Best Ponies Poems
Paint ponies in the snow
delicate dusting across their backs
like confectioner sugar
sifted
so fine... and
puffy, light, white powder
laying on the land..
Oh how we love
our gentle
Arizona winters!
Where no ponies free ranged, I dreamt to break and wrangle paints.
Where ponies bent, broke and bridled, I dreamt to hang away my spurs.
Where no ponies free range, I have no spurs and wrangle paints.
"Der aint nothin wrong with dat,"
said Haile Brown.
Mrs. Quincy's twin Vietnamese spotted ponies
had been shot
both dead
for trespassing on L. Ron Clark's property.
"They scared my sheep.
Chased em all over the place.
Aint gonna put up with none of that,"
said L. Ron Clark.
"Reckon she shoulda penned em up.
Cant spect no one to tol-rate that sorta nonsense,"
said Haile Brown.
Mrs. Quincy had a different view.
"I put up plenty of times
with them rotten sheep of his
grazing in my pasture.
You don't see me shooting them down."
Haile Brown worked as a ranch hand
for L. Ron Clark.
"So naturally his views would be tainted,"
said Mrs. Quincy.
"Views don't make no difference here,"
said L. Ron Clark.
"The facts is all layed out clear.
Them donkeys was trespassing.
Causing a ruckus among my flock.
I had just cause to shoot them."
Growing red in the face,
about ready to raise a donnybrook,
Mrs. Quincy replied:
"Shame on you! L. Ron Clark!
An experienced rancher of your sort
could have easier than not lassoed them ponies
and take them off
than load that gun
and aim and kill
them innocent creatures of God."
"I reckon Ma'am,
Mr. Clark done what he feel nec-sary,"
said Haile Brown.
"I reckon Mr. Brown!
that Mr. Clark! hasn't the character to do what's right,"
said Mrs. Quincy.
"And you're just an ignorant fool
who wouldn't know right from wrong
if it fell on your big toe."
Haile Brown sunk down
into his collar
ashamed to be put down
in such a way
by such a woman.
L. Ron Clark's mouth
fell open,
ready to respond...
but the sound of the gavel
put an end to it.
The Judge said,
"I've heard enough
from all of you.
I'll leave to my chamber
and come back with a decicion.
Until then,
try and be civil."
The horse is dead but the parade is live and well
Kick the bucket an romance the smell
Hook,line ,sinker the blinkers busted
Jesus saves the flavor
Is the craver to be trusted
Money, pleasure along with plastic little ponies
The evening seduces as grapes crush the holy
Not acting normal is starting to effect
Broken heart`s are bleeding broken from the wreck
Years wasted spent drowning me in dares
Plastic little ponies are the only ones whom care
They took their ponies onto the plains. We had let them live there as long as we could but the white men kept coming and it was not our place to stop them. The winds blew hard and it rained for a long time. And we wept in our teepees thinking about the air and freedom. Then one day it stopped and we saw the light was from the Gods and we took our ponies and we rode hard for three days. It was then that we saw our future and our end. For the white men had driven a curse through our lands and they came on like the winter snow. When we stopped and looked to the sky the snow came upon us like a blanket. And we lay down and stopped to speak. To speak is to listen and we no longer knew how to hear our Gods. It was just to say that we were weak. But somehow it didn't seem right. In that land at that time there was only one way to live and that was the way of the Sioux. And now I lay in my bed and wonder how that time came and went. It wasn't something I thought was true and the end. Living is easy when you have no fear and death comes and goes like the the passing of snow. But when you believe you believe for life. And until then the birds pass you by. I say to you now "Believe my friend for your life is the beginning and it is the end."
Blue-eyed ponies drag their pickets In my dream Into a distant light Whose source is yet unseen Beyond the cactus flowers now they run From where the sudden sound of music comes And now I do believe it is the rising of the sun That comes to greet me here at last Because the aching of my has passed Because the blue-eyed ponies now are free And symbolize the way for me to run Into the the beauty of the sun
He runs like the wind with his mane flowing wild,
Flashing his blaze in his powerful style,
Handsome like his father, a king among the ponies,
On Chincoteague Island, Riptide is never lonely.
Recognized and loved by countless admirers,
Sought out by many fascinated photographers,
Riptide is an icon like his dad, Surfer Dude,
Both fiercely protected their mares to the point of a feud.
Rip continues the legacy that his father brought the Isle,
Free, uncontrolled and always wild,
Those sassy looks as he peers through his mane,
Once you meet Rip, you'll never feel the same.
But mainly we love him for more than his fame,
Because he brings attention to the stallions and their dames,
Reminding us how important to just let them be,
So future generations can see them wild and free.
