Narrative Horse Poems

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 |
The woods were silent except for the shifting 
soft sounds of his hooves as they fell upon 
the forest floor. There he stood amid the mist in 
his white majestic coat calling to me to come 
to him and ride upon his back, vanish with him,
(as the sun lay dying into quiet shades of twilight)
into an unknown sacred realm where no 
one's footsteps could follow.

I stroked his soft warm velvet nose and felt the 
subtle flair of his nostrils breath on my hand.
When I climbed upon his back we rode 
as one as our love and trust in each other 
had slowly grown into a synergy unsurpassed.
Moonlight filtered through the verdant trees
as darkness enveloped the starry sky.
Suddenly we found ourselves in a glade
where we were surrounded by the soft glow
of tiny faeries as numerous as fireflies.

We were warmly welcomed into their sacred 
sanctuary and I felt enchanted by their sylvan 
beauty as two tiny faeries braided long strands 
of my golden hair, intertwining fragrant flowers.
I was asked if I would help to keep the forest
safe from clear cutting, and I promised I would.
I awoke to the faint sound of hoofbeats as dawn
was rising and there were pretty flowers in my hair.

© Connie Marcum Wong
Poem of the Day April 4, 2016

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
The Anatomy of a Horse (written for children)

Horse's feet have a hoof, the hard part which he can pound, 
back of this is his frog, bottom part that stays off the ground.
Between his hoof and his leg is a coronet, not like a crown
it blends into the pastern the start of his leg, now don’t frown.

Next is his fetlock, sort of an ankle, not a real lock.
Horse's rear ankle turns backwards and that it is called his hock.
His fetlock has a callous called an ergot,  can you see?
Then comes his harmless cannon, just below his hock or knee. 

On the front leg, it's a knee between forearm and cannon
His hind leg has a hock which joins gaskin to his cannon.
His elbow in the front and his stifle in the back, no fibs,
connect his upper legs to his barrel which is our horse's ribs.

Topside of the barrel, where a rider sits, twixt tail and head, 
highest part of horse's rump is called a croup instead. 
The dock is the soft part from which grows his tail, what the heck;
above his high shoulders are withers, right beneath his neck. 

Behind his ears is a part called his poll, close to his brain?
From his poll, hair makes a forelock, back down his neck, a mane.
We’ve finally reached his head and the last part, called his muzzle,  
his jaw, his nose and mouth.  A horse can be quite a puzzle. 

written October 28, 2016 for Shadow's contest, Horses

Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
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 ?"


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

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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 

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

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011

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'With these vows the two shall become as one.'

On December 15th. 1971
we decided to fill our wedding day 
 with  a shared passion.
Our love of horses and the romance 
of a horse drawn carriage.
My intended- for years- had preserved his grandfather's  
old sulky, just for the love, of what it stood for. 
We set about a full restoration. First to find 
an upholsterer who could restore 
the aged,  buttoned leather seat 
and to search all the old sheds around 
for a missing candle lamp. So much still needed,
a  leather horse collar, not to mention a harness
and long leather, sulky reins.

We had all the old horsemen from all around the district
offering us  advice - some joking some strict.
Be sure to throw the wooden wheels into a dam to soak
for a week so the wood swells into the steel rims, "Otherwise,
those rims will roll right away,  as soon as you  get going."

Well, the sulky was all finished shiny and ready to roll
without a horse to pull it.  We tried to break a quiet
piebald but Patches wanted nothing to do with it.
Wild eyed at what she sensed was behind her
she bucked and with her panicked hooves tattooed 
the wooden baseboard.  No- one knew of a horse 
these days that was broken to harness- 
except, of course, the Gillen's retired pacer, "Little Rocket.

The big day came and I painted her hooves shiny black,
attached a white feather plume to her forelock bridle strap.
Everyone joked, " When they ring the church bells,
she'll do the bell lap."
An old trusted friend and former rodeo rider drove me 
Little Rocket delivered me to the church in one piece.
The townspeople turned out and lined the main  street.

I'll never forget in the Butcher's shop the next day,
another customer recognized me and told me  a funny tale.
Her little three year old saw me going past and called,
 "Mum, come quick. There a woman going past in a cart 
with something - on her head." 

Still together after forty five years those fond memories
 bind our loving hearts.   When the best man in his speech
announced, " I was the only bride he knew who  had
spent more time - getting the horse ready
than on  herself."

March 7th. 2016

Not for contest
Couldn't do it in 14- 24 lines.

Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
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

Copyright © Patrick Cornwall | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
"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.

