Best Stirrups Poems
They hung around the beer joint with the finest Western wear
with thumbs tucked in their belt loops and such a studly air.
But those boots weren't made for stirrups and were polished to a sheen,
and on those fancy cowboy hats not a sweat stain could be seen.
You could be sure they hadn't spent much time around a branding pot,
for the only brands they recognized were ones on stuff they bought.
And if they ever passed the time just musing 'bout their spread,
it'd be the one around their middle or the one they put on bread.
Just a bunch of cowboy wannabes in a modern masquerade,
but they drove the biggest pickup trucks that Detroit ever made.
The beds were big and beautiful without a scratch or scuff inside,
'cause the only thing they hauled around was a horse's big backside.
As they stood around outside the joint, in a smart-ass state of mind,
in pulled an ancient pickup with an old horse trailer hitched behind.
The truck an old green Chevy, year 'bout nineteen fifty-nine,
with two high wooden sideboards stacked with hay bales bound with twine.
Out stepped a skinny hombre, with steel-blue eyes and bandy legs,
but he had a rippling six-pack while all the boozers sported kegs.
His cowboy hat was sweat-stained; high-heeled boots were dusty gray;
he kicked off a chunk of cow pie, then he grabbed a bale of hay.
He was mighty parched and dusty, but he wouldn't quench his thirst
'cause you're not an honest cowboy unless you water horses first.
The pack of fools gave out a hoot, yelled "Hey there, Texas Pete!
Get yourself a man-sized truck and take that geezer off the street!"
As he finished with the horses, up walked two ladies smokin' hot.
The cowboy promptly doffed his hat, while the posers there did not.
The cowboy got a long admiring look and the rounders just a sneer,
as the sham was so apparent when a real cowboy was near
They flashed the dusty cowboy a big ol' smile 'bout ten miles wide...
Said "Honey, would a gent like you care to escort us gals inside?"
He winked, then gave the trucks a look and spat a stream of juice.
Said, "Boys, y'all's might be bigger, but mine gets a sight more use."
Categories:
stirrups, humorous, old, time, ,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
dear tall child,
your bones probably don't fit your frame yet;
they shift awkwardly,
and your spine hunches and slopes.
your hands are likely to be dry and grimy,
legs speckled with ant bites
that sting like fire.
spending those arid days snatching lizards off the hot terracotta wall,
next to the withered rose garden belonging to your shouting mother.
unfortunately for you,
the shouting will never stop;
your mother will bleed her vocal chords raw
trying to scare out your soul to place of her own.
there will be so much hardship,
but you will learn so so much.
so much.
to drown the world out,
just think about horses.
she will see you as strange
no matter what you do
just hop in the saddle
tighten the reins, grip the mane,
put your filthy Velcro sneakers into the stirrups,
and think about horses.
you will be a weird girl, it will hurt.
but suffering is just suffering,
and voices are just words.
you will become a strange young man, dear cowboy-
but you will always be that tall child.
a dear,
dear tall child
Categories:
stirrups, child abuse, childhood, gender,
Form:
Free verse
Foreplay starts hours before the bedroom.
Leaving a note on your car while you’re working,
As flowers are delivered in bloom.
Later, rubbing your feet to ease the hurting.
Over dinner, listening to your day.
Engaging every detail as your best friend.
Like when we first met, still the same today.
One of the secrets, don’t let the courting end.
Drawing a bath with popping bubbles.
Oils and a couple from the ice cube tray.
Solace for a night from life’s troubles,
Starting down through pleasure’s parfait.
My right hand sliding from your face,
Over the ear to your hair it grasps.
Our lips flowing together in a slow pace,
As my left hand massages your ass with tight clasps.
Laying you down under the light of the moon,
Candle’s flickers dance among our needs.
A cuddle making a fork from a spoon.
Hot wax drips the body’s tense pleads.
My tongue traces each of your curves.
To make them all mine this night.
Each part given what it deserves.
Knowing where and when to bite.
With the right pressure on every button,
Finding and keeping the perfect rhythms.
Loving you French, Greek, and Russian.
In and out of all the positions.
Two finger tricks in love and smut.
Just two inches in, then up.
Making a pea become a walnut.
While your hands hold your legs like stirrups.
Opening that box of our toys.
Black leather with whips and chains.
Clothes lines and collars employs
Us playing Asphyxia’s dangerous games.
From each encounter, perfecting my skill set,
And if your heart ever turns to another,
Your mind and body to never forget,
When once and still I be, your greatest lover.
------------------------------------------------------------
Contest: Hotsy Totsy
Sponsor: Rachel Firmin
Written: 02.14.15
*Forever grateful to Dr. Ernst Gräfenberg (1881-1957) and every woman I’ve ever known*
Categories:
stirrups, appreciation, body, love, romantic,
Form:
Quatrain
Broken but disbelieving, we wait
for any doctor to say it’s just blood
as the gray man greens, throws-
up in triage. A Goth teen holds Band-Aids
to her scalped thumb. Somebody loses
patience, explodes, Why are the sick
treated this way? Doors dilate & the sick
smell of antiseptics greets a waitress
wearing a steak knife. We are cribbed by loss;
gone, teeny heartbeats as I pass blood
clots. A junkie limps, unaided,
to the bathroom, another throw
away human, unlike a tot thrown
from a fire. Unforgettable, that sickening
sound, shrill scream after scream raids
the room of complaints. Hell won’t wait
for examination, I learn, as bloodshot
eyes meet mine. Hope is lost.
