The Men Who Work Steel


I wrote this one for my Dad…Doug Muldoon and all those legendary men like him who worked with their hands and forged a nation and taught us all the lesson to craft with our minds, our hands and our hearts. We are the sons and the grandsons of the men who built the Arsenal Of Democracy and it is their blood that flows through our veins and their skills that are our sacred birthright. PT

Men Who Work Steel

Men sporting hands that are calloused and strong
Their stories are legend their skills the real deal
They forge and they form and hammer and weld
They built us a nation these men who work steel

Learned from their fathers, neighbors and friends
Sweet skills that developed over time to find feel
They crafted from nothing but blood fire and sweat
To make what is lasting these men who work steel

Once we were challenged our freedom saw threat
Great factories tooled for the challenge was real
And arsenals built by their skills and their sweat
Freedom was won by these men who worked steel

With passage of time we must rise once again
Take back our vision to make our dreams real
To pass on the skills from those who still know
For this next generation of men who work steel
PT Muldoon

© 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.


Baxter The Cow Dog


Wrote this one about our old farm dog Baxter….Seems like we’re always tripping over him and going around wherever he’s parked himself….If you ask him it’s his place and we all serve at his leisure!!! Anyway this one goes out to all the old tried and true farm dogs out there….they occupy a special place for all of us despite the fact that sometimes they just plain get in the way of getting things done. PT

Baxter The Cow dog

Old cow dogs are special
They stand at farm guard
On places with livestock
Where life can be hard

On our place it’s Baxter
He’s been there a spell
A small cow dog ninja
On this thick muddy hell

He gathers up cattle
And chases down feed
He doesn’t like salesman
He’ll seldom take heed

He lays on the concrete
Gets in everyones way
Hogs all the dog food
And messes up hay

Always quite grumpy
In summer he’s fat
And if he could talk
He’d claim he’s all that

I’ve had him so long
Don’t remember his age
He’s mean as a rattler
Farm cats fear his rage

But when I do chores
He stays right by my side
He’ll jump in my pick up
And join me for the ride

He doesn’t like brushes
And vets keep their space
He steals groceries at times
And he moves his own pace

But I still like his company
And treasure his guard
He’s a part of our family
And the king of this yard

And someday he’ll leave
Like the ones left before
But his son’s even tougher
So we’ll still have one more
PT Muldoon

© 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.


The Rising


On the way home yesterday from our Easter celebration with family my wife snapped this really cool picture… I sat down last night during the storm and penned a poem while the day was fresh in my mind…..We had a great Easter with my Dad at the rest home….it was a special gift for all of us to share Easter with him for perhaps the last time….I hope everyone had a great Easter with their families…..remember that nothing is certain so make sure everyone in your life knows how much you love and treasure them…..someday tomorrow won’t be there!!!…hope you like the poem and the pic. PT

The Rising

There’s an outfit of riders
With hands tough and worn
Scars and lines tell the story
Of the hardships they’ve born

Out here on this ranch
Good ones fight to survive
For a cowboy’s worth only
What his skills keep alive

Out on this vast prairie
With hands forged in fire
Who ride for this brand
Upon strings that won’t tire

To drive massive herds
Over land tough and steep
To gather and shepherd
Their charges they keep

There’s danger and peril
All across this great place
For the ones who ride here
Herd the whole human race

And deep in this country
They ride through the night
They’re our only protection
Staying true to what’s right

All who ride for this brand
Marked by one simple cross
Where love and compassion
Marks the savior our boss

And the rising we seek
As we ride for his brand
Upon trails marked in blood
Till we reach promised land
PT Muldoon

 © 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.

