Best Horses Poems
I Love Horses: A--Z
A is for... Appaloosa. They have
blankets on their rumps.
B is for...Belgian. They work
hard and can pull up stumps.
C is for...Clydesdale. They're
BIG bays with white fluffy feet.
D is for...Dartmoore, a pony
from the moors--so sweet!
E is for...Egyptian, the finest
horse on desert sand.
F is for...Fresian: Big black War
Horse--a Knight's demand.
G is for...Gypsy Vanner, a rare
beauty like fairy tales.
H is for...Hanoverian. The best
all-round from England hails.
I is for...Irish Tinker. A loyal
horse that's black and white.
J is for...Java Pony. He's
Indonesia's working sprite.
K is for...Knapstrup. He's a
horse full of leopard spots!
L is for...Lipizzaner: Grey
leapers known in the Big Tops!
M is for...Mustang. Wild and
Free--roams America's West.
N is for...Nonius: Big-headed
black and drives the best.
O is for...Oldenburg. Dressage
ribbons just get bigger.
P is for...Palomino. Roy Rogers
named his, Trigger.
Q is for...Quarter Horse,
cowboy's fav'rite! Does
Everything!
R is for...Racking Horse. His
ride's so smooth it will make
you sing.
S is for...Spotted Saddle Horse,
Gaited beauty everyone loves.
T is for...Thoroughbred. Racing,
"The Sport of Kings", he does.
U is for...Ukrainian Riding
Horse: Beautiful born after
War's end.
V is for...Vlaamperd: Flemish
black stallion and true friend.
W is for...White (Albino) Horse.
The Lone Ranger's 'Silver'--of
course!
X is for...Xilingol. He's
Mongolia's riding draft horse.
Y is for...Yonagui, a chestnut
pony from Japan.
Z is for...Zebra: African wild
but tamed by man.
A personal therapist long past
the end,
The love of a horse...is the
love... of a Friend.
deborah burch
02.28.2013
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
With 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.
Give Me Your Best James Tate
Contest Judged: 12/1/2016 12:00:00 AM
Sponsored by: Space Cadet
6th Place
100 in a ROW contest -- 8
Contest Judged: 7/30/2016 8:24:00 PM
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A
6th Place
4 White Horses called to me
from across their field on that 1 day
They called my mind to come and see
their everyday scene so...overlooked
The gazes were steady the hearts true
as innocence pulled us together
Their knowledge of my soul was a wondrous feeling of trust...
their warm soft muzzles like velvet in my hands
Though fence between us...
I could feel their wild hearts racing across the plains
Massive white clouds rode the wind past the sun
sweeping shadows over the land like prehistoric birds
The scene calmly arouses memories of peace...of youth...of freedom
I feel a oneness with this land...with this moment...with this dream
I feel a oneness with these creatures so Majestic and Serene
Time could never change their hearts
or even taint their souls
and I could not tear myself away when it was time to go
Deep breath in... Deep breath out
I wished silently that all creatures could be at such peace
on that 1 day
-hope you enjoy this inspiration of a creature that changed my heart
But you—the wild one
You were compulsive, fiery and inventive
I had my share of the wild and free
But you were molded from them—with insane beauty
Despite our differences we remained together
Perhaps you think I mean to save you—tame you
But I merely long to contain the sun
And hinder the pervasive burns
So that in so doing, I may always keep you warm
For cold wild shall destroy
As warm wild shall invent
Searing wild will one day save the world
And then destroy it all the next
Dear beloved one,
I saw you amongst the wild horses
I did not dare touch you
Because I was afraid of Change
But Change was a delight—an apple to your eye
And I did not realize that Change was embedded in my very being
So when you shyly approached me,
I knew you were hungry
I fed you ample laughter and music
And soon I gained your highest respect
Along with a thousand other mystical blessings
I will not always remain by your side as if I am among you
But perhaps I shall linger at a distance—level to your luminosity
As words continue to flow, I shall slowly inch myself forward
To be frank—you are the greatest companion in my world
Hot or cold—seared or chilled
You will always remain among the wild and free
And that race is sadly. . .
Slowly dwindling
Tell me you shall never become me
Never Change
In honor of you,
One day I will reach out my quivering hand
And you will consume the Apple of Friendship
Until then,
Look beside you
As was inevitable—
I have changed for the better
Because you are—and always will be
My very greatest friend till the end
-this Ode was meant to be altogether; I hope you enjoyed reading, and thank you-
I weave through the rocks of a rough winding trail
Up through the boulders and sage
Following a ridge to the top of the hill
I'm a young girl, who's coming of age
I am sitting astride a strawberry roan
My Dad rides ahead in the haze
Climbing the crest, they're sure-footed, and know
of a place to take rest, where the horses can graze
The clouds pass over, like ships setting sail
Casting shadows on the valleys below
The sky wears a palette of rose colored, pale
Our pace resumes, quiet and slow
Our voices are silent, all our words have been said
Just a whisper of bird wings, and a wisp of the chill
Our thoughts take our eyes, to a sun, scarlet red
Where it soon disappears, far over the hills
My Dad goes ahead, and has taken the lead
Lost in a mist, my eyes try to see
My mare tries to follow, and everything blurs
We continue our climb, to reach forest timber
Are those voices I hear, or just birds in the air?