Copyright © Adam Adhistian | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
Big hands taxied me up
to the seat
I took for a cradle

on a back already bent
and filled with rutted lines and bite scars,
his hair was still brown
but in spots, 
where the skin panicked for cover,
age sprang up like the General’s venerable gray

and He stood there laughing with the crows
about how regal I looked
with a toy whip in one hand

but how I looked 
   was unimportant
as we moved my smell bled through
and two aggressive rings flared
and figured me out-
a few more feet and I could feel the unsettling shift
of unhappy weight beneath my reach.

So I held fast
to the great Van Dyke brush
(its fibers and bristle 
magnetized from front to back)
with a handle carved
from thick muscle, 
that clung for life to the bones 

but He did not notice
the flex in the gelding’s arcing neck,
and He must have sneezed, or blinked,
through the vital twitch 
that shook 
and dissolved into
hyperbolic, bay curves:

when it upset the Dauphin’s new throne
with a weak kick,
everyone was surprised.

Copyright © Paul Sylvester | Year Posted 2005

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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 
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 
of the apocalypse is nigh at hand

Copyright © Lori Lucas McClure | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
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

Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2011

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They were on the summit of the hill as if poised in a portrait.
The breeze ruffling the stud's forelock and mane as he arched his head
responding to the reins he moved on as his rider leant forward and 
rubbed his poll in affection. Tensed up his withers quivering he sprang into
action careening down the slope pulling up lame. His rider dismounted
and ran his hand down his legs finding some heat in the fetlock. Lifting
his leg he found the cause a stone lodged in his frog, using his hoof
pick he dislodged it thanking his lucky stars that it was not a pulled stifle.
Checking his hind legs for heat in the hocks and gaskin he found all to be well.
He patted his croup in affection and re-examined the front leg still a little heat but his coronet seemed fine. A week's rest should put him right allowing the bruised frog time to heal. It would be tight to keep him fit for their big show in three weeks time but a strained stifle would have put him out of action for at least six weeks. On foot he lead Silver back to the stables and there applied a poultice to his hoof which he would change daily until the frog  recovered, leaving Silver munching happily on hay. He walked into the tack room and replaced his tack and stood admiring the rows of rosettes that lined the walls.. The upcoming show would give him the final proof of how superb he was and then people would flock to bring their mares to him and his line would be perpetuated long into the future. 

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2016

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    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 
     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.)

Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2010

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It was a picture - perfect  cold winter day,
     bathed in white and still snowflakes swirled;
like gauzy curtains crystalline and sparkling, 
          I  put on my boots, jacket, scarf and gloves.

And stepped out into a winter wonderland,
     the barn was a soft golden haze of smells;
and my horse, Black, snorted hello from his stall,
          I kissed his muzzle, his neck and soft mane.

Murmuring words of love- oh he would love this,
     I could see us galloping across the powdery snow;
putting on the saddle his withers quivered excitement,
          he nudged me with his head and I laughed at him.

I was walking him out of the barn when I noticed,
     he was limping on his left back leg somewhat;
I put my hand on him, sliding it down his body, 
     and legs, he shifted when I reached his knees.

I was worried and continued my slow inspection,
     touching gently his lower leg and his ankle, 
Black, tossed his head when I lifted up his hoof,
           oh something is there-   no riding for Black!

                        I go backside to call the vet . . . .

October 15, 2016


Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
     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. 
     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-

Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2010

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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)

Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
A man in his field,
Whose heart rumbles fast,
To fear he shall yield,
The echoes of his past,

Of a life he stole,
The innocence he killed,
Deep in his soul,
No longer concealed.

As a sound of thunder,
 Vibrates the ground,
He’s lost in wonder,
At this mysterious sound.

But as the thunder nears,
He knows its course,
Now a vision he hears,
That robed figure upon a pale white horse.

Flowing in the wind,
Is this vision of Death,
Who’s face bears no skin,
And breaths not a breath.

In it’s bony hand,
It wields a scythe,
This soul forever dammed,
Has come for a life.

Grasping a book,
That reads one name,
And the life he took,
Bearing the finger of blame.

It is Death who’s come,
For that lost soul,
It can’t be undone,
There is only one goal.

He tries to hide,
But cannot escape,
Though the fields are wide,
They match his fate,

Death now arrives,
At his final dwelling,
Watching the cries,
Of his silent yelling,

It takes the life,
Of a soul evil tainted,
With that razor scythe,
 Now maroon painted.

Upon the horse he’s tossed,
Without screams or kicks,
Now Death carries him off,
To the river of Styx.

So when thunder does fall,
With that figure you see,
Run or stand tall,
You still can’t flee.

In time it resides,
Feeling no remorse,
It is Death who rides,
Upon the pale white horse.

Copyright © Robert Hood | Year Posted 2006

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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!" 

