September's Featured Cowboy Poet
Ron DeSantis



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 buckaroo and me. He'd come and meet me all decked out in leather and cowboy gear. He's tell me tales of days gone by, those tales of yesteryear. The times he wore a tin star, or fought Indians by Custers side. He may have stretched the truth a bit, but he swore he never lied. I'd listen to tales of days long gone and bounce upon his knee. Together in our minds we'd go riding back that old cowboy and me. 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 a large oak 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 upon my knee. Up on the knoll where the shade still pools that young buckaroo and me.



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 puffy clouds outside those pearly gates. St. Peter motioned me to come inside. "No thank's I'm going to wait." Well Heaven sure looked like a pretty place and those golden streets sure gleamed, but then I remembered Ruthies 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 that ground. St. Peter said, " your a cowboy son you can come right inside. You lived your life brave and free and thats the way you died. Nightly you get down on your knees." he spoke pulling up a cloudy mound. "You pray 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 I'll just wait for Ruthie here outside."

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The clock was ticking slowly they still had time to run, so little time together Bobby emptied out his gun. His wife sat rocking teary eyed on her breast their new born son. "It's not to late for us to go." Bobby oiled up his gun. His mind was filled with memories the loving the laughing, the fun and the times they lay together Bobby wiped down his gun. The bullets dropped in easy one eye was on his son his stomach felt so queasy Bobby loaded up his gun. There was little time for him to wait. Eighteen eighty was the date as Bobby closed up his gun. The clock rang out it's warning, there was no time to run. a final kiss laid on her lips, Bobby holstered up his gun. They stepped out onto Allen Street the crowd began to run. He gazed into the young mans eyes his mind was on his son. Someone yelled DRAW, two shots rang out. There stood just only one. One-hundred and five in the noonday sun. Dead fingers on Bobby's gun. Somewhere off in the distance, the echoing from the gun. A tear rolled down her cheek on her breast their newborn son. The clock was ticking slowly and there was no need to run, because in memory there forever, Bobby holstered up his gun.

About Ronald J. DeSantis

Ron DeSantis is an Internationally published cowboy poet and short story writer. He has over 40+ pieces of cowboy poetry published today. He has lived in Orange Texas and has ridden on ranches in Arizona, Texas, Wyoming and Montana. Ron writes from the heart and only what he knows about, and thats the West. Ron says there is a new book of his cowboy poetry coming out soon called Barbed Wire and Old Saddle Leather.

You can contact Ron at

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