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Prose Poetry Horse Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Horse

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Only Friend

In the iron grey days of the 1950's change changed everything, good or bad,
Tom, who was the local coal-man for this area, a hard man of steel but kind,
He tried to speak but no words would come, he just pointed, on to the road,
Following his gesture, outside was a new motor lorry for his rounds, no horse.

In broken and heart wrenching sobs, he said, they had taken away my old horse,
He's been sold to another firm and I will never see him again, he's gone away,
Tom loved that horse, his life was built around it, morning evenings, weekends,
In his own time Tom would trim and groom that horse, it was his closest friend.

They never said me that my dearest friend was going I had no time to say goodbye,
He's probably in a new place now waiting for me to come and take him back home,
I know that horse he is my only family, I bet he is really worried he will so sad
He probably thinks I have deserted him because I don't love him that's not true.

I bet he is in a stable, his big brown eyes moist looking around all the time,
Any door that opens he will think it is me, he will be excited then really hurt,
He will miss our long talks together in the evenings he used to nod his long face,
He will be in a panic, like me, waiting for his dad who will never see him again.

A strong man who carried tons of coal everyday he had no family only his horse,
Brought up in a state run home never lucky enough to be picked by any families,
His horse was his friend who new all of Toms deepest secrets, tears and sorrows,
Tom left his new lorry where it stood, with heart wrenching sobs he walked away.
I watched him go, there was nothing I could say there was a painful lump in my throat.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Survival of the Fittest

—the journey of a herd of mustangs in a picture on the wall—

The story begins with two stallions at the water’s edge, facing each other.  When one of the stallions irritated, impatiently hits the surface of water with his hoof, the splashes of the water fly all over in the air as if it’s a declaration of merciless war. Then a ghastly fight has begun between two of them. They bite, kick, and wrestle each other in the shallow water to defeat one another. Each time one attacks his opponent, they raise high in the air with hind legs, they shake their gorgeous manes and necks, their muscle quake, and the blood spouts out from their shoulders.

After the long and bloody fight is over and the one who lost in battle draws back, the victor marches in triumph to the herd of mustangs. Nevertheless, the high and intermittent background music and splashing wavelets on the water’s edge scenery introduce the tension and suggest ever-ending darkness to come. They run down the stream while pushing each other as if they were compelled by the fate, which is invisible, or to say that they were driven by some evil but absolute power that is unavoidable.  They pass through the deserted field; they swim to cross the rushing stream as if silvery dolphin in the water; they strut through the fog as if they were Pegasus galloping on the cloud; they even dash through the blazing fire like the Phoenix rising from cold ashes. The victor, now, dives into bottomless water before his many followers for a long journey; yet, the destination unknown.       


Details | Prose Poetry | |

PARTS OF YOU

UNINTEGRATED YOU

Hello parts of you,
I can see you’re 
Standing, wondering and
Pondering the use of limbs 
That would caress and 
Enclose or
Push away
And urge the many
To the fray
Where horses
Fire manes and 
Whips 
Lost in canyons
Of misty delusions
Turn in the dark and 
Huddle together,
Waiting for a 
Rider whose 
Mind is set on
A path definitive.
Yet the froth on
The coats of 
Tiresome colts 
Say something else,
And look 
To golden afternoon light,
Stop for a moment, 
Breath all steamy and rising,
Before gambolling away 
Into the early night,
Spirits unbridled and 
Tempers alight.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXTitles11

 
Inches make feet without inches there is no foot without beginnings there is no work without measure there is no dearth without a ruler there is no worth there must be rules and there are rules but eye will let them all apply to them my enemies at work and never eye. The horse runs well it has a heart so then they fill syringes from the start to inject the muscles of the neck to make the beast faster than the wind oh heck the animal is dead it never hit the ground but flew too fast and lost the race and life. Desert life is winterless but not without some weather life the sun is always shading and the water is found in sub altern placing near the animals for killing under the ledge of apprehension near the fire of desperation comes the frog and toad and watercrest nut sandwiches. Eye had been to the desert on a horse with no namme it felt good to be out of the rain. Voices come out at me from the air into mye membrain eye call it Disraeli musick it is usually someone in the area with a boom box or even cars with the windows rolled down can be the culprits they hound me when eye am hicking place to place. There is other answers to the crazxy place eye hear noises mad mostly by people in the other cubicles the walls are just invisible the talking is allowed. The thief cannot sneak in sneakers they squeak like he is sweating in his shoe laces. This brings me to mye priority eye. The reason that no one wants to be a Detective is the movies the guy may have had DAMES by the score but he had fights and was so sore the men were ruthless and left him spinning on the side of every road. The streets of New Nuevo York has gum shoe on them. The American idea of Indians and wampum has brought us to the test of food in rest or rants of foreign style they smile and bring the menu back to make certain that the orders write the man has pointed several times at five bills a whack. One from Column A and 2 from Column B brings us to a bill of $23. Well eye wanted some meat too but you are so expansive. Rice and curry hot mustard radishes. Try finding food in the summer time how careful now that eye a homeless one should be then tossing caution to the winding blowing wind when it seems only wrapped so tightly to keep flies at night away. To feed myself is easy to offer some to others almost impossible a few times eye have asked to share they slide that nostril in the air and leave the food to the one that found it in the lair of tossed and discarded things the general city the loose leaf cabbage so nicely adds a bite to the membrain of mye priority eye. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damp Enthusiasm Of A Work Horse

