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Horse Narrative Poems | Narrative Poems About Horse

These Horse Narrative poems are examples of Narrative poems about Horse. These are the best examples of Horse Narrative poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Narrative |

An Escape

Have some time to spare in-between a work schedule 
burning me from the inside, out.
Wasted too much time on the computer already,
my body aches from physical inactivity.

Thoughts are racing faster than the speed of light,
the routine of modern life is trying to cage in a free spirit-
a pen for a wild horse with boundless energy,
a strong kick and large teeth.

Haven't come down to this part of the bay for years.
Not sure why anymore?
Not too sure about anything right now.
Believed I was too young to be having these thoughts,
but here they come like a booming drum beat,
keeping time with the pounding of my heart,
but always just a little louder,
to remind me how this warning isn't about to depart.

The putrid stench of kelp and dead crabs
baking in the afternoon sun,
curls up my nostrils, awakening memories of childhood....
....the salt in the sea is the salt in my blood;
we have been one since conception.
The salty, deep green rot, smells like bliss to me,
compared with the scents of over-heated wires,
burnt coffee, and industrial-gray carpeting.

Sit down on a large chunk of driftwood.
The waves aren't crashing in their usual rhythmic crescendo,
but lapping quietly like chortling laughter.
The ocean is chuckling,
laughing at my insignificance
in comparison to its almost limitless horizon 
of cruel, cold water.

A familiar pungent aroma creeps my way-
the high citrus scent of bergamot
mixed with the sweet perfume of skunk.
Two young punks are hauling on some reefer
up the beach from where I am sitting.
Can hear their youthful, carefree chatter.
The last time I smoked weed, seems eons ago now.
The smell invokes the rebel still alive inside,
giving a glimpse of who I had once been-
eyes blazing red,
mind full of humble awe
flying high above the clouds like an eagle.

The shrill cries of gulls fighting over a starfish
breaks my stupor of reminiscence,
reminding me of the hungry ways of nature-
the hungry ways of mankind and money.
Damn! My stupid job awaits!

As I make my way back,
pant legs causing the sand grass 
to sigh in dry moans and whispers,
I make up my mind to visit 
this old stomping ground more often.
In fact, I might start coming out here
on all of my lunch breaks.
Out here, the wild horse has ample room to roam,
even if for only a few moments of escape-
an illusion of escape is far better
than having only stifled dreams
and no hope left at all-

feel much better already.


Details | Narrative |

You can Lead a Horse to Water

Toasty mornings with teakettles whistling bring to mind Danish days on Marata’s 
horse farm, ponies prancing in the unusually warm sunlight, and new fangled 
sparkling silver water fountains. Mirada, Karen and Laura’s Mom hosted Bob, Jamie 
and I for a summer vacation. We had just settled into the whitewashed kitchen 
when the problem was presented to us. For years the housed herd of guest horses 
had been watered by filling lovely old white porcelain cast iron tubs which had been 
scattered all over the rolling green fields of the farm in Faum. 

Mirada had the forward thinking idea of saving farm hand time [and her the hourly 
wage] of piping water to these beautiful horses with new fountains! Yes, my 
lovelies, all you have to do is push your nose right here. Out bubbles crisp cool clean 
water, minus the dead flies, which often drowned in the old tub! Seems horses are 
very suspicious. Nope the herd was having none of it. Soon, if not cajoled, they 
would be passing out from lack of water in the Danish summer’s heat. What foreign 
creature had replaced their friendly old white tub of water? Where was their water? 
They saw no water. Sure there was a scent of it from that pole but “What the 
heck?” snorted the black stallion shaking his head at the girls.

We were told there would be no breakfast, lunch or dinner for us until we helped 
get those horses watered. So off we went, shuffling our feet to a meet and greet 
with the herd.  Marata and the girls knew the horses. We almost knew a horse from 
a cow. I went right up to this large black beauty, pet his nose and rubbed my cheek 
on his face, love at first sight! Blackie started following me and we walked toward 
the fountain. Then the sun glanced off the dreaded thing and he shied. I pushed the 
control, filled my hands with water and brought him some. Lordy, lordy he drank 
from my hands! The herd behind him whinnied. I tried to get him nearer the fountain 
but it was a no, go. He’d drink from my hands but not the fountain. It just goes to 
show you, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, is really 
TRUE! 

*The next morning Laura begged her own pony AGAIN to drink. He finally did the rest did too then ;)


Details | Narrative |

Buster

My sister had a small horse that no one else could ride
and anyone who mounted him soon had a skinned up hide.
It was haying time and Daddy took on some extra hands.
With brawn, brains didn’t matter much.  A rancher understands.
One new hand started boasting of broncos he had ridden.
Bragging around my brothers should have been a thing forbidden.

