Best Hoofbeats Poems
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 secret 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.
12-25-18
© Connie Marcum Wong
Poem of the Day April 4, 2016
Categories:
hoofbeats, adventure, fairy, fantasy, horse,
Form:
Narrative
Watching old newsreels sadness washes over me
Highstepping horses, gentle eyes transformed in fear
valiantly charging under men that could not yield
Amid the noise of cannons, over the death-filled battle-field ,
sides flecked with foam, so far from home,
somehow they know how desperate is this final charge
hoofbeats pounding, hearts bursting, falling in their stride
Now the faded image shows a glory past and gone
Yet we must remember them and how their courage shone
Lest we forget the horses, or the majesty of them
In solemn re-enactment we must remember them
And grant a special place in paradise where they can roam.
Written for the Australian war horses that went overseas
and never returned
Some Paradise Where Horses Go Poetry Contest
Michelle Faulkner
Placed 4th.
Categories:
hoofbeats, appreciation, eulogy, freedom, history,
Form:
Ballade
Slowly she climbs aboard
through darkness of shadows cast
her noble steed awaits
anticipating the joy of being ridden
through valleys and mountains
full moons glaring upon howling wolves
through waterfalls of sensual pureness
one can hear the breath of hoofbeats
always she rides at night
afraid of false impurities
never understanding
she glows in the dark.......
when you love somebody, nothing should ever be hidden, especially that which
you give unto each other....Peace
Categories:
hoofbeats, life, love, people, sensual,
Form:
Free verse
When last we spoke
An image came
This latest journey
The latest challenge
That will test
The strength of
Our RESOLVE to
Build upon the love
Begun long ago
Now re-inspired
Hesitant at first like the
Faltering steps of a foal in spring
Struggling to stand
Kicking up its heels
Now thundering hoofbeats
Racing toward an
Ever closer
finish line
Two hearts then
Pierced
By arrows from
A Cupid’s bow
Souls now merged by
Love in overflow
Categories:
hoofbeats, age, desire, destiny, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
Ood
Is this sound
From not too far afield
Like mist
Between late dusk and early moonrise
Past quarter of six.
You might not know
It is something unforeseen:
Even as I collect the bad habits
I bear not to keep
Through my sobs, it is that screams.
Strange this is,
Of what I cannot name in the things I hear:
Noise of metals against metals, oft-rhymed sighs
And battle cries, each false note of guns and gongs I overheard: these be not
It.
Is it your footsteps
Of where seek?
Or the reek of its absence
Onto this shore of a bloodbath,
That, set my pulse to skip
Abeat?
Could it be my sweatdrops
Like hoofbeats
Pattering this tin shield
Time of the same?
Or, is it just my heart
Thumps against my ribcage
Which is almost,
But not quite, sharp enough to hurt
Whose beats howl
Nothing but your name?
Author's Note:
*gong - a large bronze disk, of Asian origin, having an upturned rim, that produces a
vibrant, hollow tone when struck, usually with a stick or hammer that has a padded head.
P.S The poem is inspired by the Battle of Maktan in 1521
between the Spanish conqueror: Ferdinand Magellan and the fierce Datu of Maktan:
Lapu Lapu.
Categories:
hoofbeats, love
Form:
Free verse
It really puzzles me when it comes to how
humans process and react to circumstances,
for instance, 300 girls are kidnapped by
lowlife cowardly terrorists, while the world
community sits back and says, " oh what a
shame". Well im sorry words of outrage do not
take action, people who care take action and
deliver on their words. Their is current
technology that can find these cowards and
expert soldiers highly trained for extraction
missions, and precision snipers who can kill
up to a mile away, yet bombings, kidnappings,
and threats from these cowards continues so
blatantly its like they are laughing at the rest
of the world. If i was a younger man i would
go myself and do what i could, but the
pounding of my hoofbeats for a sixty year old
man just wont cut it .
When is enough enough, when will people
rise up and quit voicing and start marching.
When Hitler tried to conquer Europe and
slaughter The Jewish nation the world
declared war on him. He was a terrorist. When
the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor the US
immediately declared war and took action.
Nobody wants a war but war is necessary
when you have tyrants and terrorists who
think they can have their way with no
consequences. Write your MP, your member
of Congress and tell them enough is enough.
Do nothing and things will continue as they
are. Rise Up!
