Cowboy Poetry and Music and More at the BAR-D Ranch

Photo Lori Faith Merritt,


Woodland, Colorado
About Donna Hatton




The Journey

I rode along a narrow trail, my thoughts were all my own
Until I saw a flash of white and then a weathered bone.
I stepped off my old paint horse to take a closer look and touched that sliver there
A shudder ran through my hands and a chill to the roots of my hair!
I shook it off as I found a chip and then a perfect arrowhead
Signs were all around me here, of a people long since dead.

I ran my hands across the stones and dug around some more
Then I stood and walked away, on up that canyon floor.
My eyes played tricks, as thoughts whirled round, like leaves caught in a breeze
The sight I saw was oh so strange, I went down to my knees
For as I looked down at my dusty feet, I became aware
The shoes I'd worn to start the day were not the same, I continued to kneel and stare
As moccasins replaced my boots, beaded with rich design
Somehow, I knew, that I had stepped into another time!

I heard sounds of play and laughter and when I looked around again
Coming towards me was a woman, who greeted me as a friend.
I hurried after her on a path that led me to a scene
Of lodges set out in a village on a wide and grassy plain.
Children ran and played their games as their families watched nearby
But then it all changed in a moment with a startled cry!

Confusion filled the village, men grabbed for weapons of war
Women ran to get their children, hoping to get to them before
Blue coated soldiers ran them down upon that grassy plain.
And I cried in helplessness, my heart was filled with pain.
The sky turned dark and silent as I lay there on the ground
All had died, I knew, that day, then I heard a sound.

A woman walked across the earth and found an arrowhead
She saw the trail although so faint and followed where it led.
She knelt in hushed reverence at the evidence of the people's history there
She replaced the stones as she found them, laying them down with care.

Just as all this happened I awoke and found myself alone
Sitting at the mouth of the canyon beneath the walls of blood red stone.
I looked down at my feet to see my boots so scuffed and torn
The gasp I gave, was for the prints that led up to me, of the moccasins I had worn.

Donna Hatton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


The Return

The canyon lay quietly, under the rim, just as I found it years ago
When I walked the dusty path, drawn back in time, to the people of the buffalo
I pushed on through brush grown thick and wind whipped in the sun
I felt like something was watching me and I wished I hadn't come
Silence, that was alive with feelings, filled me with helpless dread
I wondered, if once more, I'd walk among the dead.

The glade was as I left it yet something moved within it's corners dark
And I jumped as a song suddenly trilled, of a single meadow lark
Smoke drifted across my eyes and I looked again upon that village there
Then I saw him, the warrior sitting on his pony, he fixed me with his stare
I walked ever closer and then, I heard him speak
"I must not be timid, nor can my heart be weak"

Surely, you can't be real, I said, and realized that I had spoken out loud
Knowing at once what he was, this warrior sitting proud
Upon his pony, looking on with such sorrow in his face
At the scene, I remembered, in this hidden and haunted place.

His voice drifted over me, "My family was destroyed, I am alone forever more"
And he turned his brave war pony toward the canyon floor
His songs echoed off the walls that turned red with the setting sun
I cried and stumbled, falling, as I tried to run.
My head spun with shock as I crossed in time again
I became that warrior, lost, without family or a friend.

"Who could do this thing to the women and the children all?
My child, not yet three moons, he was so very small
Still held in his mother's arms, they never had a chance
My father lies there, run through with his own war chiefs lance."
I cried as I held them in my arms and my life poured out to mingle with the rest
And I sat and faced the sun, setting in the west.

My heart slowed to a stop and I, the lone remaining warrior slipped away
As the sun dropped to close, another time, another day.
Knowing once more filled my body and I arose to look down at that hallowed ground
Slowly, I turned to walk away, only to hear another sound.

I heard the red hawk call,
Turning I saw, shadows dance across the canyon, of the warrior on it's wall
His arms stretched wide, and then other shadows followed and laughter filled the air
I saw the great reunion, of the warriors family there!

Donna Hatton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Donna Hatton writes: I have hiked our ranch looking for arrowheads and know the history of our area is rich with that of The People, it was one of those hikes and the story of Sand Creek that brought this poem into being.