They caught us young,
Doing just about nothing,
Minutes after the schooling hour,
As though naivety was born of middle age,
Bronzed by the sun and the glee,
Of the summer reign,
Pouring down the clarity of havened silk,
Across unsoiled pores,
That now hang like bags,
Of black ash from my cheekbones,

The damp enthusiasm of a work horse,
And the eggs it's laying,
Repetitive in the strain of syndrome,
As Cycles Repeat,
Those with all my money,
Have heavenly retreats,

I'm worshiping the deutschmark,
Whilst sipping from my lord's cup,
Winter brings it fragrant skylarks,
So charming and not so corrupt,

Older now but still with spirit,
Vodka being the main ghost,
That haunts and rots at the belly,
Such is the modern dieting tool,
Of the calorie dispensed,
Some days this tie feels like a noose,
We all take turns in hanging from.


Also Published in The Synthesist, Issue 3 (PS Avalon Publishing)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Only Friend

In the iron grey days of the 1950's change changed everything, good or bad,
Tom, who was the local coal-man for this area, a hard man of steel but kind,
He tried to speak but no words would come, he just pointed, on to the road,
Following his gesture, outside was a new motor lorry for his rounds, no horse.

In broken and heart wrenching sobs, he said, they had taken away my old horse,
He's been sold to another firm and I will never see him again, he's gone away,
Tom loved that horse, his life was built around it, morning evenings, weekends,
In his own time Tom would trim and groom that horse, it was his closest friend.

They never said me that my dearest friend was going I had no time to say goodbye,
He's probably in a new place now waiting for me to come and take him back home,
I know that horse he is my only family, I bet he is really worried he will so sad
He probably thinks I have deserted him because I don't love him that's not true.

I bet he is in a stable, his big brown eyes moist looking around all the time,
Any door that opens he will think it is me, he will be excited then really hurt,
He will miss our long talks together in the evenings he used to nod his long face,
He will be in a panic, like me, waiting for his dad who will never see him again.

A strong man who carried tons of coal everyday he had no family only his horse,
Brought up in a state run home never lucky enough to be picked by any families,
His horse was his friend who new all of Toms deepest secrets, tears and sorrows,
Tom left his new lorry where it stood, with heart wrenching sobs he walked away.
I watched him go, there was nothing I could say there was a painful lump in my throat.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trojan Horse

Black and white, in a line

Some are heavy, some are fine

Changing, creeping, cunning

Smoothly, quickly, running

Some are found, some are not

Isn't safe- destroy the lot

 

Poem written about a manual DOS scan to find Trojan virus ;)

 
My  brain is literally just full of poetry. I mean who the hell writes a poem about a Trojan while their computer is scanning?? Me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Old Styles Old Smiles

One fine blustering autumn day an old man puts on his boots pulls up his trousers off he goes,
If anyone wondered where he was going it was to a forest a good long walk it was a fine day,
The old man walked at a leisurely pace stopping every now and again pulling up his trousers,
Looking over fences just to see what the farmer’s men were up to and who was ploughing today.

In his days, the prime of his life, he and his old horse would plough the fields from early morning,
Working through the day stopping for a bottle of cold tea a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese,
The horse had a nosebag and while they rested, eating, the clapper of the bird boy could be heard,
He would work on until the sun went down on a blue horizon and shadows disappeared with the day.

As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry roaming around the farmhouse,
Duck and geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors pecking out the chaff,
And he could hear the flail, or the swipple, knocking the corn, as the bails piled high in the barn,
Happy that all was well he carried on walking, smiling and made his way up to the brow of a hill.

As a young farmer he leaped over stiles and ran in the corn, the land was his workplace and home,
There was no job he could not do or did not enjoy doing, whatever needed doing it had to be done,
His arms were so thick, strong, the farm girls giggled but could not get their hands all the way round,
He used to blush as each girl tried, he was a bit shy, but it made him feel good to be so very strong.