Copyright © Merv Webster | Year Posted 2005

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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

Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2010

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A Horse and ale 

The brewery had many horses to carry crates of beer
around to small shops and each horse and its driver was assigned a route
The horse I liked was shiny black it had been used for funerals before
but over the years got a bit broad hipped and stomach heavy. 
The horse knew the route and stopped outside the grocer`s and waited while 
the driver unloaded crates of beer.
The horse sometimes had an erection thinking of a favourite mare a bit
strange animals only know one way and askew foreplay 
The driver usually had a bottle of beer at each shop and when 
the round was done he was in a merry mood and sometimes fell asleep but
the horse knew the way. 
After unharnessing the beast, he brushed its coat checked the hooves and
for the horse, the highlight of the day, gave it a big slice of bread.
So long ago there had been a devastating war Jews immigrated to Palestine
and got a piece of land they called Israel, we believed what the papers said 
the persecuted people deserved a homeland we did not reflect that it was.
A historic injustice had befallen the Palestine people and echo that will not 
stop before the real Semites get their land back 

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2016

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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…
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

Copyright © Amy Green | Year Posted 2010

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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 
  on my way i can ribe a black and white horse running throw the dark green and forest with 
monsters and crichers of any 
 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 
 my jounry will be fun any even thow it will be dangers and sacry but very fun just to find 
nothiing but  natures beatiy.

Copyright © kayla morrow | Year Posted 2010

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there was a horse
he was standing on course

                                he was standing at the gate
                                thinking he was late

                                                          i asked if i could get him
                                                          so we went in and saw kim

                                           there was already a girl buying 
                                         so i started crying
         then i said ...

                              solong pony
                          i will be lonely

Copyright © brooke s. | Year Posted 2011

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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

Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2009

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Midnight lightning in the sky
Man in black he passes by
It seems to me he is out of place
With the look of death upon his face

Can't see his eyes, no soul inside
Although he walks, he is not alive
Followed by a pale white horse
The one called death, he holds his course

The demons gather about his feet
Thunder abates, the lightning streaks
For the hand of death, one soul he seeks
As he paces, paces down the street

The fog it creeps, it settles in
In front of a home, his search it ends
In the still of night, a breath of wind
He climbs on his steed and rides again

Did you hear the small child cry? 
As it took first breath of life? 
One he lives, and one he dies
As away on a pale white horse he rides. 


Copyright © Bill Simmons | Year Posted 2005

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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 
   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.

Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2007

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With his old hat cinched firmly on his head.
    He pulled his six gun and let loose its deadly lead.
Just one shot was usually all it ever took.
    As he holstered his six gun and gave his victim just one final look.
The reputation of a killer it follows everywhere.
    Most towns had rules that wouldn’t allow his kind to come there.
It wasn’t really a life he had chosen it just happened that way.
  He was forced to fight or die this new game he learned so well how to play.
Cherokee Bill was the first man that forced him to kill.
    Sixteen years old when Cherokee dared him at will.
Cherokee tossed him a rusty old six gun and said now here is the deal.
    He said I’m faster than lightning and it’s your life I’m after and aimin to steal.
He was my first and from there it’s been simply hell.
    Fighting and killing and those hard nights spent in those jails.
He said he wished he could stop it but he knows of only one way.
   And as long as I’m able or find a better life here I’ll stay.
He unhitched his old pony and rode off that cold wintery day.
    Rumor has it you can’t kill him cause he has no soul is what people say.
They say he’s akin to the devil and he rides the death horse.
    But I saw him kill and it was done and he did it all with no remorse.
His eyes were so cold like they could see and not feel.
    When he rides into your town there will be a new soul he’ll be looking to steal.

Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2007

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The unexpected heavy thud
of netted hay on solid wood.
My horses snort and sigh and chew,
as glistening cobwebs sway with dew. There is comfort in their rhythmic chomp, on seeing me they grunt and stomp. Stamping an insistent need for feed,
all eyes upon me fixed by greed.
I mix the chaff, the beet, the grain,
as stable gates take up the strain
of thick set chest and plunging neck while I do bend to their call and beck. Our daily ritual now in full swing,
the rubber skips I'll lift and bring
'till steady chomp and grind return,
in the warm sweet smelling peace I yearn.

Copyright © Horse Farmer | Year Posted 2018

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Beauty and elegance…style and grandeur 
There is no other beast with such magical lure
Their speed and agility moves them out ahead
For this single objective…they’re selectively bred
To reach for the finish…past all other foes
Locked in a dead heat…they race nose to nose
Aggressively struggling to stay in the lead
As each jockey’s grip firms on his avid young steed

Then out from the pack there’s a closer on fire
A maiden obsessed with a goal to aspire 
Her hoofs pound the ground with her nostrils a’flare
The crowd jumps to their feet to see which horse is where
A stretch runner giving one heck of a show
On the bit with such ease toward the home stretch she goes
Then crossing the line while all faces turn blue
As the mare “Least Expected” makes her winner’s debut…

Copyright © Deborah Bell | Year Posted 2018