Places in the Heart

I walked the ground where the
house use to stand every room
I saw in my mind.

I dug in the ground by the  old
lilac bush hoping somehow
I might find,

A piece of the memories that
were made in that place
something to say we were there,

Something to prove that love
filled it's walls, something to
to show all the care...

That went into making the home
that it was...those memories
of love that were ours...

The time that we spent wrapped
in each others arms as
we talked away the night hours.

The creek ran below and it's
song filled our room with
whispers of secrets at night.

And I listened in joy to it's
sweet melody whenever
I turned out the light.

From the porch I had watched
the children grow up, laughing
as they ran and they played.

I hear their voices and I'm
back in that place...the place
those memories were made.

I found what I sought as I
stood by the fence where
I had stepped out of my door.

I heard and I felt the ghost
in this place as I lived
there in memory once more.

I felt his arms as he pulled
me close and we walked to
our room there inside...

And savored again those
moments just past when
he brought me there as his bride.

Oh! The house that was here
is now ashes and dust, it
sheltered our hopes and our dreams...

Just a moment ago, a breathe
there in time, a heartbeat or so
it would seem.

I walk the ground where
our home use to stand
as the creek slowly slips by...

I listen to voices as the
wind shakes the trees
with a wail of child when it cries,

I look down to the meadow
and up to hills feeling tears as
they run down my face.

But I'm glad that I came
and Gathered these thoughts
from the hearts that still beat in this place.

2003, Donna Hatton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Neighbor, Fry

August Fry lived in
the house where
he'd been born some
seventy years before.

His family had run
cattle in the four
mile valley for a
hundred years or more.

Not much for conversation
it didn't seem he had too
many real close friends.

I'd wave and honk
my horn whenever
I saw him out in
the cattle pens.

Come springtime he'd
steal our water
sneaking over to switch
it late at night.

In the morning
we'd take it back
and try to avoid a
nasty water fight.

Somehow, we managed
to become unlikely fiends,
I even baked him a
cake one time,

Much later he gruffly
told me, that it tasted
almighty, goldang fine!

Augie said,"I don't
like no younuns,"but
he took a liking to
my little son.

One Christmas, he
brought him a choo-
choo train and a
broken toy gun.

Christmas Eve we
took him a decorated
tree and we all sang
him silent night,

while standing in
the pickup bed
shivering in excitement
in the hazy winter light.

We gave him our
gifts, unloaded the
tree, a little ragged
and worse for wear.

Some tinsel and lights
were lost along the
road just getting us
all over there!

Yet, Augie never
noticed the things
that were missing
His eyes just saw...THE TREE.

And in a choked up
voice he said, " I ain't
had a Christmas, since
I was at least two or three.

Another Christmas I found
a box with a short note
attached, setting by
our front door,

Dear Mrs. H,
Just something for
the youngun, I found it
at the secondhand store.

Inside there was
a little winter coat
in the awfullest
shade of green

It had been patched
in several places
and it wasn't very

But it was warm
and it washed up
nice, good for work
and play

And my little boy
wore it to help feed
cattle with his Daddy

Augie was a hard
man," Never wanted
no family," or so
he said.

"Nobody to miss him
or fight over his
belongings after
he was dead."

"Didn't want to have
no children or
some dang woman
as his wife."

Then, one day he took
his rifle to the
pasture and ended
his seventy some years
of life.

Augie hadn't made
it easy, he'd still stole
our water, right up
until his end.

But, I still had the
last note he ever wrote
to me, he signed it...
THANKS, from your
cowboy friend.

2003, Donna Hatton    In memory of that old cowboy.
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


From: Mama's Real Ranch Stories, The Bathroom Incident

        The bathroom was added later to the house above the creek.
         It was drafty in the winter and the pipes would always leak.
         Mice played games of hide and seek inside the walls at night
         Eating up the bait in traps right out in broad daylight!

         Frogs popped out the kitchen faucet from the well, hand dug.
         Occasionally we'd get a minnow or a skittery water bug.
         We'd hear something scratching in the chimney where a bird had built its nest.
         Every nook and cranny was a haven for some pest.

         Well, company was due to visit, I had dinner on the range.
         I was washing up in the bathroom when I noticed something strange.
         There were wiggly bodies in the tub and in the water round my feet.
         I levitated cross the floor up on the toilet seat.

