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RONALD J. DeSANTIS

 

 

The Old Cowboy and the Young Buckaroo

I couldn't wait to get home from school
and climb up on his knee.
Up on a knoll,
where the shade would pool,
that old cowboy and me.
He's come and meet me all decked out
in leather and cowboy gear.
He'd tell me tales of days gone by,
those tales of yesteryear.
The times he'd worn a tin star
or fought Indians by Custers side.
Well, he may have stretched the truth a bit,
but he swore he never lied.
I'd listen to those tales of days long gone
and bounce upon his knee.
Together in our minds
we'd go riding back,
that old cowboy and me.
Well, that was many years ago
and that old cowboy is gone,
but through me his tales
of yesteryear
will continue to live on.
We buried him up on the knoll
beneath an old shade tree and
every time I look up there,
Grandpa's waving back at me.
Now my own buckaroo can't
wait to get here and
climb up on my knee,
up on the knoll where
the shade still pools
that young buckaroo and me.

Ronald J. DeSantis 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

The End of the Trail

I want to live the rest of my life
at the end of a long dusty trail.
Where the well is filled with
cool spring water and I can
drink my fill from the oaken pail.
I'll climb down from my lathered
up cow horse and hang
my chaps on a rusty old nail.
Where I can remember all the
hearts that I broke and forget
my stint in the El-Paso Jail.
Where the mountains touch the clouds
Their snow covered tops winter pale.
To sit up on the white corral fence
and watch the sunset kiss the horizon,
undisturbed from up on the rail.
Riding out to the herd in the sunrise
feeding cows from the sleigh carried bales.
To collect, brand and drive the mavericks
north to market over desert,
mountains and dale.
There I can live happy without
telephones, traffic or mail
and complete the wide circle of life,
at the end of the long dusty trail.

Ronald J. DeSantis 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

The Cowboy Way

Widow Maker, that bucking bronc,
killed this old cowboy last night.
Four seconds out of the gate
had sent me toward the light.
I rose above the rodeo rink from
my broken body on the ground.
My crying wife Ruthie and the
Rodeo Doc stood helplessly around.
I found myself on fluffy clouds
just outside those pearly gates.
St. Peter motioned me to come inside.
"No thanks, I'm going to wait."
Well, heaven sure looked like a pretty place
and those golden streets sure gleamed,
but then I remembered Ruthie's face
and how her pride in me sure beamed.
Tipping my hat I slowly turned away
and shuffled quietly around.
I sat heavily upon a hickory stump
that stuck up from the ground.
St. Pete said, "your a cowboy son
so you can come right inside.
You lived your life brave and free
and that's the way you died.
Nightly you got down on your knees,"
he spoke confused, sitting on a cloudy mound.
"You prayed the lord your soul to keep,
but now you just turn around."
"Oh it's nothing you did Pete,
it's just I miss my bride.
I couldn't walk alone on golden streets,
so I'll just wait for Ruthie here outside."

Ronald J. DeSantis 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

 

 

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