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Open Poetry #23
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| Open Poetry #23 |
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Legacy |
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Gunslinger Senior Member
since 1999-10-09
Posts 901TX, USA 
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I threw my scuffed bronc saddle, In the back of my old truck, With the bag which held my riggin', And my brother wished me luck. He told me, "You can do it! Ride 'em high, and spur 'em hard!" A lump threatened to choke me, As I drove out of the yard. Through the mirrors of my pickup, I could see him sitting there. He had always been my hero- Now confined to that wheel chair. When I was still in grade school, I used to watch him ride... That year he made the Finals, How it filled my heart with pride. The year I graduated... I thought sure we would be, A team, and ride together... My brother, Hank, and me. He drew a bull in Prescott, Few men had ever tried... And of the twelve who drew him, Six had nearly died. A cowboy pulled his rope then, The gate swung open wide. He rode until the buzzer blew, And made a shiny ride. He hung up for a minute- Then the brahma slung him clear, Then turned and caught on the ground, All hearts were filled with fear. I'm glad my brother made it, He is my closest friend, Now I must ride for both of us, He'll never walk again. |
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| © Copyright 2002 John R. Yaws - All Rights Reserved | |||
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the_loner_23 Member Ascendant
since 2002-06-08
Posts 5479Jacksonville, Florida, USA |
So sad. I enjoyed the read. Cold hands means a warm heart |
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