         "Hello, is anybody home?" The company was knocking at the door.
          Now, I'm standing there stark naked, my clothes were on the floor.
         "Help!" I finally yelled to the company come to call,
          and then the lid I stood upon snapped, I was headed for a fall!

           Voices outside the door hollered, "Did we hear something in there break?"
           But all I thought about was the floor, alive with forty garter snakes!
           The fall jarred loose the bathroom door and standing there in awe,
           was the company come for dinner, my father and mother-in-law.

           Speechless for a moment Mom just handed me my clothes,
           while I glowed in embarrassment, bright red down to my toes.
           We were always a real close family, but you know, it sure is tough.
           To keep a smile upon your cheeks while standing in the buff.

           That old house is gone now with the mice and other pest
           just the memories of those days and two special dinner guest.
           Yet it seems just like it was yesterday, I see them standing there in awe
           And hear dad telling everyone about his "Naked Daughter-in-law."

    2003, Donna Hatton
    This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Just One Last Waltz

The cowboy took her in his arms
and waltzed her round the floor
he told her how much he loved her
How he couldn't love her more.

From the moment he first saw her
when he'd held her in his arms
he'd vowed to God to keep her
safe from any kinda harm.

They talked about the days just past
when she had climbed upon his knee,
about the time he hung her swing
up in an old pine tree.

The first horse that he had bought
her, a paint gelding she called, "Friend.''
They had some fine adventures
and she could ride him like the wind.

Somehow, some place his little
cowgirl had become a woman grown
and today was her grand wedding day
she was no longer his alone.

They waltzed around the room
once more, a tear was in his eye.
Oh! Daddy, don't you do that
or you're gonna make me cry!

He whispered, "You're the daughter
of my heart...I just wanted you to know."
As he held her close just one last
time before he let her go.

He took her hand and he gave her,
to the young cowboy by her side,
who'd stole away his baby girl,
now a lovely glowing bride.

He whispered again as she turned away,
"I love you...I just wanted you to know."
With a shy smile he blew her a kiss
and then he let her go.

2003, Donna Hatton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Donna told us, "I realize that my work is not always 'eating dust on the drag' and 'home on the range type poetry'...the Hatton family has had a ranching history that dates back to Texas since before the Civil War. I have been a ranchwife for 40 years and our children have known nothing else and now they are raising their children in that lifestyle... I actually wrote [this] poem ... as a song, for the possibility of singing it someday in our daughters for now we have performed it with the old song, 'The Tennessee Waltz' being played behind it with a harmonica."



Dancing In The Moonlight

The mist rose off the creek
the night sounds was music to their ears
It sang of Memories of days gone by,
the love of many years.

Of dancing on the front porch in the moonlight
him kissing her on her face
when he held her close on long winter evenings
with a sweetness she could taste.

She had heard his voice as he called her
as he came in the cabin door
remembered his footsteps squeaking as he tipped toed
cross the wooden floor.

Her heart still beat wildly as she savored
the memory of their first kiss
and her tears were bitter as she ached, for
the love that she now missed.

The love for that young cowboy who was
her lifelong friend...
and of laughter as they flew across the prairies
when they rode before the wind.

She could feel the sunlight on her face
after a swim in a canyon pool
Underneath the shadowed rim where the
waters ran deep and cool;

Of walking through the mountain meadows,
fresh cut hay, fragrant in the air
she still felt his hand take hers
just as if he still was there.

His old Stetson still hung on a nail
with his chaps and old work gloves
everyday they served to remind her of
that cowboy she still loved

Of fifty years that they shared
before God had took him home
and it was those memories she hugged close
so she never felt alone

But it's in the evenings on the front porch
as the shadows start to fall,
that you can still see the two young lovers the moonlight on the wall.