Patients stoically sit. Some lose
change to a vending machine. A cop throws
a look to his charge. Words drift, bloody
stool, x-rays, concussion. Sick talk to the sick.
My hand is gently squeezed. No one else waits-
out a miscarriage. I watch an aid
swab vintage tiles, restack HIV/AIDS
pamphlets as if they’re a deck of cards, like loss
is just some hand dealt. Somewhere, a mother waits
for her boy to sleep, will wash bottles, throw
out dirty diapers. Somewhere, a heartsick
father releases bloodcurdling
sobs because a body was found. Blood
is both bond & amputation. I took first aid
so I know why the sickest
get priority. Besides, we've already lost
each other, little one. Our separation has thrown
me off balance. Why couldn't you wait?
As if I need hearing aids, a nurse throws
my name out to the sick, the lost, ER roommates.
No. I'll never be ready. Let the bloody stirrups wait...
Categories:
stirrups, death, heartbreak, my child,
Form:
Sestina
He waits for me in my dreams each night
I hear his soft neigh when he catches sight
of me. I am only a tiny little slip of a girl
who sits on his back as we travel the world.
Into the stirrups then up to saddle of gold.
Around his powerful neck, my arms enfold.
A few times we circle while the music plays.
Up and down we gallop with blacks and grays.
"Hold on tight," he flicks his tail and we fly
off the carousel, all the way up into the sky.
Around the back of the moon, we chased a star.
Up and down all night, we journeyed afar.
Down to the meadow to greet the morning sun.
My carousel stallion and I have so much fun.
I've been holding on to his thick mane all night,
but now the sun is up and shining so bright.
We've been flying for hours; time to come down,
I promise to try my best not to frown.
It's time we return to your place at the park,
I'll be back in my dream when it's grown dark.
Handsome stallion of white, on my carousel,
where we go on our fantasies, I will never tell.
* * * * * * * * * *
February 24,2016
What Goes Up, Must Come Down Contest
by: Catie Lindsey
Categories:
stirrups, fantasy, horse,
Form:
Rhyme
“CAROUSELS AND CANDYFLOSS’
Childhood memories cherished and remote recollections
Emerging in magnified clarity encourage renewed perceptions
Open air big screen films referred to as “Drive-Ins”
A regular Saturday night treat -- family car, excitement within
After eating our packed picnic snack
Permission asked to play—promises to come back
Our greatest thrill sat under the huge white screen
Amusement ride—galloping flying horses-- enchanting scene
Carousel rotating- fairground organ—a musical ride
Merry-go-round- gilded Horse ballet dancing with pride
Some high on poles, interspersed benches—
These were placed for the less adventurous
Waiting patiently the ride slows down
Small minds choosing horses to call their own
Rushing to mount our fantasy up high
Small feet in stirrups, as wooden horses fly
The candy-floss man stands on the side
Inflated packets-- pale pink, blue and white divide
Cotton- wool sugary treats entice as we wait
Melt in the mouth moments to keep us awake
Kim van Breda—February 2013
Categories:
stirrups, childhood,
Form:
Light Verse
In the Australian vernacular
he was a ‘flea-bitten’ grey.
Not dappled like a dream horse
but speckled like a rock and not a
fine large horse like Tom Cable’s
roman-nosed, Major.
Dad had traded for him- with Tom -
two rolls of barbed wire and a fence strainer.
He came with a used saddle and bridle and
the high spirits of the seldom ridden.
Dad knew, that before he would let me mount him,
he had to take the 'curry' out of him -
rode him hard through a ploughed paddock.
Rode him until he stood in a foaming sweat
ears sideways, subdued.
I can’t forget being led, those first few rides
“Don’t let go of his head, Dad” I’m not ready yet,” Dad
and I knew the horse sensed the trembling in my being,
until one day, his bone- jarring trot, became a solved puzzle.
I felt a gathering- a sense of balance
between the pony’s mouth, the stirrups and the reins
and suddenly from a secret fulcrum
I was posting, “Let him go now, Dad,” I shouted,
A sweet transition to some rhythmic, magic floating
Around the homestead once and back I was cantering.
I pulled the reins, “Whoa boy!”
That first halt obeyed filled my head for days and days.
Categories:
stirrups, adventure, character, child, father
Form:
Free verse
Note: All lines in this heap are from failed sonnets that I tried to stack without having any two consecutive lines come from the same poem. I had to break the rule twice. It was nice to find a use for this trash, though. I'm sure a few can relate:
Often I think of how the canyon laughs,
what jokes, I muse, would free stuffy stockades?