It didn’t take them long to brand that young cowpoke a phony.
They hatched a plan to get him on my sister’s half-broke pony.
If a man bragged of his horse savvy, he’d better know his beans.
They’d all been breaking broncos since before they hit their teens.
That evening when Sis brought the cows, Buster was so mellow
my brothers knew it was the time to trick that boasting fellow.
They asked their prey if he would like to ride the little horse.
The horse was acting gentle so he took the bait of course.
My sis got off and he got on, or such was his intention.
Buster remembered all the tricks those lads forgot to mention.
He gave one buck and that cowpoke was hanging from his mane.
He almost had him shaken off when he came down again.
Then Buster noticed the barn door was opened just a skin.
He was wider than the opening but still he wanted in.
He made a mad dash forward, just a-heading for that crack.
He made it through, the buckaroo was skinned right off his back.
The fellow was a sorry sight a-lying in that muck.
He must have thought the world was done or a bolt of lightning struck. 
Those rascals stood there laughing at the gent so mortified
then feeling sorry complimented him for his fine ride.
The moral of this story you don’t rate a horse by size
and misjudging one like Buster could get you a big surprise.     



For Carol's "A Horse Story" contest  Won 3rd


Details | Narrative |

Brick by Bloody Brick

"All animals are equal. But some animals are more equal than others."
—George Orwell
A dozen of chickens and a number of horses, a cat and a raven, a few cows and other hoofed ones—all of which are perfectly silent. Poor wolfie. He can't even find a voice to growl. "Your Honor, if I may request for a short recess," I whisper, humiliatingly like a dying dragon. But my timid voice is drowned by a sly-looking pig's pouring of whisky into Dis Honor's gilded cup. "Have you no respect or have you no eyes?" Squealing, he deafeningly squeals. He reminds me of that scaled wyvern whose head now sits in my living room. It roared deafeningly loud but breathed no fire. "His Honor is having his brief period of refreshment at the moment!" With eyes too dry to cry and throat too hoarse to howl, the defendant meekly weeps. But only I hear it; the jury listens to only the silence, loud as a baby serpent's inaudible hiss, of two semi-digested pigs in his gut. Who on earth build houses with flimsy hays or sticks nowadays anyway? And was it my client's fault that the third genius Doctor Porkchop got killed when some stray earthquake crushed his oh-so-unshakable fort built brick by bloody brick? Just whose brilliant proposal is it again to have Napoleon presiding the trial of the so-called Big Bad Wolf? If only he was a dragon—a pig-dragon at least— I would fain put the beauty that is my sword into good use right now. Countless charges of premeditated murder, culpable animalicide, et cetera. Of course, do sentence us all to another life. I turn to look at the audience right behind me: a mare, a goat, a donkey. A soft motherly neigh followed by an intelligent baa, then by an astute silence. "Please, Your Honor," Ridiculous. This stupid courtesy reminds me of tiptoeing past a mother Couatl guarding her eggs. "Shall we resume—" Slams of gavel. "Objection! Objection! Objection!" Dis Honor oinks vehemently, his mouth reeking of poorly brewed whisky—and I thought Tiamat's droppings were bad. The way he repeats the slamming of his gavel with every disgustingly pronounced objection gives me a headache as if it was my head he keeps hammering on. For the first time, being hit by the Basilisk's tail doesn't sound so bad at all. "Here you call me 'Your Honor Napoleon' in full," Oh, believe me, the honor is fully mine.


Details | Narrative |

Famous Boots

As a little girl she loved western boots

Loved to pretend she was riding a giant horse

Pictures were all over the home of her and the white boots

When she got a little older she finally rode a real horse with laughter

Her parents bought her a horse when she was ten and took many pictures

She wore her boots and that horse as well

She fed the horse apples,carrots and peppermints

The horse would chomp the apple and carrots but put the peppermints in his cheek

He sucked on that candy and the drool was red

She would wear her battered boots to school and the horse wore the drool

When she was eighteen the horse died but the boots didn't

They were bigger now and polished in case the boys called

She bought a new horse but wore the old boots

The horse didn't know they were old and the boots were shined

Her friends were all fashionable but the boots were hers

They carried her with marriage,babies and through her divorce

The heels wore down like her marriage but she didn't and the new horse loved peppermints too