Categories:
hoofbeats, march
Form:
Narrative
Last night
I heard hoofbeats
wild dreams
today next door
a wooden kennel
Categories:
hoofbeats, dream,
Form:
Tanka
Horseman
Canter
Equine
Panter
Hoofbeats
Thumping
Mammal
Jumping
Eat dust
So long
Fastest
Furlong
Categories:
hoofbeats, animal, horse, sports,
Form:
Footle
The war was finally over,
so Parsley, Sage, Rosemary
and Thyme were all waiting
in anticipation by the clover,
standing in the town square
all dressed up to the nines,
wearing their bodice gowns and
bonnets trimmed with lace and ribbons,
and talking amongst themselves
while looking at the clock tower time,
finally hearing the sound
of trotting horses hoofbeats,
while the soft beating of
their heartbeats steadily increased,
their men in uniforms riding
up and quickly disembarking,
running up to their ladies while
they all cried and hugged one another,
the ladies searching their
brave mens eyes and faces,
looking for signs of war,
signs of scars and anguish,
wondering if their men will
ever be the same,
noticing in their eyes,
the constant look of pain,
slowly walking arm in arm
home with them past the
Yorkshire military war graves,
while they patted their
women's pregnant belly's
in the midst of a spring rain...
Categories:
hoofbeats, baby, death, love, war,
Form:
Light Verse
Prancing proud, the horses come
Hoofbeats loud sound thru the land
Marching to an unseen drum
Beaten by an unseen hand
First a snow white horse drew nigh
Whose rider held an ivory bow
He shot the stars from out the sky
And dealt the sun a fatal blow
Next appeared a horse of red
Its rider raised a scarlet sworde
'Come and see' the Four Beasts said
'Now Peace hath fled from all the world'
Third did come a coal black mare
Its rider carried scales of Gold
Famine struck the thoroughfare
And starveling sons their mothers sold
Last a pale horse did appear
Hell did follow in its wake
Tortured Souls, cold and austere
Nailed their brethren to the stake
Now the solemn church bells sound
Calling all to Midnight Mass
Now the dying gather round
Now the final hours pass
Endless years of toil and flood
Mark the ages from Christ's birth
'When wilt Thou avenge our blood
On them that dwell upon the earth?'
Categories:
hoofbeats, bible, mythology,
Form:
Rhyme
JANUARY 2017 – THE LEADER
Hoofbeats from a strange land,
As cascading Thunder roared,
upon the horse of prosperity,
he rode purposely,
Many embraced him as disciples,
Others laughed and jeered,
A fool has come today,
But his garments are fine,
Not a son of god nor prophet,
But rain in a drought,
For the thirsty,
Who had tasted sand,
A destroyer for others,
ancient dams would fall,
Thunder, blessings, cursing’s,
For The Leader had come,
A Time of fear for her,
A Time of hope for him,
They danced in bitterness,
Why this volatile disunion,
The Leader on his day,
Shouted visions for disciples,
unbelievers swam in confusion,
Many cried and screamed,
Alas,
James Kirk-Wiggins (c) 2017
Categories:
hoofbeats, allegory, political, truth,
Form:
Free verse
These castle walls are cracked and moonlight seeps through, i hug my knees to my chest as
a sob threatens to break out of my throat. My skin is pale and thin; my bones stab through
my skin-nearly breaking it, I would look like a scraggly porcelain doll if I ever looked
in the mirror, but being trapped in this damned place for however long I have no access to
such a luxury.
My eyes are wet, my hair is tangled and knotted-unbrushed for at least three weeks. My
fingers resemble the bone underneath. I hear wolves call from under the ten foot tower, I
shake in my corner and wish to get a nights sleep that I know would never come. The marks
on my back from the whip stings like hell.
My limbs hurt; feeling stretched as if they were pulled by horses. A pain in my skull just
behind my eyes pounds rhythmically like hoofbeats galloping drunkenly on the hard
cobblestone streets of London.
The silver glow of the moon glows brighter as the silver orb centers itself in the sky.
The pain in my limbs grows more intense, the urge to scream in agony is tempting, but I
don't. I should, but do not. It will get me nowhere, and it will not help me. So, I sit in
the corner and suffer silently through such torture. The moon rises higher toward the
center, the pain grows; soon enough, I am unable to hold in the screams.
I scream.