Up he goes on the trail, on his faithful old steed, like a dream fading into the clouds..
He is smiling, my Dad,.. on his red sorrel mare,
.......while I stay behind to remember
_________________________________________________
6/19/2009
. 1~
She walked ~ faint footprints left behind
A maiden's journey~a silent remind
of long-ago days in deerskin dress
A shelter of skins won under duress
She walks with wind along the Plains
Feeds quail and birds the corn remains.
Her voice, an octave or two below
returns their music as she sows
She prays for peace and for the rain
She wants her lover back again
and corn that reaches up so high
it paints the blue across the sky.
She wants those days before men came
took their children, killed their game
She wants the breezes in her hair
and mourns those days of little care.
~2~
An archaeologist~grave robber, some say
Yet before each dig, she takes time to pray
For this is where people lived and died
Birthed their young, laughed and cried
She finds the footprints under deep sand
Preserved for years by Nature's hand
And, next to them, some bits of corn
A wonderous find, and yet she's torn.
Put on display for tourists to stare
hallowed ground ruined, many despair.
A tug at her heart, the call of a bird~
She decides to leave site undisturbed.
As she moves on, she throws some corn
For quail and birds to feast upon
Perhaps nuggets will one day rise ~
As stalks so high they paint the skies.
My Grandmother said, when she was just three,
she’d seen the white horses ride in from the sea.
Now I stand at the lighthouse and see the white manes
stream behind horses that run without reins,
racing each wave and rushing for home –
to reach the gold sand where they melt into foam.
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.
Horses wearing woolen coats
of red, green and grey,
Gather round their daily bale of early morning hay.
Nodding, blissful heads, musing as they munch;
The earth beneath their steady hooves feel the snowy crunch.
Corralled behind sprawling, mended, wooden fences,
Curious they gaze with acute and focused senses.
Nostrils wide, clouds of breath, circling in rings,
Listen closely, hear them softly neigh and sing.
February 4, 2017
March 14, 2024 6th place win in Brian Strands #1294 Poetry Contest
Wild Horses
A woman alone
Watching wild horses gather –
Her stallion set free.
Copyright 12/22/2016
We long for relationships
that know no borders,
in which hearts can roam free,
frolicking with each other,
and galloping at will
through fields and streams
in broad daylight,
and spontaneous affections
can nuzzle unrestrained.
Yet on our humble ranch,
it is the broken horses
that we so often ride.
Connections become curtailed
that once headed for the horizon,
by trial and error taught
to shield certain wounds
and mind necessary fences,
in many a peculiar pasture.
There was a man who had a horse
Means of friendship and transportation of course
Everywhere the man did go horse was there for show
This horse began old to grow
To the used car lot the man did go
Selecting a car with many horses you know
Not knowing it was a lemon he bought
Now on the car he constantly sought
Parts to replace what would not go and
On one side the man would stand
Peering into the broken car with plan
On a stump on the other side
The horse would stand trying to guide
His friend on where the problem did lie
Also he was studying the working parts
Trying to figure out how all those horses fit inside
A horse that runs wild and free
Enjoys freedom with each stride
No saddle on his withers be
No grazing muzzle as a guide
No headpiece on his poll abides
His fetlock and his coronet feel the tickle of the grass
As his forelock ruffles in the breeze
No horseshoe on his hoof amass
With the wind he trots with ease
His gaskin flexes to run at his decree
His frog feels the soft earth as he stands
his coat feels the soothing rain
Unbridled by the bit's demand
His neighs echo through the plains
Upon these green fields, he reigns
His stifle and his hock aches once in awhile
But a good gallop 'neath the dome
of sky, brings him back in form and style
No crupper on his croup as he roams
For this horse calls freedom home.
~~~
10/4/16
*The crupper is the strap that runs from the horse's dock, over the croup, to the saddle.
Competition day had arrived,
His muzzle twitched with anticipation
And in relation my feet tingled in a way like never before.
For the first time, we both doubted ourselves
But fear not, we must carry on
As I plaited his forelock in preparation
I took the time to appreciate how flat his withers was
How typically racehorse he was
I stroked his fetlock as I knew this could be it.
His hooves were oiled and shiny as ever
Ready for anything
And the 3 link that he loved
Made no difference in poll pressure
As we bolt across the course, aiming to be the best
“I trust you, boy”
As if to tell him that even though, 2 years ago when he was deemed
A mess with dodgy hocks and lumpy coronets
Who was a waste
He could do this, to prove them wrong and beat the best
Become the best
A cumulous herd,
Galloping the atmosphere;
Pasture in the sky.