Marriages wear as do people but those famous boots can be re shod

And she was older and forgetful and the horse died

But when she put those boots on  she was ten and galloping

And she would chomp an apple or carrot and suck on a peppermint 

And the drool on her famous boots


To my dear friend and her horse who loved peppermints


Details | Narrative |

Cont Shogun Samauri Series Richard Pickett Collab 4

    After Tom left, Bill slugged down his coffee, donned his Stetson and slipped out the side 
entrance. Tom saw him for a split second and quickly looked up at the ceiling as if he didn’t.  Bill grinned. On the whole, his relationship with the guys in his precinct was a good 
one.
     He jaywalked across the busy street to the police impound lot where he had parked his 
black forty nine Buick. He bought it in Texas after deciding he’d had enough of the Texas 
Rangers for a while. He had put in for a leave after steady busting his butt for fifteen years 
mounted and un mounted all over that Lone Star state. He remembered retiring his last horse there. “Harry Hoss the Boss” was what he called him. After old Harry retired, Bill decided to do the same for a while. He enjoyed the Ranger gig but got burnt out.Time for a change. 
     Driving up to Nova Scotia to see old friends, he thought he’d stop in the Big Apple to see how folks lived there. After getting four different sets of directions from strange talking people and getting lost just as many times, he stopped at a bar named Paddy’s. Disgusted with his ordeal in the Big City he dropped in to relax for a bit before getting the hell out of that crazy town…if he could only find the way.
     The atmosphere of the joint was vaguely familiar. Folks of all ages enjoying each other's company. Bill bellied up to the bar and ordered a double shot of Jim Beam. He looked into the mirror through the row of liquor bottles behind the bar to see a few guys on his right engaged in lively jibberish about the Yankees. Seated on his left was a rugged looking gentleman in a brown Fedora hat looking right back at him.  He was knuckling onto a three finger glass with about four fingers of  Scotch in it judging by the bottle planted near him. He grinned at Bill and said, “You lost cowboy ?”
     “Reckon I am at that. Good talkin’ to a stranger I can understand though. The name’s Bill “he said putting out his hand.
     “They call me Brick“, he quipped exchanging a short strong handshake. 
Bill  pointed to Brick’s drink and said “How can you drink that horse piss?”  Here it was three 
years later and he still remembered Brick’s answer.
     “It’s easy Bill… bottle, glass, mouth, stomach.” They both laughed and they had been 
buddies ever since. Bill smiled in recollection . Somehow after that fated meeting, Bill never 
did make it to Nova Scotia.... 
     Bill came back to the present and climbed into his Buick. ...(cont.)


Details | Narrative |

Back in the Saddle Samurai part 2 response to Richard Pickett collab

After hearing from Brick over the phone saying he needed a lift, Bill cradled the phone, adjusted his shoulder holster, slipped on his jacket and carefully donned his beloved Stetson. He skipped down the stairs to the mini parking lot where he recently paid to park his car just for the convenience of it all. Should a done this a long time ago, he thought as he coaxed his car into gear and popped the clutch to angle it onto the busy street.
    Once he got into the traffic he ground the gears as well as that old three speed on the column would allow and headed for St Cecelia’s. He probably would have got there quicker on his police horse but they frowned on him parking his old horse buddy in the parking lot.
   It wasn’t the first time Brick decided to take a sabbatical in St Cecelia‘s. Hmm ..He musta been hell on his Mom’s nerves when he was a kid, Bill mused. 
     He pulled a u turn couldn't help but smile when he saw Brick was already standing there waiting for him while removing a sling from his arm that he probably was supposed to leave on for a few days.
     Bill braked along side the cigarette butt strewn curb reached across, opened the door and Brick clambered in a little more gently than he wanted to. “Need some help old man?” Bill quipped. 
    “No I just happen to like taking my time so I can savor every moment when I climb into a piece of junk.”
     “Now that ain’t no way to talk about ole Nellie here, Bill chuckled. Say how ya feeling Brick? “I feel great.” “Oh? You might feel great but you look like crap. You’d best pull an overhaul on your carcass real soon or that’ll be the shortest date you’ll ever be on.”
Brick rolled his eyes at his partner “Don’t you worry none cowboy, I clean up pretty good when I wanna. You just try and do your best to see that this hunk of junk makes it to my place cause if I was a gambling man ,I wouldn’t put any money on it.” They both laughed and Bill drove Brick to his home. 
 “Okay, well call me tomorrow and we’ll talk business about a certain Samurai
if your up to it by then Brick.” Brick groaned his way out of the car turned and said  “Oh don’t you worry ’bout that. I’ll be up to it all right .” 
Actually, I ain't really worried about you, Brick. I’m a little worried about the Samurai.”
“Huh? How’s that Bill?” 
“You know .. your ribs, Brick … they gave his foot a pretty good walloping!”
Brick slammed the car door shut, shook his head and chuckled as he limped away.
  See Richard Pickett