2003, Donna Hatton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Donna told us: "Dancing In The Moonlight" is based on the life of my mother-in-law Lucy Hatton and a lady cowboy poet, Elva Cox. I met Elva when I first started attending cowboy poetry gatherings (one in particular was our favorite, The Greater Pikes Peak Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Colorado Springs, Colorado). Over the years, Elva and I have kept in touch, she always wants to hear about everywhere I have gone and who I've met and especially if I have  seen any of the old crowd. Elva loves to talk about the old days, she often calls and we talk about her true love, her husband who passed on many years ago. One of her favorite stories was about the dances and how she could remember how his arms felt around her...Her word pictures are so touching and
vivid... I have felt her loss and her love. The feelings I have for my family are intertwined with Elva's, there is a similarity, their stories of the depression, the lines of people waiting to get food, the dirt bowl days when my father-in-law was a county agent for Texas.  My mother and father-in-law's love story and that of Elva's came together as a poem because of the deep devotion and love and a privileged view of these people I loved. These women, whose lives were in total communication with another person, was like watching a wonderfully executed waltz, always in step and always reflecting their love, even over an eternity. Finally, I looked through their eyes and saw that I too had begun that same journey with the love of my life and in the end the poem became a tribute to the times we have all "danced in the moonlight," with only the night sounds for music and to a love that transcends even death.


Lost and Found

  Dust motes danced in
  strings of sunlight
  seeping through the
  planks of the milk house wall.

  Manure from long gone
  milk cows still left in
  piles in the cobwebbed
  milking stalls.

  Raccoons had raided the
  grain bins and mice
  nibbled the harnesses
  that hung in tidy rows

  and hidden in a dark
  corner was and old
  sled once used in deep
  winter snows.

  Horse shoes, some big as
  platters were heaped high in
  a box marked ten penny

  while next to them were
  the buckets that had
  been used as the
  milking pails.

  Collars, hames and reins
  for draft horses lay discarded
  on the broken wood

  a plow left standing
  ready for use was right next
  to the wide double

  Mischievous wind played a melody
  with empty hinges hanging
  loose on the old gate post

  and in the living room of the abandoned
  house curtains flapped like
  some manic and wily old ghost.

  A child's toy had sat forgotten
  hand carved with such
  loving care

  while over on the side by
  the kitchen sink a small
  bone comb was waiting there.

  Old boots stood at attention,
  like silent soldiers marching,
  under a broken down bedstead

  and newspapers from the 1800s
  lay in stacks out side in the tilted
  old wood shed.

  Outback a path...lead up to the
  door ... of the two sitter outhouse
  up on the hill

  a place of quiet and grand
  solitude where time now seemed
  to stand still.

  The folks who had lived here
  had just given up and had long ago
  moved away

  and what buildings still standing
  stood lonely and cold, but would
  probably fall down someday.

  Yet, they seem to be waiting, as if there was
  still life in that sun splashed
  and haunted aspen glen.

  where cattle and horses and
  children had played and collected eggs
  left by a bandy red hen.

  I looked on in wonder
  and I thought of them then and I
  ached for those long ago days

  when the west was open and
  free for the taking and folks
  had lived in much simpler ways.

  Dust motes danced in strings
  of sunlight as eagles swam
  on currents so high

  its shadow dropped
  cross the mountain, beneath
  a cloudless blue sky.

  I left that aspen filled valley
  it was once more
  now hidden away

  but I had walked within its
  memories and had dreamed
  of the past on that day.

  2006, Donna Hatton
  This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Donna Hatton comments:  This poem/story was written as I sat in the living room of that old abandoned cabin that sets in a hidden valley I found as I wandered the land which is part of our ranch. I saw the eagle as it glided in the sky, over those Colorado hills, it is our barn that I spoke of, the hames and old stalls waiting for the return of it's bovine inhabitants. Somehow it was as if the lives that came before mine still abided there and our spirits intermingled to bear witness to their existence. As I wrote the story, I could hear the voices of that long ago family and when I sat in that old two seat out house I knew that here was a place of quiet solitude, cherished for the chance it gave for them to have a personal moment of peace, perhaps at the end of a hard days work. I believe that the story spoke for many who have lived in similar places and that that story will evoke memories for others who read it...and for me where this story begins and will end is on the land I walk and love, so imbued with the blood, sweat, tears and joy of my family.


  A Sacred Encounter

  I cannot say when I first saw him, he was just  there before my eyes.

  Standing in the willows
  down by the creek on
  a little gravel rise.