Granted that citizens below can hear me; do they come? Do they wonder what or who could be
enduring such torture and pain? No...they do not. Never have.
I go through this for six centuries, no one looks up at the thin, slanted and dark window.
No one comes clambering, clumsily up the stairs of the tower to where my screams grow
louder and are the dominant instrument in this dark, cobblestone hell. No one comes-some
may wonder, I do not invade their minds-nor have I tried.
But, I fear not that they do wonder, probably are just afraid of what dark, evil creature
awaits them to their death. I am but a nightmare, not exactly a dream, but neither a
nightmare shrouded in shadows and hidden in scraggly, ugly branches like long, clawed
fingernails.
So, yes, I am nothing but what I perceive myself. What others perceive me as, I know not
what to think; I scream, no one comes...yet, my life is lived more for me as I am living
locked up in this hole. Locked up, and suffering. No one to hear me scream.
Categories:
hoofbeats, art, fantasy, passion, sad,
Form:
Epic
It springs like rain on mown grass
Winds murmur over quiet pines
No hoofbeats of horseman lost
No limpid water from deep springs
oasis lift from arid sand.
Barbarian rides past towers without watchman
Deep thunder in mountain thrown up
Footprints of the darkness
stone like starkness
Harrowing & unhalting.
Grand inquisitor, earth's jailhouser
coverned deep and iron ringed
submerged in auto-cage of steal
Far from end and near to nowhere
lifting our heads to the light of God:
Spare my family and friends, thou great
keeper of souls
In its direness and darkness
footprints of light, our bodies taken,
our self retaken,
wastelands of ruins heaped with ash
mea culpa, mea culpa
Categories:
hoofbeats, angst,
Form:
Imagism
Look up at the Eastern sky where the winds blow
Feel the icy fingers that will soon bring whitest snow
Cattle hide in dense groves of trees, lowing pitifully
wanting to go to the barns and find warmth immediately
Soon icicles will hang from roofs like lollipops for kids
Every icy bucket will freeze solid if they have no lids
All the earth holds its breath waiting for the sound
of hoofbeats pulling sleds along the frozen ground
When the wind shifts you can smell the coming of snow
Everything will shine with its perfection all aglow
Caps and mittens, scarves and gloves will be brought out
and you will hear the sound of children's voices as they shout
Make a fire nice and warm, till the heat is there for our toes
Get the tissues ready for those both big and small for their nose
What peace is on the earth when everything it snowy white
Suddenly things have a way of seeming to be all right
Categories:
hoofbeats, january, winter,
Form:
Blank verse
I warned you about Mother telling her stories.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
I warned you about the magic
of golem and djinn,
about lilac walks
and mysterious circuses.
Stranded mice,
abandoned mice,
runaway mice,
unexceptional princesses,
all fodder for the worst sort of daydreaming.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Sisters telling stories in bird language
as they browse bookstores in Paris
and tapestries of tales
told by women who are unicorns
invite all sorts of imaginings,
nothing practical,
all frivolous flights of fancy.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Leave Avalon to lie in the mist,
allow the city of chains
to fall into the abyss,
let wolf-women run
through Rome’s seven hills alone.
Close your ears to Mother’s stories,
cover your eyes so you aren’t ensnared
by the magic of gesture.
Let the story end,
leave the queen encased in crystal
and the flower-maiden weeping
in underground halls;
don’t send the children out
to peek under toadstool and
fern forests for wee wicked folk.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Tell them no,
you’ll not hear the hoofbeats
as the horseman stalks the village,
rabbits don’t wear watches,
mermaids don’t dance,
fillies don’t fly.
Tell the children no,
abandoned princesses don’t wear crowns of stars,
maids don’t marry monsters
in return for a single rose,
they don’t marry the north wind,
they don’t spin dynasties
on outlawed spinning wheels.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
See what comes of Mother’s stories:
the children run wild through the wood
seeking musical menageries,
they wade into seaside caves
singing for selkies.
They ask for tales told
by orphaned princesses
hiding in palace gardens
and songs sung by shieldmaidens.
They want stories
of women made of glass
and sagas sung by lionesses,
princesses who save miners’ sons
and princesses who save themselves.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
No good will come of Mother’s stories,
I said,
and now all is topsy-turvy
and the children have run off
to the goblin market.
Categories:
hoofbeats, books, childhood, fantasy, gothic,
Form:
Free verse