Details | Narrative |

The Prince, The Maiden, And The Knight

A young woman embraced by her cloud like gown glided through the castle walls
smiling at the pease she passed, but unaware of the world surrounding her.
The sound of metal against metal rose from the stone courtyard ahead
and as she drew near to the balcony's edge she could hear the playful banter.
Below she watched as her future fought fiercely against her past
and had almost knocked him completely off balance and ended the duel,
but her past had a strong and deadly determination to remain in her future.
On lookers poured onth the seen to witness powerful blow after blow
as prince and knight, right hand man and king-to-be struggled for victory.
The battle waged on for what seemed like ages until one of them stumbled.
Panting with the lack of breath the prince stared in shock and in awe
at the knight who still held the sword to his throat, held his life in caloused hands.
The knight threw the sword to the ground offering a hand to the fallen prince,
but the prince no longer noticed anyone other than the fair maiden on the balcony.
His heart flutter at the presence of her beauty and took flight when her delicate gaze met his,
but there was a sadness in this angel's eyes, a sorrow he had never been allowed to see.
The maiden's heart raced as the knight followed the prince's eyes and then locked with hers,
his smile wavered slightly seeing fear in the loving eyes of the once fearless damsel.
The eyes of the man who asked her to be his wife and the man who was her life
stared at her watching, waiting for her to make her decision and in that moment she made it.
She ran, ran faster than anyone had thought possible of her ans she didn't stop.
She stole a horse from the stables and rode for miles refusing to stop.
When the horse could run no more, she rested the tired, worn down stallion
and when the dust settled on the ground once again the knight stood before her.
Her kissed her lips gently and she forgot that she had left a heart broken prince behind.


Details | Narrative |

Samurai The Chase

Bill was barely out of the car when Brick pushed the 
accelerator to the wood and screeched around the 
corner into an ally hitting several trash cans as he did,
He also heard the distinctive sound of a cat disturbed
as it was in search of a tasty morsel to fill his stomach

Brick was looking up at all the fire escapes as he drove
to see if the perp was using them as a way to get away.
He picked up his portable radio and called to Bill, Cowboy
this is Brick, you got him ? No I don't, I lost him He runs
like the wind, Don't think I ever seen anyone run so fast

I would stake my horse he headin for  for the roof pardner
Well then Cowboy, head for the roof, I'm at the back of the 
building now, will get this creep, I'll wait here and by the way
that horse of yours aint much of a stake, more like a fleabag.
Brick slammed on the brakes and got out headin for the door.

Brick just made it to the back exit when the shadow man came
flying out the door and Brick was right in in his path.Brick hollered 
" stop" Police" Then lightening struck, The shadow man hit Brick
with a round house kick square in the center of his chest,  
needless to say, Brick went down like a Brick..Yea I know, lets move on

Bricks breath was found in the Queens a week later his head 
was spinning and he was about to go to sleep. His mind was racing 
the shadow was gone. The next thing Brick remembered was hearing
the Cowboy's voice, Can you hear me ole buddy? where is he?
where'd he go ? Hang on I got a bus coming, I got your piece.....


 To be Cont. by the Cowboy...........


Details | Narrative |

Shogun (collaboration with Richard Pickett's Samauri/Shogun story on his site)

     The NYC. Detective strolled into his little office that once had been a janitors supply 
closet in an elementary school . It was converted into a police station after the school had 
found a more suitable spot to try and teach those unteachable little darlings from this 
neighborhood. The cops were cruising around here most of the time anyway. It just made 
sense to the higher ups to operate from here, and besides, it fit into the limited budget. There was talk that next year we might even get a janitor. Till then we would hoe out our 
own cubicles. The name plate on  the painted peeling door read  Detective Sgt. Bill Lipton. 
NYCPD.
     Looking around he could see it was much the way he left it before heading out for a 
much needed two week vacation. The tarnished coffee perculator was against the back 
white washed wall on a bench where he dreamed there’d be a window some day. Ahh.. It 
didn’t matter, he didn’t spend much time in here anyway. All… or at least most of the crimes 
were happening outside these walls and he spent most of his time in the middle of that.
     One picture of his partner decorated the wall; a police Warm Blood horse he named “Red Neck”. Bill toured a Central Park beat on Red Neck . Actually it was relaxing to work the beat on his trained horse as a mounted police officer...most of the time.

Continued as a part in unison with Richard Picketts Shogun/Samauri Stories on his site by his 
permission. -to be continued-


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