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Sestina Horse Poems | Sestina Poems About Horse

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

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Details | Sestina |

Death Undignified, Fort Laramie 1860

The summer sun was high. The heat was oppressive.
The whalebone corset dug into the body's tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touching the pane
of dearly brought glass, I feel the vibration of the incoming riders.
The weak blue sky pales, and clouds over with the dust. 
Children playing at hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.

Inside Fort Laramie’s provisioner, Mrs. Dreary’s dropped plate clatters.
Outside the general store, a thunder of hoofs race pell-mell through heat oppressive.
“Indians,” the children scream, running through the miasma of dust.
Folks in wagons and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
The shopkeeper’s wife runs up the back stairs. Her baby screams in pain.

Arrow flights buzz by shattering shop window panes.
The indians leap from horse back to tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary reaches for his Sharp shooter and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display, a mundane oppression.
Dreary slams shut the door. The shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git away from that window now! Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”

My eyes, now black and hollow as a barn owls, tear, full of dust.
“Damn heathens” Mr. Dreary cusses. Bullets clip through the broken pane.
Pulling me behind, opening the useless glass door. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls backward, landing beside me, spurs clattering.
The wee baby screams again and I turn to see Mrs. Dreary's oppressive
grip on the child. “He’s dead.” She says grabbing the Sharp. She kills a rider.

The arriving soldiers chase the mongrel band of heathen riders.
Mrs. Dreary, babe in one arm, Sharp in the other, kicks the fallen marble in the dust.
She walks through the door, out of one carnage into another type of oppression,
the soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and a soul is parted.

Falling with blind numbness, forward, down, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the incoming riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departing in the days dust.
My open mouth fills with the rancid, taste of pain.
“How improper,” was my last lucid thought, oppressive.

The clatter of hoofs rocks my parting
The oppression of man against man leaves with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remains.

Poet: Debbie Guzzi



Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010


Details | Sestina |

The Legendary Wild West

Back in the days, when men bold,
spun golden legends;
of exploits in the wild west;
of punch-in and herd-in cows
and saloon brawls where they’d shoot
and scores of bullets roared.

Stories of the Iron Horse’s roar
and gunfighters and marshals, bold;
Of gamblers, who’d go shooting
for the stars in cards; those were feats of legend.
Days when plains of cows,
fur-painted the landscape of, the old west.

These are the breed that won the west,
as across the plains, the Iron Horse roared.
those are the backs worn, herding cows;
the exploits of the brave and bold.
those brave and haggard legends
made of silver spurs and pearl-handled shooters.

You’re darn toot-in, shoot’in
like that, was what won the west.
While the Iron Horse died, its legend
lives on, belching out its roar,
across the plains, so bold.
Still, cowboys herd and rope their cows.

Modern day cowboys, herding cows
by truck and shootouts 
no longer ring so boldly.
Wild no more, is the west,
where now, only cars and planes roar.
Yet, there still live the legends.

They aren’t as great, these new legends, 
but it doesn’t phase the cows.
They calmly graze, amid the airplanes roar.
Though one may say, “shoot,
it’s spoiled now”, the legends live on, in the west, 
of heroes brave and bold.

The west will always, have its legends, Though trains no longer roar.
Cowboys will always rope their cows, as they did in the old, wild west.
Upon museum walls, stories of the shootouts,
are told; of ancient heroes brave and bold.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sestina |

Death Undignified

The summer sun was high. The heat was oppressive.
A whalebone corset dug into my body's tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touches the pane
of dearly brought glass it vibrates with the hoof-beat of riders.
The weak, blue-sky pales, clouding over with the dust. 
Children playing hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.

Inside Fort Laramie’s provisioner, Mrs. Dreary's dropped-plate clatters.
Outside, a thunder of hoofs race pell-mell through heat, oppressive.
“Indians!” Children run through the street's miasma of dust.
Folks in wagons and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
The shopkeeper’s wife babe in arms runs up the stairs, baby screams in pain.

Arrow flights buzz by shattering the shop's window panes.
The Indians leap from horse back to tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary reaches for his Sharp shooter and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display, a mundane oppression.
Dreary slams shut the door, shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git away from that window! Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”

My eyes, now black and hollow as a barn owl's, tear, full of dust.
“Damn heathens,” Mr. Dreary cusses as bullets fly through broken panes.
He pulls me behind him and opens the useless glass door. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls back, landing beside me,his spurs clattering.
The baby screams again. I turn to see Mrs. Dreary's oppressive
grip on the child. “He’s dead.” She says grabs the Sharp and kills the next rider.

The soldiers finally arrive and chase the mongrel band of riders.
Mrs. Dreary, babe in one arm, Sharp in the other, kicks the marble in the dust.
She walks through the door, out of one carnage into another type of oppression,
the soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and a soul is parted.

Falling with blind numbness, forward, down, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departing in the day's dust.
My open mouth fills with bile and the rancid taste of pain.
“How improper,” was my last lucid thought, truly oppressive.

A clatter of hoofs rocks my parting.
The oppression, of man against man leaves, with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remain.


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011