Trails Of The Soul

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Wrote this one about the amazing connection between  those of us who ride, and our horses. It’s almost spiritual in a sense….in fact no on second thought it is spiritual. That connection between you, the earth and another living creature bound together in an almost sacred dance. My good friends like to say that riding is like breathing and sometimes when the cold winters here in the north keep us earthbound for too long it feels as if we are gasping to take a breath!!! Just waiting for sunlight, and the chance to dance with your horse again.PT



Trails of the Soul

I hear the leaves beneath our feet
The cadence of an ancient time
The sunlight dancing between trees
The distant drum from distant rhyme

We are the wind we are the sky
Upon the trails that fall away
It is our birthright in this mist
That calls us out to dance and play

And in the chest of creatures true
Walk on the ways ancestors took
To find the knowledge in our souls
That can’t be found in any book

And hoofs do raise and hoofs do fall
Along these storied woodland trails
As daylight fades and dusk comes on
In partnership our souls prevail
PT Muldoon


© 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.

Best Seat In The House


One of my favorite places to stop on my evening rides is a little quiet area behind an old woodlot that looks out over the beautiful rolling fields and a small shallow lake. If you’re quiet and sit there at dusk you can hear the voices of hundreds of birds as they sing out to the sunset…natures symphony! I took a picture of the old fence post the other night, where I like to stop and reflect…..thought it was worthy of a poem so I wrote one on the back of an old receipt I had handy in my vest…..I hope you have an equally awesome place in your life where you can ride to and reflect…. and I hope my words can in some small way help take you there.PT

Best Seat In The House

On the backside of the tree line
Right behind our old home place
Is a fencepost that stands vacant
Marking years spent in that space

At the entrance to the woodlot
Near that long forgotten way
Where meadowlarks sang sweetly
From some simpler time and day

Many birds sat on that fencepost
Cowboys carved their name into
Standing guard just like a sentry
Checking riders that rode through

When my final days are finished
When our maker calls me home
And they scatter my remainders
Near that pasture there to roam

Stop a moment at that fencepost
Carve my brand neat in the bark
At the spot at that old trailhead
Where I heard the meadowlark

© 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.

The Bronco Man


Here’s one I wrote for my good friend and former neighbor Erik David Wolford. He made a fine showing at the American this year getting knocked out by a pretty tough draw in the semi’s. Erik’ s living on a big place in South Dakota these days and every picture I see of him and Mallory they both are smiling from ear to ear. You make us proud to know you my friend……keep living the dream. PT

The Bronco Man
In the breakin of the morning
While the worlds still bathed in dew
At the steel poles of a round corral
A cowboys sacred pew

Now some will ride for money
Some because they can
Some for fame and glory
But not a bronco man

His gift is a reflection
Sent down from God above
He’s seeking a connection
To the ponies that he loves

It’s the slapping of the leather
Against the hair and hide
One moment of forever
On his 8 second ride

There’s gold and silver buckles
That top hands wear with pride
That mark some bold occasion
And some amazing ride

So when they turn your last one out
And tally up your sand
Five words will sum it all up well
There goes a bronco man.

PT Muldoon


© 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.

The Big White Jeep


For a good bit of my professional career at Mopar I got to work with some amazing people and together we built some wicked cool four wheel drive Jeeps. Our toys graced the covers of a lot of magazines and we were privileged to travel all over the world and see some truly amazing places. But one stands out at least for me as the “Dad Of Em All”…..Moab and the Easter Jeep Safari was always the highlight of my year. The guy who taught me and a whole lot of other people to wheel was Dan Mick. This will be the 50th year for the Safari and so in honor of all that it has meant for me and so many others I penned a little verse for my friend Dan. His undying dedication and patience to teach others safe off roading, has touched a lot of lives and sparked a deep love of rock crawling and off-roading that lives on across the universe. Happy 50th to everyone associated with MOAB Easter Jeep Safari!! This poem is dedicated to my friend and mentor Dan Mick and my adopted second hometown, Moab, Utah.PT

The Big White Jeep

The rocks are monumental
From some prehistoric day
Big White Jeeps not ornamental
Danny brought them here to play

Upon the slickest passes
With a trail boss in the lead
All us rookies with free passes
Locked inside our iron steeds

Moab stickers on the fender
Jeepers from across the land
Come to crawl through Steel Bender
And wheel with Dan “The Moab Man”

There’s old stock Willys flatties
CJ’s, YJ’s, TJ’s by the score
Narrow stock tires and big fatties
Come to crawl at heaven’s door

All the metal that was twisted
Those late hours in Danny’s shop
All the spare parts never listed
And the help that never stopped

It’s been run for 50 years now
And the legends grew in time
And Dan Mick has showed a lot how
You could crawl cross ancient time

And whether you’re from Moab
Or you came here from afar
To crawl across God’s big slab
Or tell tall tales there at the bar

And to Dan a bunch of gratitude
From all of us he taught
Pay attention to that attitude
Don’t wreck these toys you brought

So Happy 50.. Moab Utah
And the Easter Jeep event
To the gloried rides you gave us
We’re all mighty glad we went
PT Muldoon

 © 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.

