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Narrative Horse Poems | Narrative Poems About Horse

These Narrative Horse poems are examples of Narrative poems about Horse. These are the best examples of Narrative Horse 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.


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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 ;)


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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


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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.


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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


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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.)


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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


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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...........


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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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Approaching Hoof Beats of the Apocolypse

In the distant thunder I can hear the sound of riders drawing near
A gathering storm that will soon hit with great force
The first rider will ride in on a white horse a bow by his side
He comes in the name of peace and good will, but he practices to deceive with 
flattery and great skill
A red horse follows close on the first riders heels
He comes with a sword to take peace from the earth and cause men to kill
War shall ravage the land and the blood of men will flow as a river across the desert 
sands
A black horse closes the distance
He will cause a great famine to spread over the land
Many shall cry out in hunger and pain as food shortages cause great strain.
Many shall die in this dark hour of need for there shall be found no grain or seed 
Riding in at full gallop the fourth horsemen approaches
The name of this rider is Death and Hell follows close behind him
Men shall watch in defenseless terror, for unto the pale horse 
Power is given to kill by the sword, with hunger and the beasts of the field
The time has come to sound a warning through the land for the approaching hoof 
beats
of the apocalypse is nigh at hand


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I'M NOT RIDING SIR

While I was drinking in the Vic' 
Out Goondiwindi way, 
This burnt out ringer on his horse 
Reined in and said, "G’day!" 
 
We'd all been playing 301, 
So asked could he join in. 
"Sure thing old mate!" we all agreed, 
Which brought a toothless grin. 
 
"The name is Paddy Mellon boys ... 
I'll have a pot please love ... 
I feel I'm on a winning streak 
Or there’s no God above." 
 
He sat there perched upon his stool  
Between the pub's doorway, 
And held the reins of his old horse, 
Which sensed he planned to stay. 
 
The pots went down and time flashed by, 
He won near ev'ry game, 
But Paddy's knees were bowing fast, 
His aim a bit the same. 
 
By late that 'arve the wobbly boot 
Had taken full control, 
Old Paddy’s winning streak had gone 
And Nick had claimed his soul. 
 
Poor Paddy's darts they missed their mark, 
The grog had soaked his brains, 
But Paddy he just blamed the horse. 
"Stop pulling on the reins!" The boys in blue had called in too 
And warned him there and then, 
"We catching you riding that horse drunk 
You'll see a cell ag'en." 
 
Old Paddy broke and out of luck 
Resigned to riding off 
And as he rode into the night 
He gave a smoker's cough. 
 
He'd only gone a block or two 
When who should drive on past. 
None other than the boys in blue, 
Who turned around real fast. 
 
But Paddy though had seen them too 
And instinct then took hold. 
He jumped behind the saddle quick, 
His grin was brazen, bold. 
 
The constable looked up at him,  
He'd teach this ringer what. 
"We told you not to ride that horse, 
You poor old drunken sot!" 
 
But Paddy said, "You've got it wrong, 
I am not riding Sir. 
You see on this old horse my friend 
I'm just a passenger!" 
 



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There's a Horse In Our Garage

Of all the horses I have known,
And I have known a few,
It's of Rebel, my daughter's first loved horse
That I'll be telling you.
Her girl friends on the nearby farms
Had horses theirs to ride.
That she could not have a horse too,
She just could not abide.
We lived in a little pioneer town.
Our home had a tiny yard.
To fulfill my small girl's wishes
Would truly be too hard.
One day I found her crying and
It broke my mother heart.
I told her we'd look for a horse.
At least we'd make a start.
Well, that was all I need to say.
There was no reneging now.
We'd have to ask her daddy
And I didn't quite know how.
Her fresh tears won him over
And he told her he would try
To find the perfect horse for her
if she would no more cry.
We had an old unused garage.
If was mostly filled with trash.
She and her dad hauled to the dump,
What they couldn't sell for cash.
In June she went into the fields
Picking strawberries to help pay
For the horse for which she'd been looking
And would be finding any day.
At last there was one advertised
At we thought, a decent price.
She called her horse savvy uncle
To ask for his advice.
My brother checked the horse for her
And said that it was sound.
Exactly waht she wanted to hear,
She plunked her money down.
She cared for her horse the best she knew
And before long had proven she
Knew more about a horses's care
Than either her dad or me.
Rebel was quite a tall horse.
She had to climb to get astraddle
And sit up on his bare back.
We could not afford a saddle.
Rebel was the perfect horse
For a loving ten year old.
He was docile, slow and gentle.
Only when loose did he get bold.
There were times when he would get away,
From where ever he'd been tied.
He'd whip around and run again,
Just when we reached his side.
She and her friends had lots of fun
In those happy carefree days.
Swimming across the Swinomish Slough
Is a memory that stays
Our daughter got her money's worth
From that big sturdy horse,
Until his age began to show
And Nature took it's course.

Our town has become more lucrative
It's residents  a richer crowd.
A horse stabled in garage these days
Would never be allowed.
My daughter raises horses now,
With the purest of blood line
But our Rebel of unknown heritage
At her age of ten was fine.



