Alone figure stands,
On sunsets rock.
Summers hot breezes brush,
Against bare skins flesh.
Stalking the ageless path.
Behold histories Indian brave,
Man, and horse intertwined.
Symbiotic beings joined,
They are one.
The spirit rider gallops,
Across freedoms trail.
Cautiously, allying arrow unto bow,
Aiming swiftly his shot to kill.
Guardian’s raging bull charges,
Protectors sacrifice, blood mingles,
Amongst dust clouds aftermath,
His majesty lies slain.
Dark brown eyes close,
Glimpsing blue sky for the,
Heavens prairies, welcome destiny's,
The hunter kneels beside the giant's,
Giving thanks, singing chants rise,
Ascending heights greener,
Pastures unto a higher plain.
It echoes in valleys deep,
Touching the lands of his,
Tonight beneath flames tribal fires,
Rhythms beating drums, gives praise,
Many shall celebrate, feasting,
In memories tribute,
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I squint my eyes from the glaring sun
As I drive cattle across the open range.
I am the youngest hand, so I ride drag
Covered by the dust stirred into the wind.
This is the life I have chosen
To hear the steady creaking of my saddle
The songs of the cowboys as they lead the herd
The lowing cattle as they smell water.
This is the life I live
To see the endless stretches of prairie
The hens and rabbits scuttling away
The ponderous beasts flowing in a living stream.
This is the life I love
Watching the horses graze peacefully at night
The cattle milling about during my night ride
My horse's gentle breathing as I circle them.
May this be my lot while here I remain
May I drink from the freely flowing streams
And breathe the pairie air until I die.
Whether life be short or long
May I ever onward toil, and be content
With the satisfaction of honest work
With the steady pounding of hooves
Biscuits and chili by a wavering fire
And sleeping under the sky on the open range.
In a horse life.We can play with a burlap feed
bag, an empty milk jug, or chew on the barn stall
door.Just to kill some time, or to kill some every
day bordom.In a horse life.We get names like
Black Beauty, Flicka, Seabiscuit, or Secretariat.
In a horse life.We do tricks like bowing our heads
down, or placing our shoe upon a pedastool.Picking
up the cowboy hat.While tapping our feet rata-tat-tat.
In a horse life.We like a good block of salt.With lots
of minerals, to lick upon.A wholesome bale of hay.To
start off a brand new day.Or a bucket of grain.To keep
us all healthy, fat, and sane.And a fresh bucket of water,
to wash it all down.In a horse life.I could be losing a
horseshoe.While the rider is losing his mind.In a horse
life.We can be a workhorse, a race horse, or a trick pony.
Or maybe a showhorse, or possibly a circus horse.With
out all the phoney baloney.In a horse life.We can run all
day in the open sun, or run the race trak.While the betters
place their wagers.Of course, at the horse racing track
betters window.In a horse life..
A Horse Life Poem by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2011,2014..All rights reserved.
They Hang Horses, Don't They?
Once a strange structure appeared in a barn yard
difficult not to notice
A scaffold to hang horses
for throwing their masters
Dumb and never protesting
they were led up the ramp
built like a stairway to heaven
There was never any
last minute salvation
No 'Pegasus' wings that
sprouted from the withers
Hooves crossed on the chest
each was duly blest
and I wonder if each
mistook the noose for
a lasso around its neck
With one somb're bell a'ringing
The hangman pulled the lever
'There are no last minute requests
for horses being executed'
Justice done again?
yet it seems
in the equine world
hanging has served
as no deterrant
Inherant in all horses
is an urge to
throw their masters.
She was four years old
Apples in bulging pockets from garden trees
Cold day in autumn
Stroll down to Paddy Sands’s horse pasture
Stop at five-bar gate and lift her up
Call or whistle - they come from a half-kilometre
Black, brown mares, one gelding
Jealous one tries to bite the others
Jostling for position at the gate
All those soft soft noses.....
They will permit stroking
If fed enough handfuls of grass
Grass tastes better from our hands
Than when cropped by them,
(Especially with tiny flowers of blue vetch).