  His head was lowered
  to the water he'd dipped
  his muzzle for a drink

  I knew he'd spook if
  I moved at all, he'd
  be gone in just a wink.

  So I froze there in the
  shadows as I watched
  the great and shaggy beast.

  While he took his fill of
  cold creek water and ate
  a veritable feast.

  Of tender grasses sweet and
  just pushing through
  the muddy ground

  and he shook his white and
  gnarly head as he made
  some munching sounds.

  Silently, I hoped, I stepped
  back into the shelter of
  the trees

  I'd heard that buffalo will
  often charge at just
  what it thinks it sees!

  But a White Buffalo
  is sacred and I knew
  it might never come again

  This spirit of the west,
  who is said to be
  brother to the wind.

  A twig snapped where
  I now knelt and I felt
  my heart begin to thud.

  That massive head
  turned looking where I sat
  then came splashing through the mud

  I quit breathing for what seemed
  an eternity and my legs
  refused to move

  yet every nerve was firing signals
  every time he stamped
  his sharp and blackened hooves

  Now he neared
  the Aspen grove
  where I was wrapped around one tree

  Here I was about to discover
  just what a buffalo
  can see!

  Cause he was nearly in my I reached out
  and touched his hair

  Knowing that if he wanted
  to, he could run me
  down right there.

  But, he didn't and I
  kept scratching him as he
  made a grumbling rumbling purr

  turning so I could run
  my fingers through his tangled
  shaggy fur.

  Well, Later I left him
  in the willows, knowing we
  would never meet again.

  I never told another soul
  of this adventure not even
  my best friend,

  of the day I touched the
  great white buffalo in the willows
  one day in early spring

  In the season of the sweet grass
  When the earth begins to sing.

  2006, Donna Hatton
  This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Donna comments: When I first came to Colorado, I had just returned to the United States, after living in Japan for seven years. My father was career military. I had read and studied everything I could about cowboys and had worked at the Imperial Palace Stables in Tokyo as a stable hand and eventually as an apprentice instructor, to learn all I could about horses. Like all teenaged girls of the time, I was madly in love with Roy Rogers and his wonder horse Trigger and with my Japanese and Arab friends I dreamed about the great American Cowboy and the mysteries of the West. I imagined what it was like to ride the range being chased by Indians and seeing the great herds of buffalo and promised to one day become a cowboy and to see the herds of these magnificent beasts. I was ecstatic upon learning that my Dad had been transferred to Colorado and even more thrilled when I met and became friends with a family who raised prized quarter horses on a remote ranch in the Colorado Rockies. I visited the ranch and then for several years worked as a trainer and guide with the sons and daughters of the family of true pioneer and cowboy stock in God's country. A dream come true. I was also honored to experience what few people have ever seen and I now share this story after my lifetime as a ranch wife, of an encounter with the legendary White Buffalo of the Plains Indians. This occurred in the South Park area near Wilkerson Pass in the summer of 1962, three years before I met and married my cowboy, Colorado cattle rancher Tom Hatton.


 In the Canyon of the Conquistador

There he stood under
the ragged rim of the
crumbling red stone cliffs

hidden in the slag of
blackened and fractured
once molten volcanic rifts.

Created by the upheavals in
the fragile crust of this
restless and shifting land

it was once unspoiled,
unblemished by the
touch of human hand.

Murals etched on
stone canvas
stories so simply told.

There a hunter
and the hunted, riding
across plains of rose and gold.

But, he has stood under
the shadowed rim
for at least four hundred years,

with a helmet
on his specter's head, in his
clawed hand a rusty spear.

Forgotten by the men
who had left him there
until I stumbled upon his bones,

in the lonely grotto
in the sacred canyon
where The Conquistador stands alone.

Hallowed eyed with
a ghastly wide and
ivory gapped toothed grin

his scream
filled the air and raised my hair
with that voice of a harlequin.

It was only chance
that had brought me here
to this timeless haunted place

that will be lost again
to those whispering winds
that the sands of time will erase.

I spoke to that silent
rack of bones
who had searched for the fabled gold

who stands forever
Guardian and whose
story had never been told.

He came with a ship from
across the sea
in service to a Spanish king.

He marched with the others
from the western coast
into the deserts of early spring.

