT SHAFT. IT MUST HAVE A POINT THAT IS TRUE, AND ABOVE ALL THE FETCHING MUST BE APPLIED WITH CARE.

THE SHAFT OF THE ARROW IS OUR FAITH. IT'S WHERE WE RETURN WHEN WE ARE TESTED.

THE POINT OF THE ARROW IS OUR CHARACTER; IT IS COURAGE THAT CUTS THROUGH FEAR, AND THE FETCHING IS OUR FAMILY.

IT'S ALL THE LIFE LESSONS THAT WE LEARN FROM THOSE WE LOVE.

IT IS HOPE, FAITH, AND LOVE. IT GUIDES US STRAIGHT THROUGH LIFE'S CHALLENGES.

WISE WORDS THAT HELPS ME KEEP MY BROAD HEAD SHARP!

IRON SHARPENS IRON, YOU KNOW.

BALLARD OF A STRAY CAT. LOL

These are awesome guys. I can't believe we haven't done this sooner.

The County Fair by Jimmy Blackmon

Once a year it came around, and every single kid in town made it out to run around.

Tilta world and Ferris wheels, a haunted house and freak show deals, just a single week a year, but every night a certain thrill.

The National Guard was on display, and the livestock barn it smelt of hay with sawdust floors where heifers lay.

Swing a sledge and ring a bell, pop a balloon or guess a shell, and eat an apple with a candy shell.

Push the quarters off the ledge, one more try they’re on the edge I lie to myself and pledge.

Carnies here and carnies there, in a cage there’s a rastlin’ bear and a handwritten sign that says beware.

Daddy said, “For goodness sake, you’ll never win. Awake! Let’s spend our money on a funnel cake.”

Little girls danced in a square, and old men tucked their heads to swear and children delighted in the whole affair, it was a blissful night at the County Fair.

From my Mother now deceased.

THE HEALING POWER OF THE BOW:.... by Ron LaClair

When the day sometimes is hard to bear, and things don't go your way

Just string your bow, grab some arrows, then go outdoors and play

To me there's nothing more pleasing than a feathered shaft in flight

It calms me and brings me peace, it makes things seem alright

The bow has always been there, like a faithful loyal friend

It's a therapeutic wonder with those graceful limbs that bend

I give thanks most every day for this simple stick and string

and for it's healing power, and the joy that it can bring

Song of the Longbow George D. Stout

To set afoot on mossy trails in search of creatures wild To sally forth with bow in hand and heart full like a child To capture live the wild birds song and whispers of the wind To leave the maddening world behind and find the man within

To bend the bow and draw the shaft and watch the arrow fly To see it plunge back to the earth from far and distant sky To follow steps of those before whose boots were bold and brave To smell the air as they did then and their adventures crave

To sit upon a chestnut stump next to the whitetail's trail To listen for the footfall light or watch the raised flag tail To ponder our existence here with awe and much delight To hold our quarry in reverence deep with wonder at his sight

To have the red gods of the hunt come to us time to time To thank our God for all his gifts of nature’s boundless rhyme To recreate in green wood realm and learn all that we can To teach our young ones how to prize the value of the land

To roam with those of yesterday who carried bows of yew To bring back stories of our treks and camaraderie renew To raise a toast to all of those whose bows have sung with glee To cast a shaft toward antlered deer with spirit wild and free

To loose the string at stump or leaf in sylvan glade so fair To feel the heft of longbow strong and breathe the mountain air To dream of times, and heroes brave, to roam with Robin Hood Oh what a spell the longbow casts when carried in the wood

I wish I had a nickel for each time I heard em say, That'll never work. You'll waste your time that way.

I'd love to have a dollar for each negative comment made, but I'll settle for a penny to each ignorant word be paid.

We all need remember, the boundaries we must test. If not for those before us, a rock would be our best.

Rick

The Legacy ...by Ron LaClair

In days of old when Knights were slain

with iron tipped arrows through mail of chain

And Indians,.. on horseback who,...

shot buffalo, through and through.

The bow and arrow of days gone by

lives still today through you and I,

For every time we take a breath..

for every heart beat in our chest..

