From reading Larry's book, one could guess he has listened to a lot of old men. Nostalgia hangs over his poetry like unshed tears. The verse that best captures his sentimental respect for them says:

The other boys called him an old windbag,
His tales just an old man's prattle.
But there was a time he could do a day's work
On horses we couldn't saddle.

—Baxter Black, Cowboy Poet, Benson, Arizona

There are truck-driving cowboys, drugstore cowboys, and there are working cowboys. Larry McWhorter is a working cowboy who also happens to write poetry with a gritty reality that reaches other working cowboys where they live. He does not sugar-coat the hard knocks and disappointments that plague the horseback life, but he also understands the quiet satisfactions that bind men to it forever.
—Elmer Kelton, Western Author, San Angelo, Texas

Because he is one, Larry McWhorter understands the cowboy's language, wit, ethics and loves. But I believe it is his philosophy that makes him the great storyteller, teacher and poet that he is. There is as much in these poems as you may wish to know.
— Waddie Mitchell, Cowboy Poet, Elko, Nevada

There is a great chunk of Cowboy Country that lays from the Red River to the Big Bend of the Rio Grande in Texas. Folks who live there speak a musical dialect all their own. Larry McWhorter is from that place and of its people. Now we border-line Yankees cannot always read the page and hear the music, so don't just read these poems, say them­and say them out loud. Then, if you are lucky, very very lucky you just might hear some long-dead mentor whisper, "Settle down now, Larry, and make a hand." Larry hears­and does.
—Vess Quinlan, Cowboy Poet, San Acacio, Colorado

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2000

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Larry McWhorter is a working cowboy who has a thorough knowledge of the subject matter of which he writes. Larry is an excellent horseman, so when he writes about horses, the reader has confidence in his portrayal of events and actions. Having grown up on a ranch in West Texas, Larry has the ability to use his words to transport the reader to the roundup. He makes the reader feel the morning, hear the sounds, smell the air, and see the beauty of nature while "‘waitin on the drive." I have tremendous respect for Larry's writing talent, and above all of that, he is a special friend of mine and for that I am very grateful.
—Red Steagall, Western Entertainer, Fort Worth, Texas

Larry McWhorter grew up in the Texas Panhandle where he was taught the cowboy way of life by men who knew what the word "cowboy" really means. He had been away from punching cows for several years before he began writing about the life he had loved and lived. Names like Clark, Knibbs, Kiskaddon, and Barker, who are now his heroes, had no meaning for him then. He just knew he wanted to put down into words how he felt about a way of life he saw being misrepresented. That was over ten years ago. In that time, Larry has been an important part of the revival of the love of our Western Heritage.

He has performed his poetry all over the nation and has been published in various magazines and anthologies. In 1998, Larry was named Cowboy Poet of the Year by the Academy of Western Artists, and in 1999, his album, The Open Gate, was named Cowboy Poetry Album of the Year by the Academy.

When he is not performing or writing, Larry spends his time training horses with "special needs." In his own words, he likes being able to take time with a horse without some "old codger" hanging over the fence yelling, "Just get on the son of a buck!"

Larry makes his home in Weatherford, Texas with his wife, Andrea, and daughter, Abigail.

LARRY MCWHORTER
He Rode For the Brand

His wall wasn't lined with old Doubledays
Of him ridin' broncs at Cheyenne.
Instead you'd find spurs and chaps and old bits
He'd used through a sixty year span.

He'd swapped his old saddle some years ago
For a comfortable rocking chair.
Now he whiles the hours away all alone,
No more for the cow brute to care.

The JA's, the Sixes, the Mats and the Forks,
In his youth he'd rode for 'em all.
He 'd stay with the wagon from early spring
'Till it pulled back in after fall.

Many a maverick had stretched his grass rope.
Bad horses he'd raked with his hooks.
He'd been a man among men you could tell
By the way he talked and his looks.

I used to go see him when school let out
To pick his old brain for some knowledge
And he'd tell of things he'd learned through the years
That they didn't teach me in college.

Like stuffin' cottonwood leaves in your hat
To keep your head cool in the sun.
How to strain water from an old dirt tank,
Which cow was most likely to run.

The other boys called him an old windbag,
His tales just an old man's prattle.
But there was a time he'd do a days work
On horses we couldn't saddle.

His kind of cowboy my friends never knew.
He'd brought no cheers from the grandstand.
He'd never rode for the big crowds, it's true,
But, By God, he'd rode for the brand.

©Larry McWhorter, 2000

Numbered Edition - $19.95
ISBN 0-9662091-3-3