For Horse contest  took 7th place


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DEAD MAN'S HAND

DEAD MAN’S HAND

He sat the longest time
Staring at his cards
It was a good hand – 3 Queens
Better than average    considering
There were six men at table

“Whatcha say, Luke?” Jake Rich demanded
“Pete raised yer bet – Whatcha say?”

But Luke just sat
Staring at his cards

Bart Potter had called-him-out
He sensed every eye in the saloon 
                                             was fixed on him
He must accept Bart Potter’s ‘call?’
Luke wondered if this was his lucky day?
Bart Potter was fast    VERY FAST!

Luke had every worldly thing he owned in the middle of
                                                                              the table
       money    horse    house
                                        even his grandfather’s gold watch
                   (been in the family for 100 years)
If the Queens held up he felt he might have the confidence
                      to outdraw Bart Potter
                            (if the Queens held up)

Luke Tyson was a careful man    unusually conservative
He’d scrimped and saved since he was just a kid to have his
                                        horse   his 50 acres
Everyone said Luke was too damned security-minded
AND          he was –
What would he do if he lost?
WHAT ON EARTH WOULD HE DO?

“Luke!” someone called
“Bart Potter’s a waitin’”
“Us too!” Jake Rich rasped

Luke counted his chips –
Just enough to call Pete’s raise
Luke threw his last chips into the middle of the table

There was cold sweat on Luke’s forehead
It was just between him and Pete
                                         with Bart Potter waiting outside

“Three Kings!”    Pete smiled     confident
Luke Tyson’s gut dropped down around his butt

“You comin’ Luke?”        
                                    someone called

   





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Stormy Christmas Eve

A Stormy Christmas Eve It had been snowing all day and the skies were looking glum. My mama started crying when the mailman didn’t come. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day; Dad said, “I’ll ride to town.” He put his warm raccoon coat on and pulled his big hat down. Then my mama began to fret. I saw her fingers drumming. “Do you think that you really should? I fear a storm is coming”. My daddy said, “I’ll be okay if I am riding Dan. You know that horse will find the way. He’s smarter than a man.” Then Mama gave him a big kiss and said, “Now do take care.” She waved him off into the storm and wiped away her tear. My mama plucked the turkey and kept looking at the clock while little brother prattled on about his Christmas sock. The storm was growing stronger and the light turned into dark, while I was just a wishing I would hear old Ringo bark. Mama lit the kerosene lamp and started slicing bread. “I should have told him Christmas could be late.” I think she said. About then I heard Ringo bark and saw my mama smile. I knew I’d hear my daddy at the back door in a while. That horse of Daddy’s brought him safely home through blowing storm. He said that he was glad to be back home where it was warm. Then he said he’d met a stranger while on his homeward way. He recognized old Santa Claus with reindeer and red sleigh. Santa said he would be happy to lighten up his pack and be obliged if Daddy would relieve him of plump sack. So little brother went to bed to wake to a surprise from Santa Claus whom our Daddy had seen with his own eyes. By Joyce Johnson (inspired by “Seein’ Santa” picture)


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my jounry

walking down a path .going down and over mountions and vallies of every kind .throw 
villages and cities of every type.around an about every kind of river.studying very hard. 
writing about on a little 
notepad.                                                                                                                          
                                                                                                                                      
  on my way i can ribe a black and white horse running throw the dark green and forest with 
monsters and crichers of any 
breed.                                                                                                                             
                                                                                                                                      
 my horse will go throw waters up to 1000000000 foot long oceans.with sae monsters and 
big fish.even tthow i am own liiike 10 years old i can really do things like 
that.                                                                                                                                
                                                                                                                                      
 my jounry will be fun any even thow it will be dangers and sacry but very fun just to find 
nothiing but  natures beatiy.


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Adult Content - Your Tuesday Laugh

Tom Price phones up John Ely. 

"I hear you sell some of the best horses in the county 

I'm sending out my best guy if he likes the goods 
we're buying one of your horses. 

My guy is a midget with a speech impediment just to give you the heads up" 
he concluded and hung up the phone.

The stud groom waited until the midget knocked on the door.

"Hello, I've come to check out your hortheth", said the midget.

"Sure, do you want a male horse or a female horse ?" asked the stud groom.

"A female horth, pleath" said the midget, so off they went to look at the horses. One lovely well bred filly caught the midgets eye.

"Can I check her ears pleath ?" said the midget - so the stud groom lifted up the midget to check the horses ears, then put him back down.

"Nith ears.......... now can I look at her eyth, pleath ?" - once again the stud groom lifted up the midget to check the horses eyes, then put im 
down again.

"Nith eyth ............ now I'd like to thee her twat pleath"

The stud groom was shocked and a bit offended, so he lifted up the midget and shoved him 
head first into the rear area of the horse and put him back down again.

The midget coughed and spluttered, and then said....................

"Perhapth I should rephwase that...... can I see her wun awound a widdle bit ?"