Horses carried those
metal clad men and wagons
rattled and creak.

The haughty dons and their
Black Robed priest, searched
a land that was empty and bleak

They conquered the people
souls for the church, merciless
in their quest

leaving their mark on
the people and land
as they marched across the west.

But standing there under
the ragged rim of that
crumbling sand stone wall

The lonely remains
of the Conquistador
Shone proudly white and tall

Still guarding the wagons
the armor and stores of
the men now long since dead

who followed the trail to
the far saw toothed hills
across a dry river bed.

And on into the sun
for the gold cities they'd come,
but for him they never returned.

Yet he guarded the grotto
where he'd been left behind
and the sun relentlessly burned.

But, those days he recorded
as he waited for death
In a message he left on the wall,

with only the voice of
the whispering wind
and the vultures that had come to call.

He thought of his home
cross the waters he'd roamed
and of his child he'd not ever see.

And he kept his story for
all of those years until he shared it
that day with me.

Yes, lost to the world for
three centuries or more
I left him for others to find,

The Conquistador of
the Canyon of Tears
That the Spanish had left behind.

2003, Donna Hatton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Donna comments:  The story was inspired by the remains I found in a slot canyon somewhere in the West, and I have chosen to keep that location to myself. I probably could never find the location again anyway, it happened a long time ago.

It was on a pack trip that I nearly lost my life in the canyon when a flash flood sent water rushing through the dead end I had slipped into and barely escaped from... what I found was again lost to time. I have kept the adventure locked in my memory for over 40 years and where it finally grew to have a life of its own. It was this journey that kept me reading and studying the history of the Spanish and visiting out-of-the-way places where the Conquistadors had left their graffiti upon canyon walls. Reading accounts of their search for the fabled cities of gold after finding my own evidence of their dramatic search has fascinated me ever since.

After visiting El Morro National Monument and seeing the carved inscriptions I knew that I would tell the story of my Conquistador. It was one inscription there at the monument that especially caught my mind, the most famous of all the carvings, it's dated the 16th day of April, 1605. The carving is that of Adelantado Don Juan de Onate and his carving said, "Pasamos por aqui," meaning, "We passed this way." He wrote this inscription before America signed the Declaration of Independence and before the first landing at Plymouth. That statement is what challenged me to tell the stories of the ones who can no longer tell their own and to seek out those stories to share. Sometimes they come seeking me because "We passed this way."






Read Donna Hatton's A Christmas Memory, posted with other Holiday 2003 poems.



Silver Shadows



Tom and Donna Hatton present songs and poems in Silver Shadows, where they beckon listeners to "Let us take you to another time, another place ...where ... 'all that's left are memories written on a page..."


Scene One: Whispers, Echoes, and Shadows
1. Voices on the Wind (song)
2. Whispers of the West (poem)

Scene Two: Cowboy Love Letters
3. Letter to Molly (song written by Marvin O'Dell)
4. Little Girl's Heroes (poem)
5. Saddle Off the Wall (song written by Marvin O'Dell)

6. Places in the Heart (poem)
7. Gallup Frazier (poem)

Scene Three: The Man and His Maker
8. Spellbound on the High Lonesome (poem)
9. Going Home (poem)
10. Cowboy Prayer (song)
11. Tin Box (poem)

Scene Four:  Laughter on the Range
12. I Wanna Yodel (song)
13. Colorado Cowgirl (song)

Passing of the Whispers...The End
14. Silver Shadows (music by
Jon Messenger and Donna Hatton)  (song)

backup music and vocals by Ernie Martinez and Jon Chandler

The CD is available for $15 postpaid from:

White Owl Productions
230 Ute Trail
Woodland Park, CO 80863  

Read Rick Huff's review here.

Whispers of Voices

AWA Cowboy Poetry CD of the Year, 2005

Tom and Donna Hatton's compelling CD, Whispers of Voices, starts with a crack of lightning, followed by Donna Hatton's exquisite a cappella singing. You are held in its spell through beautifully haunting and moving tales and songs -- many based on Donna and Tom Hatton's family histories and their area's history -- "whispers of voices carried by the wandering winds of time." Original and classic songs and poems performed by the Hattons with vocal and musical accompaniments of Jon Chandler and Ernie Martinez make for a truly unique listening experience. The work of co-producer Scott Martin and sound engineer Steve Avedis reflects the strong team behind this production. Joe Baker is right on target when he says, "Whispers of Voices will change your conception of cowboy poetry and western music forever."  