He also stopped at stiles, or a rustic bridge casting its arch over water, fish swam in the shallows
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air, a bonfire in the distance,
After looking all around he wished he had brought some tackle to catch some for his late dinner,
Never mind he thought it’s another day tomorrow I will be up here to fish at the crack of the dawn.

In his young days he was not allowed to fish the river, so in the moonless nights he would poach,
Beautiful brown trout as fresh as a berry from a tree eaten with warm bread a feast fit for a king,
It would not be long before he stopped again getting his breath resting for a few short minutes,
As his lungs filled with the purest of pure air he restarted his country walk and relived his life.

He passed by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from a hedge and took time to pick a few,
And clusters of nuts hanging by the wayside through the copse on his way along a little old lane,
And in all this natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child one more time,
The world moved around but this time backwards he saw the things he used to see as a young boy


Details | Prose Poetry | |

paper buckles 5 - 6

4.
on this spine 
having a mouth of crocodile
always jump down 
the climate     

everyday 
the sunglass changes 

look at the soil and the sky 
no one of them has any body-guard 

the open mouth of the light 
swallows the grey coin 

here the wall becomes more tamed 
the wild jasmine comes nearer to the heart 
and hums 

then ripping open my veins 
should i also vomit the blue elocution 
accumulated on the cock-pit 

after recovery of the flower-mill from fever
the harmonium is being played on  

even introduction with the gas-balloon 
has not been done yet

5.
arrangements are being made
 
the green shirt will gradually 
turn reddish 

the culverts that have become exhausted 
within the travel-format
will get recharged again to sit up straight 

and the hawker will get passed the silent-home 
shouting with undressed coconuts in hands

from the lap of the stand-still rocking-cradles 
of the children-park 
the amaltas will say 
i’m ready 

then to escape the sun-shine 
the boy who comes to attend the private tuition 
will embrace… oh margosa … its your pierced-heart 

you may tell him that the name of the girl 
who is eating guava and swinging her legs 
sitting on its branch is munni 

6.
the horse is running 
just above 3 feet of the yellow cornice
 
his back is full of dreams 
or a girl named miss dorothy  

around it is the mid-night 
around it is the wind that wants to be printed 

and in every corner of its flying 
are hundreds of skirts
  
all are of free-size 

what may be their market-price 
there is no shop-keeper there

in that valley 
a shadow is proceeding on 

do you know whose shadow it is
he is philip the teacher who gets irritated easily
 
this time there is no thin cane 
in his hand 

in the pieces of papers dumped in the waste-box 
under his window there is a manuscript eaten up by the worms 

there is ‘darling’ there 
and ‘yours beloved greta’ 

in which skirt 
a touch of that greta does remain  

is it being searched even today 

is it greta or margaret or eliza  
there is no bar if it is dorothy
 
in whose smell there is no greta 
who has no such horse flying just above three feet 
of the yellow cornice  

each mid-night fills the fountain pen 
with the flow of blue ink 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Great Race June 6, 2015

The Great Race   June 6,2015

Dress is unimportant.
At least today.
I can arrive at the local bar and grill 
in old gardening jeans and t-shirt.

We'll order a mid-afternoon sandwich.
But the main reason is not to eat
(though their sandwiches are fine),  
it's to watch the Belmont Stakes.

We can't call ourselves horse racing fans –
we know almost nothing about horses or racing
and have never bet a dime.
But the excitement around a possible
Triple Crown winner is irresistible.

We're keeping our fingers crossed 
that American Pharaoh, 
winner of the Preakness and Kentucky Derby,
triumphs.

Why are we not watching the race at home?
No cable TV. We miss a lot of major sporting events 
that we once effortlessly watched –
tennis, golf, basketball, baseball, football.

Tournaments which determine the best of the best 
used to be available on the internet. 
No longer. It's pay to watch now,
and we're too cheap to pay.

So it's off for a beer, snack, and the great horse race ...

And an historic race it was.
Not since 1978 has there been a Triple Crown champion –
a long dry period between winners.
American Pharaoh won handily, running with grace and endurance.      

The horse seemed pleased.
The jockey was thrilled.
The trainer was delighted.
And the owners excited.

It's a strange sport though.
The horse did all the work,
while the jockey, trainer and owners
got all the credit.

Those in the know praise the brilliant trainer.
Evidently he is, along with the horse, the best of the best.
Celebrations surely meant champagne all around           
and an extra bag of oats for American Pharaoh.