Hot Rod Picasso


Jack Pennington was my good friend, co-worker and fellow dreamer…..He was a man who was passionate about everything he did and being in his orbit was a priveledge!!!I I loved working with him on our many projects together and we were fortunate enough to see some of them come to life, his legacy will live on!!! We lost Jack much too early and I mourn all the chances we won’t have without him, I wrote this short verse in memory of him and the awesome light he brought to the world… peaceful my friend, I’ll see you again someday. PT

Hot Rod Picasso

Jack was our Hot Rod Picasso
Drawing what we could not see
Heart looking into our visions
Helping to set them all free

Splashed amidst colors and legend
Pennington showed us his way
Pictures that jumped from the pages
Freeing our dreams loose to play

Some of his works were created
Some of them lived on the page
Hands that could bring life to vision
Capturing dreams like a sage

His spirit will live in our memories
Talented hands brought to bear
We can see much of his artwork
Created then left in our care

And it isn’t the fortunes or glory
Marks a man’s life once he’s gone
Sit down I’ll tell you this story
Of Jack and his work that lives on
PT Muldoon

© 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.

St. Peter’s Riders


A friend of mine posted this wicked cool picture and it inspired me to give some words to it… I thought they went well together. PT

St Peters Riders

When I was but a button I’d stare down the summer sky
And wonder where the good go when it’s their time to die
Perhaps there is a cavalry of angels who ride true
And help God on the heaven spread when there is work to do

For I believe in heaven I’ve seen its open door
The rolling waves of prairie grass invite me to it’s shore
And angels moving quickly well mounted in the sky
As we send off ancestors with teardrops in our eyes

For I believe the maker of creation got it right
Plunging us to darkness then he fills the sky with light
And all the ones before us who carry in their heart
The knowledge of the ages and each our own bit part

For I believe that even still the good in man will win
And we’ll mount up together and guide God’s herd again
And when the evil challenges our heart and soul and try
Then we’ll enlist those angels so well mounted in the sky
PT Muldoon

© 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.


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I wrote this one for an old friend of mine who helped me when I first started into raising cattle. He tirelessly spent a lot of late evenings explaining important things to me that would prove very valuable later on. We drank a lot of coffee and we even saw a sunrise or two. I miss him dearly and the men like him of his era…..they saw so much in their lifetime and shared so willingly with anyone they thought worthy of their lessons. Hope this poem does the man justice as he was a fine human being and a good cattleman. PT

On the porch wall hangs a calendar whose year reads 49
From an old forgotten feed mill just across our county line
Neath a thumbtack is a picture of a black late thirties Ford
With boot heels hanging loosely on a dusty running board

Across the fireplace mantle stands a portrait of his horse
With red mane flowing wildly like a rivers winding course
And a big old slick wade saddle sits upon the ponies back
With tall old high hung withers locking in his cowboy kack

The old home place sits quietly, like a museum after close
Standing proudly in the prairie of this storied life he chose
On the table is a bible his last name carved on the spine
Opened to a scripture passage from a long forgotten time

These town folk hardly notice as old Grady passes through
Just a silent ancient cowboy now with no chores left to do
His jeans have starchy creases, his hat is shaped up neat
And he walks in like a Royal when he comes to fill his seat

There’s hardly any like him that know just what he has seen
Just a quiet gentle cow hand he was never harsh or mean
And when he’s called up yonder to cross that great divide
We’ll have lost a bit of treasure from this sacred countryside
PT Muldoon

 © 2016, PT Muldoon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.