Whispers (song)
Charlie's Old Friends (poem)
Dirt Road (song) lyrics by Debra Coppinger Hill
Old Times, Old Places, Old Friends (poem)
Stone in the Pasture (song/poem)
Sweet Promise (song)
Sweet Promise (poem)
Little Red Angel (poem)
Danny Boy (song)
Danny Boy (instrumental interlude)
Death on the Prairie (poem)
A Texas Cowboy  (song)
Lawman (poem)
Streets of Laredo (song)
Intro to Charlie's Song
Charlie's Song (song)
Whispers - reprise (song)

Additional vocals and accompaniment by Ernie Martinez and Jon Chandler

The CD is available for $16 postpaid from:

White Owl Productions
230 Ute Trail
Woodland Park, CO 80863  



About Donna Hatton:




Donna Hatton, pre-show entertainment, July 5th, Symphony Above The Clouds 
presented by The Colorado Springs Symphony in Woodland Park.

Donna Hatton was born into an air force family and traveled extensively, spending seven years in Japan. Her dream was to marry a cowboy and her family's move to Colorado made that dream a possibility. She met and married her husband, Tom, a fourth generation cattle rancher. She has been living her dream since.

Tom Hatton

After raising three children, she set about reviving a gospel singing career and discovered cowboy poetry. Writing about her family's way of life and the cowboy way became her passion. As a gifted singer, she found that she loved the old "cowboy" songs and has recently begun putting some of her own writings into song.

She has also performed as a storyteller for a number of years, developing a story based on family history, of a young Irish immigrant girl, who eventually ends up out West. Complete with an Irish accent, music and poetry, she has performed countless presentations. Donna has performed at Cowboy Poetry Gatherings and Festivals in Utah, Idaho, Arizona and Colorado, opening for such artists as, The Sons of the San Joaquin, Don Edwards, and Waddie Mitchell. Her talent and passion have led her to the front of the storytelling stage and into involvement in the top organizations of the storytelling community.

See our feature about Tom and Donna Hatton's youth program, The Cowboy's Legacy, a collection of memories from life shared on the trail to the West and of a family who has continued to pioneer the ideals of a lifestyle. 

Tom and Donna Hatton in Hugo, Colorado during Library Week, where they were the invited guest writers/performers and gave a concert during the day and one in the evening for the school and town.


Invited Cowboy Poet and Songwriter for Gathering in Prescott, Arizona, 2002.
Colorado Springs First Nite, New Year's Eve, 2001.
Opened evening shows at the Western Festival and Fast Draw Contest, Colorado
   Springs, 2001.
Opened evening shows at The Lewis & Clark Cowboy Poetry, Music and Western
   Arts Festival, in Lewiston, Idaho, 1999 - 2001.
Appeared on a PBS special filmed in Lewiston, Idaho, 2000.
4-time Pre-show entertainment for the Colorado Springs Symphony, Woodland
   Park, Colorado.
Opened evening shows at Cowboy Poetry Rodeo, Cedar City, Utah, 1999.
Sang National Anthem for the Denver Nuggets Professional Basketball Team in
   Denver, Co. 1991.
Donna has appeared at many schools as a performer for The Performing Arts
   for Youth Organization.

Donna is a member of the following:

Western Writers of America
Women Writing the West
Performing member of the Academy of Western Artists
Board member of The Performing Arts for Youth Organization


"I have never heard so many superlatives describing a program," Jean Watson.
Garden of the Gods Visitor Center.

"What a joy it was to have you sing for our Broadmoor area Christian Women's
Club," Jerri Thomanson.

"Thanks for sharing with us your wonderful talents," Dee Rawson, Medallion
Activities Director.

"No singer has ever moved me more than you did," Bettye Heathcock, Air
Academy Christian Women's Club.

whisperstdh.jpg (14002 bytes)

read about Tom and Donna Hatton's CD, Whispers of Voices, above.

Member of the
Cowboy Poets of Utah



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