16~12~2014






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Apache's Final Thoughts

Indignant, his head hung low, eyes glassy, all he has is his memories.
Within the pain he can no longer tolerate, within the hundreds of enmeshed bodies…
Stinking and rotting.
All he has is his memories.
Escaping the frightful screams of death and the smell of blood,
He is remembering his fist love. He was so young, as was she.
Beautiful girl, kind hands, sweet voice and a carrot ever present in her pocket.
They rode and rode, hundreds of miles through trails and streams, as one
They loved each other’s company. Then a day came when she never showed.
He didn’t understand…but he could sense something wrong. SHE was gone.
Never coming back.
Then came a man, callous of hand,  took him- roughly. He didn’t understand.
Pushed into a trailer, his feet fell through the rusted bottom- PAIN…
The man whipped him into another place. He stood bleeding as they drove away.
Arriving to a place. So cold, no lush grass, tiny area, no place to run and frollick-
The MAN took him out of the trailer, bleeding hocks and all- shuffled him into a barn
where the stench was raw. Threw a huge, heavy, ill fitting saddle upon his back. This man,
A Goliath even to this horse, pulled the cinch so tight he could not breathe.  A bit
shoved in his mouth.
OUCH! A spade splitting his tongue- the huge man grabbed a whip and jumped right on.
“I’ll teach you not to be a WOMANS’ horse. You are now mine- you will be a MANS’ horse, and
Work like a horse should!” Shouting, the MAN spurred the horse into action- foot bleeding
the entire time.
The spade biting into his tongue, the horse raised his head, only to be beat between the
ears- the MAN was furious.  Flying round and round they went-
   This cruelty, this circus continued for many years. He was broken of leg and spirit at
the age of ten- whence upon the MAN called the “Meat guy”, and for a few hundred this
horse was sent to his end.
He stood in the corral of death awaiting his turn, for the bolt to shoot into his brain
and slide  down the conveyor belt.
   He remembered his first love during the last few seconds- her spirit came to him…
“Join me Apache, my beautiful mount, in Heaven we will be together where no one can hurt us…
FOREVER!” 
He didn’t know what the words meant- but he knew his love was there to save him… he left
the crippled body behind and joined his true love before the cleaver sliced him apart.

*This is written for the thousands of horses sent to slaughter each year.
A. Green


Details | Narrative | |

Stormy Christmas Eve

It had been snowing all the day and
the skies were lookin glum.
My mama started crying when
the mailman didn't come.
Tomorrow would be Christmas Day,
Dad said, "I'll ride to town."
He put his warm racoon coat on
and pulled his big hat down.
Then my mama began to fret,
I saw her fingers drumming.
"Do you think that you really should?
I fear a storm is coming."
My daddy said, "I'll be okay
if I am riding Dan.
You know that horse will find the way.
He's smarter than a man.
Then Mama gave him a big kiss
and said. "Now do take care."
She waved him off into the storm
and wiped away a tear.
My mama plucked the turkey
and kept looking at the clock
while little brother prattled on
about his Christmas sock.
The storm was growing stronger and
the light turned into dark,
while I was just a wishing I
would hear old Ringo bark.
Mama lit the keorsene lamp
and started slicing bread.
"I should have told him Christmas
could be late."  I think she said.
But then I heard old Ringo bark
and saw my mama smile.
I knew I'd hear my daddy at
the back door in a while.
That horse of daddy's brought him
safely home through blowing storm.
He said that he was glad to be
back home where it was warm.
Then he said he'd met a stranger
while on his homeward way.
He recognized old Santa Claus
by reindeer and red sleigh.
Santa said he would be happy
to lighten up his pack
and be obliged if Daddy would 
relieve him of plump sack.
Brother and I went to our beds
to wake to a surprise
from Santa Claus, whom our daddy
had seen with his own eyes.

Joyce Johnson

Posted in Cowboy Poetry Bar D Ranch Christmas 2004


Details | Narrative | |

The Fishin Trip


The old campfire was pleasant as we sat by its flame.
   Talking about how things have changed, hardly anything stays the same.
Talking about the price of gas, now that got a rise.
    How you used to could fill up a tank for a ten dollar bill, that brought tears to old 
Bobs eyes.
Bob said he’s about ready to buy him a horse and be done with it.
   I said Bob you wouldn’t even know which end of the horse to put the saddle on, 
let alone make it fit.
He said yeah like you would, reckon I wouldn’t but least I know where to poke the 
key.
   That got him tickled and he said you’re probably right, can’t you just picture me?
Old Jake finally had to put his two cents in, he said Bob get you one of them 
hobby horses ride that to town.
    Well I could see old Bob getting a little agitated, he chunked some more wood 
on the fire and gave Old Jake a frown.
Bob said to heck with horses, gasoline and all that other bull, let’s talk about fish.
   Bob declared, bet I catch the biggest & probably the most, me and Jake pop off 
about the same time, don’t you wish.
I said you know what guys we’re going to sit here all night blabbering and ain’t 
none of us gonna feel like wettin a hook tomorrow.
   As we decide to turn in old Bob says, dang I forgot my piller either one of you 
got an extra I could borrow.
Goodnight guys, busy day tomorrow, get your rest.
   Come six o’clock tomorrow evening, we’ll see whose catch is the best.