Michael Sorbonne Robinson.

Though the realities of feeding a family steered Michael away from his horseshoeing and training, he still loves to ride through the sagebrush and howl at a pale moon. In addition to his 300 plus poems--100 of which he can recite from memory, he created four songs in 1998, including "A Cowboy Doesn't Cry", "When the Coyote's are a-Howlin' at the Moon", "The Cowboy Cell-Phone Blues", and "I Hate Them Happy Songs." His songwriting won him a first place in the League of Utah Writers annual contest. For a 'poke who's only been writing cowboy poetry for two years, he has garnered a considerable number of first place awards in various contests, and has become recognized performer. Fifty-one years old, Michael has performed in the Festival of the American West, the Utah State Fair, the 12th annual Idaho Cowboy Poetry Gathering, private and corporate parties, and many other quality events.
For bookings, see his webpage.

Granddaddy died when I was eight, down by the old corral.

The sky turned grey and, late that night, I heard the coyotes howl.

I wondered why the sky and dogs could mourn that sweet ol' guy,

while I endured in silence, 'cause a cowboy doesn't cry.

My future was assured because I had my daddy's genes.

He started me on rodeo while in my early teens.

I broke six bones, unseated by a bronc Dad made me try,

and didn't even whimper, 'cause a cowboy doesn't cry.

But then my brother Melvin turned up missin' one spring day.

He'd drowned and I was all torn up at seein' him that way.

I'd loved him and I'd played with him; I felt as if I'd die,

but didn't shed a tear because a cowboy doesn't cry.

And life went on that way until I got up in my years;

And, through it all, I toughed it out---just holdin' back my tears.

My mama died; My dad passed on; I lost my second son;

And still I stored those tears inside, the way my Dad had done.

But when my Mary Ellen's smile was taken from my days,

the world collapsed from sunny-blue to dark, depressin' greys.

A pourin' rain, inside me, caused my heart to spring a leak,

and, though I tried my best, I felt a tear run down my cheek.

Now here I am, a-sobbin', like the world's come to an end;

And, though my dad once lectured me on rules I shouldn't bend,

I'm mournin' all my losses, and I think I've figured why:

I must not be a cowboy, 'cause a cowboy doesn't cry.

Copyright© 1998 by Michael Sorbonne Robinson, All Rights Reserved

This poem is available as a song, with both sheet music and cassette recordings available. Contact Michael Sorbonne Robinson by E-Mail and visit the Rawkin Horse Ranch.

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I'm not a guy who's bossed around, like liv'ry boys or doormen.

The ranch hands all look up to me, because I am the foreman.

So here I am, accustomed to a place of leadership.

I've learned to say it like it is and shoot straight from the hip.

So, when I'm diggin' fencepost holes and one puts up a fight,

I merely change its attitude by usin' dynamite.

And, for unruly horses, I've come up with this invention:

I brandish my ol' forty-five and that gets their attention.

But when I order cows to stop those piles that theyre makin',

they're not the least bit scared of me--not tremblin' or a-shakin'.

I've learnt to grin and bear it, 'cause I can't control their crappin's;

So I accept what I can't change---the fact manure just happens!

And so, I rarely bellyache, 'cause ranchin' is my life.

I only gripe for Debra's sake, 'cause she's my darlin' wife.

Why, ev'ry time she goes outside, them cowpies mess her shoes.

(It's been a woe she can't abide--she's took t' drinkin' booze.)

I've tried to figure out a way to keep them cowpies in.

My ingenuity don't pay; My temper's growin' thin.

I had a brainstorm, tried it out. It didn't do the trick.

Those diapers, slung and tied about, were gone with that first kick.

I rigged some propane heaters up to gassify that stuff.

Now, that worked purdy well, although the end-result was rough:

The government complained 'cause planes that flew through that brown smoke

got ruined by the smelly stains, which grossed the trav'lin' folk.

I tried to get my cows to feed on mints and cotton candy,

and asked them, when they felt the need, to use the potty handy.

But diff'rent foods were not the fix; It made them cowpies sticky;

And, though our crapper's fine for hicks, them cows were too darned picky.

Well, Debra tired of my flops, and I was at a loss.

(A cowpie falls just where it plops, 'cause cows don't have a boss.)

Our wise friend Rex suggested, "Time to wipe away that frown;

Just thank the Lord beef price is up, and that the chips are down!

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Oh, the earth's a fickle mama--like two-thousand pounds of brahma,

that y' ride eight seconds 'fore she thows y' down--

when the one who bore and nursed ya turns her back and starts t' curse ya,

and she tramples you six feet beneath the ground.

As his lifeblood pools inside him, there is no one to confide in--

that he wished he'd never done that wild ride--

but the bull that fin'lly got 'im and t' death's dark door has brought 'im

helped him scored another solid eighty-five.

Well, a cowboy's merely mortal, and'll someday reach that portal,

when the summer's done and autumn's fin'lly gone--

when those cheeks of sunburned leather lie so still upon the heather,

and a darkened world awaits a distant dawn.

When that giant yolk sinks middle of the west horizon's griddle,

and a crimson blaze ignites the prairie sod;

when the sky of blue and azure falls as ketchup on the pasture,

our world darkens, but it's breakfast time with God.

Yup, he'll sit down at God's table with John Wayne and Betty Grabel,

and then God will raise his glass and He will say:

"I could tell, right from the start, My Name was branded on your heart.

Welcome home, my son; You're fin'lly here to stay."

All the clocks, upon our planet, were designed by those who man it;

and they stop dead in a hundred years or so;

But that moment's time in Heaven was in Lane's years, twenty-seven,

and that hand's not dead--He's simply on the go.

When that giant yolk sinks middle of the west horizon's griddle,

and a crimson blaze ignites the prairie sod;

when the sky of blue and azure falls as ketchup on the pasture,

our world darkens, but it's breakfast time with God.

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