For every time we loose the string

to send the feathered shaft to wing..

We keep the spirit of the bow..

alive...so all today will know..

THIS is the kind of archery

passed down to us through history,

and It's up to us, you and I,

to keep this Legacy alive,

So teach a child to shoot a bow,

then watch the joy within him grow,

and someday when they are grown

They'll teach children of their own.

We share our love for archery

by passing on this Legacy

So even after we are gone....

the feathered shaft will still, sing it's song.

This is one I got off the bowsite years ago. It's one that was perfect for me and I'm sure a lot of you.

And in the end when I no longer draw the bow or watch the arrow embark in flight. When, alas, I posses only the spirit of the hunter. I will hunt, if only in my dreams. Because the hunt is born amidst my sole. And I, I am a hunter.

The hunt is always on if not physically then in my head. I dream about the monster that I want to arrow.

Then reality hits as I look around my trophy room and whelp it was at last it is complete.

As we age sometimes its all we can do is to draw back on our former life we had the times. Oh my they seemed like they never would end.

Standing or sitting in trees catching the cold or suffering in the heat. Gnats about and skeeters looking to eat ya alive.

Then we leave our haunts and pick tics off our butts and get home and want to settle in and then get nagged at where ya been? Oh my dear I been out and about!

Now you say leave me a loan and she says oh I will leave you alone alright. Then we think come morning I will be at it again looking for my dream I had last night.

Then oh what a night it was at that. Tossing and turning and wondering did I kill him or not from the shot, I had to leave him out overnight.

Hoe to me to much thought so let me try to sleep, then the nag comes on me again and I move to the couch and think ok get me some rest. Oh don't wake me up when you leave. LOL

Then I awake and leave in the am to set out to look for him and there he is eaten when I found him eaten from stem to stern.

Oh mister yote you did it again and one day your life will end.

Ballard of the Cat.

You guys done good!

Well where is yours Steve can't do any worse than I did. LOL

Mt. Man Ron gets all the prizes.LOL

Great thread fellas!!!

There once was an archer from Nod

whose shooting form was quite odd

as he drew past his ear

he looked in a mirror,

and said,

"That fellow's left handed, poor sod".

There once was an archer from Mass.

Set out to impress a young lass

He drew back his bow

So far don't you know

That he shot himself right in the *

ARCHERY'S LEGEND by Ron LaClair

The Bow and Arrow is centuries old

it was designed by man to kill

Down through the years many stories were told

one name stands out... HOWARD HILL

His love for the bow was a lifelong affair his ability has never been matched

This man from the south had a quality rare

The list is long of the game he dispatched

A hunter without equal was this man Hill but he was more than just good with a bow

He was larger than life with a cast iron will

A man you'd be real proud to know

He did more for his sport than any man

He brought archery to the public eye

Movies and books were his master plan

his dream was to kill the big five

Children adored him, grown men were his fans

His charm gave people a lift

The strength was great in his arms and his hands

He said his talent was a God given gift

Now Mister Hill has gone on to his Lord He left a void that no one can fill

In the hearts of all Archers the memory is stored

of the man, and the Legend, HOWARD HILL

I wrote the poem Archery's Legend in 1981, before the book came out.

There are some folk who plunge into an unbroken forest with a feeling of fresh, free, invigorating delight. They know that nature is stern, hard, immovable and terrible in unrelenting cruelty.

When wintry winds are out and the mercury far below zero, she will allow her most ardent lover to freeze on her snowy breast without waving a leaf in pitty or offering him a match, and scores of her devotees may starve to death in as many different languages before she will offer a loaf of bread.

She does not deal in matches and loaves but rather in thunderbolts and granite mountains. The ashes of her campfires burry proud cities but, like any tyrant, she yields to force, and gives more, the more she is beaten.

She may starve or freeze the poet, the scholar, and the scientist all the same, but she has in store food and shelter which the skillful, self reliant woodsman can wring from her savage hands with axe and rifle.

George Washington Sears, "Nessmuk"

We have some genuine bards on the ‘Wall. It figure’s that we do, being traditional archers and all.

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