1535944

[williamstone.FTW]

Published Western (cowboy) poet, res. Truth or Consequences, NMTHE OLD RANCH HOUSEThis old ruined house was once a home built by pioneers;
Home of a frontier couple spending their sunset years;
A home where love, peace, success and plenty did prevail,
With friendly open door to travelers on the trail.
Placed in a verdant valley, unspoiled since time began;
A land as God had made it, unmarred by hand of man.
Here a boy rode his stick horse in furious pursuit
Of Indians, buffalo and men of ill repute.
Sometimes, he played the sheriff, often he was a scout;
Here held mighty roundups with the chickens put to rout.
At times he rode his charger with manner proud and bold
In search of high adventure as did the knights of old.
REAL KNIGHTS IN LEATHER ARMOR rode in to spend a night
And swap old tales with Grandpa, much to a boy's delight,
Exciting stories of days hen not so long ago
This was the land of Red Men and herds of buffalo.
Here with some regret, a boy laid his stick horse aside
And upon real saddle mounted horses learned to ride
Through an unfenced sea of grass, a virgin Golden West,
And with a crimson sunset return to home and rest;
To lie out in a hammock; watch the lamps light in the sky,
Dreaming those dreams which only boys can dream and wonder, WHY/
This house now with vacant eyes stares at a barren plain;
Hills ravished by the wind gods, a land of little rain;
Playground of the whirlwinds where dust devils do devise
New ways to torture Mother Earth and new sand hills rise.
Now, no more do meadow larks sing gaily on the w^ng,
Nor Little People play amon wild flowers in the spring;
No more dow\es the Lordly Monarch of the grassy plain
With his harem and their calves come grumbling down the lane
To water; to drink and drink again; to doze and laze
And then content, return to an unfenced range to graze.
Did then some Mystic Red Man by injustice so provoked
Upon this land once his a solemn curse invoked
Against the paleface'iron shod Killer on the Grass;
Denying dream of empire, and has it come to pass?
It is well I think, the Old Ones did not live to see
Children scattered to the winds, a heritage not to be;
This valley wherein they built so well, with so much trust
In future hopes, their works lie perishing in the dust.
Old landmarks gone, vanished all, only this house does stand
With mem'rys, when I was young in this once lovely land.
[Published in Horse Lovers' Magazine, this poem is about a visit to WW
Towse's homestead in Chivington, where Chet grew up]