In our wigwams we hear tom-toms
Like hearts beating out a greeting;
Seasons in tune with thirteen moons.
In the moon of red grass.
Let the white man come.
There is room enough for all.
In the moon of green grass.
Let the white man come.
There is grass enough for all.
In the moon when ponies shed.
Let the white man come.
There are ponies enough for all.
In the moon of strawberries.
Let the white man come.
There are berries enough for all.
In the moon when lilies bloom.
Let the white man come.
There are blooms enough for all.
In the hot moon, we will sweat.
Let the white man come.
There is heat enough for all.
In the moon of wild rice.
Let the white man come.
There are bowls enough for all.
In the moon of falling leaves.
Let the white man come.
There are leaves enough for all.
In the moon of rutting deer.
Let the white man come.
There are deer enough for all.
In the moon when deer shed horns.
Let the white man come.
There are horns enough for all.
It is the hard moon of strong cold.
Let the white man come.
There are lodges enough for all.
In the moon when wolf packs run.
Let the white man come.
There are more than enough for all.
In the moon of sore eyes.
Let the white man come.
There will be enough for all.
The prairie wind is blowing chill,
Wildly waving through the grass,
Erasing signs of Indian trails.
In the moons of the white man,
Strong hearts seek Indians return.
Is there room enough for all?
Will our wigwams hear the tom-toms
Like hearts beating out a greeting;
Seasons in tune with thirteen moons?
A simple human hand
Comforting their forehead
They looked so sad
They seemed to drain my heart
I wanted to stay for longer
To keep them company
They grasped at every part of me
Their busy eyes
Veiled by the fence
I brushed aside their mane
To see hope
To see a friend
To see a thankyou
Tomorrow
I will go back again
With carrots
And a promise to stay longer
For Christmas, I wanted a pony,
But all I got was some bologna.
Ten little ponies jumping on the bed
One fell off and the other said
Look at Chester! That horse is dead.
There are wild horses in the heather;
their neighing follows the wake
of hewing wind-wraiths.
The ponies are hardy and stout, they go
in and out of the clouds, slip through
swale and dingle.
The moors are high. You don't feel the altitude
only the depth of the land. When the sky turns sullen
it tilts to smother the earth.
If the scything winds falter, the shallow sod
bogs into sumps and divots
Where trees cannot be, clouds spread
a muffling mizzle over gorse and grass,
a grazing tide carries a spume of chills.
The hills here are thigh deep, rills of dark water
loiter and seep.
The small ponies shake their matted manes,
mist-sprays pool in muddy hoofprints,
the warm brume of their snorts
leads you onward on a lonesome track
for they alone know the steps taken
to cross over each dim acres edge.
Travel with them to a gritstone ledge,
where the heath plunges dale deep,
there above the tall treetops
a bright sky will rise up to meet you.
She left
and the job went too.
Empty
I watch them go
like two trains
charging for the horizon
someplace worth getting to, fast.
Alone.
I am an abandoned town.
The once-proud schools
have all been informed
that they are only buildings
after all.
And the silent ballfields
look foolish-
still fully dressed
still eagerly clutching
their neatly squared bases.
But this morning I awoke from dreamless black sleep,
to find the world had made itself anew.
Someone, apparently, had coaxed it through a car wash:
all sparkling puddles and whistle-sharp shafts
of clean sunshine.
Spring leaves shine with dew,
wriggling wildly in the wind like fresh ponies
and when the wind eases momentarily
they hold out their palms to show me their tiny prizes.
And the air - the air!
Springtime fresh, it's fierce, and alive-
the air of high mountain passes
has turned up down here, somehow.
It seems
the world makes itself anew
for me
every day
and I would do well
would I do the same.
I thought there would be pretty ponies
Ponies to carry me around the bend
But I find there are no ponies at all
Only empty wishes at the end...
The last of a dyeing breed, outlaws they are
Running away from captivity, wanting to be free
High mountain mustangs coming on the run
Day break is saying good night to the evening star
Old lone wolf howling at the moon under a pine tree
And hello to the morning Sun
A chill in the air,the breeze is still
Sounds of the herd, echo off the canyon walls
Rocks rolling, creek water flying high
A sight to compare with none, a Rocky Mountain thrill
Snow is melting, pine trees standing tall
Reaching up to the sky
Mountains dragons blowing smoke and steam
Their nostrils flared and eyes are red
Bucking, pitching and kicking high
They know that it is about the end of their dream
They can feel what is ahead
Heavy hearts and a tear in their eye
They drink their fill, then slowly retreat
To high mountain meadows where they graze
Bathing in the morning sun
Watching for cowboy, with ropes of their defeat
Trying to change their ways
Let the ponies run