Their big brown eyes close up
So peaceful and trusting
Tempting furry ears just out of reach for her
Turning cold now after half an hour
Spoil them with our apples before we go home
Show her how to hold back her thumb
So it doesn’t get bitten.
Walk home through Sands’s cropped hayfield
To tea and biscuits.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Carol Brown's Contest "A Horse Story"
In Australian vernacular
he was a ‘flea-bitten’ grey.
Not dappled like a dream horse
but speckled like a rock and not a
fine large horse like Tom Cable’s
Dad, had traded for him- two rolls of barbed wire
and a fence strainer. He came with a used saddle
and bridle and the high spirits of
the seldom ridden.
Before he would let us mount him, Dad
knew he had to take the 'curry' out of him.
Rode him hard, through a ploughed paddock.
Rode him until he stood in a foaming sweat
ears sideways, subdued.
I can’t forget being led, those first few rides
“Don’t let go of his head, Dad” I’m not ready
yet,” and I knew the horse sensed the trembling
in my being, until one day his bone- jarring trot
became a solved puzzle.
I felt a gathering- a sense of balance between the
pony’s mouth, the stirrups and the reins
and from a secret fulcrum
I was posting, “Let him go now, Dad”
I shouted, and my heart and soul were
floated to some rhythmic magic.
Around the homestead once and back
I pulled the reins, “Whoa boy!”
That first halt, obeyed, filled my head
for days and days.
A little rosy girl rested 'neath an apple tree.
Her sleep, sound in the blissful breeze.
Beside her lay on the grass,
Her blue felt hat with a golden ribbon.
Near her grazed her white shaggy horse.
She was a small prissy lady,her name was Snowflakes.
Her foretops flopped over her beautiful face,
Her tail rippled like silk.
Chomped happily on the ripe apples that dropped
Or munched some sweet daisies;
Violets bloomed throwing a bluish hue,
Across the downy meadow green...
She loved the feel of softness
Of the grass around her feet;
The wind fingering through her locks,
And through the leaves.
She nuzzled the girl on her cheek,
With her soft velvet nose;
Waking her from her dreams.
The girl picked some daisies to flower her hat
With some primroses to make a posy.
And got on her horse, no bridle-no rein,
Holding on lightly to the horse's flowing mane,
Trotted off into the blue haze of lea.
6th place in the contest
For Carol Brown's Contest : "A Horse Story"
Hot sun on my back, leaning over the horse trough,
scrubbing the green slim off the sides.
The edge burns my hands and arms as I look for a hold,
Finally cooling the rim with water from the pump.
The bouquet from the trough instantly painted a familiar picture
Of hot, still summer lakes,
Sitting under ancient willows,
Fishing for what ever small life would sacrifice itself to a young fisherman.
Water bugs scoot around the tall grasses ringed with green algae.
Teased by a breeze, willow fingers wrap around a daydream.
One of conquering its mighty branches, with tree houses and rope swings,
While crawdads keep stealing the bait.
The water is clean and clear and cool again.
With memories of her own, my horse pays homage to my work
By burying her face in the trough up to her eyes,
And blowing bubbles out of her nose.
(Some warm nostalgia for a cold winter day.)
Carry me away,
Over the river,
Across the bay
To the sandy beach
Where i can play.
Carry me away,
Over the seas
To the forest trees
Where i can watch
The tiger cubs play.
Carry me away,
To artic snow
Where the cold wind blows
Where i can watch
The polar bears play
Carry me away,
To golden sands
In far away lands
Where the seas are blue
And i can play all day
One morning I awoke to find
in soft garden shadows
mythical, unicorn, hoof prints
How I imagined its perfect form;
a magical horse with a spiraled horn
stepping through a pink mist
into my garden at dawn
I decide I will hide
where the first light
slants through the trees
my heart all aflutter,
waiting to see this miracle.
A rustle of leaves-
I hold my breath -
ready to face
Oh! Disbelief! What do I see?
But two horse shoes attached to sticks
and father planting mythical hoof prints
Quiet as a fae I steal away
and later with wonder, I softly say
"A unicorn has strayed, Pa Pa-
into our garden today."