And if the sheep had herded men with staffs,
would darkness come out, not into the caves?
What lambs or sheep use cripples just for skin,
to drape within the light from early day,
From their helium balloon canyon’s den,
How would they know if tides were high to stay?
Of milk lavender tulips, though, I flow,
as satin lace in leather stirrups through,
The march I may in august do in snow,
for hell has frozen over, don’t you know?
Yesterday, even, on my t.v. screen,
I saw a child wearing a shirt that said:
“Help save the volta, doubles have been seen,
Terrible truths of one that two are dead!”
So sink and seize this season's silliness,
who does her hair while wielding a sword,
unspoken are the kisses between us.
when prayers pray for want of loving lords;
Yet, my own veins feel lighter they do,
she cuts at skin but doesn’t say good bye,
I’ll tell you this, that it doesn’t do you,
hand me the Kleenex, someone spit in thine eye!
I was in love and now I’m still in love,
but she, or you, you spin me crazy love!
But then, I breathe, as canyons laugh at me,
What? Laugh at these! I hope you stay thirsty!
Categories:
stirrups, silly,
Form:
Sonnet
No 8 second ride for these cowboys tonight
As they start in the morning, losing daylight
Their hats are now ties, tethering true
Not breathing in clean air as faces turn blue
Their motive, the green, but not of a pasture
Not men of free will, but now slaves to a master
When the bell rings, it’s chaos, not for a meal
It’s a dog eat dog city, with true faces concealed
They’re just…
Cardboard cowboys in a concrete canyon
Riding steel horses, reigning in their abandon
Letting loose bridles, for no horses they ride
Spending their days, cooped up, deep inside
It’s a sad way
And a sad day
For New York cowboys
Their fishing hole yonder’s now polluted with clutter
As their southern boy drawl’s replaced with a stutter
No chaps and no stirrups, no boots and no jeans
Their lives are now over, at the end of their means
The bull that they ride are the very stories they tell
From wall to wall bouncing, not sitting a spell
They are always in a hurry, no time for the rose
Not much of a cowboy or anything, I s’pose
They’re just…
Cardboard cowboys in a concrete canyon
Riding steel horses, reigning in their abandon
Letting loose bridles, for no horses they ride
Spending their days, cooped up, deep inside
It’s a sad way
And a sad day
For New York cowboys
Categories:
stirrups, cowboy-western, imagination, life, music,
Form:
Whining Horse
This is the angry mind
Of a whining Horse
All it does detest
Is the Race Course
A reason there is
To loath the Race Track;
The goad, the spur and
Rider on the back,
Digging stirrups on flanks
While he blows fiery lips
Aquiline force to stir
By the crack of whips
And when it’s over
Jockey being a winner
He dons best suit
And forget the whiner!
Hanging with Friends
To enjoy the win
He condemns the Horse
To disdain’s empty bin!
How many times he wins
He’ll continue in hay
Diet will not change
Till his last living day.
JM
14th Nov’ 2013
Categories:
stirrups,
Form:
Couplet
They Caught Me Young
The first cut is a cut so deep-
Internalising this impression
Has made me stir and creep
With invariable precision!
Great Writers caught me young
Whilst an exploring youth.
Leaning on the sublimely tongue
Exorcised my being uncouth!
Teachers, too, were adept or apt
For immersing head in writ
Could I’ve been Boy so warped
Revelling in the pristine wit?!
Dog-eared, thick or slimy books
Thrilling with dramatic fiction
Themes of satire or comic gooks
Scheming tricks or zany diction...
Grand Scribes from my Loam
In a Renaissance of our own
Goaded by creativity did roam
Till their quest was fully blown...
Making a child want to read
Is forcing an ass a spat to drink
To force-read and fill his head
Is making a fool like to think!
Dambudzo, Achebe and Ngugi
(Cherished Internal Hairdresser)
Adorning domes wisdom’s wig
‘Gainst ignorance th’ oppressor.
*
I’m not like floating dung
Wise men fixed me young!
Yet, dome is a half full tin
Striving, more wit to win!
Sharing our minds in Soup
Rewards the entire group!!
*
A legacy from the great Writers
Left me a Poet punishing self
Perfection that I seek to get
Is a constrictor that squeezes
Choking, popping my eyes out.
I dig gnarled knuckles in hair
Teasing brain a gist to catch.
I goad tired legs to move
Stirrups digging sallow flanks,
To climb hills to dizzy heights,
Cross oceans with itchy brine.
Searching elusive enlightenment
I sing till my voice is so hoarse
To postulate concept in limbo.
The way how I abuse myself
Although I churn solid verse
The Muse will not be amused!
*
Write from your heart
Follow no map or chart
Art is mercury in shape
Take after the landscape
Liquid Metals that flow
Towards where it is low!
*
My Mentor simply took me across
Teaching me to be my own boss,
Adult, although in his wit I relish
My own effort I must now cherish!
JM
26th Oct’ 2013
Categories:
stirrups,
Form:
Verse
Glissandra spins gossamer nets
Of sticky white webbing that gets
Her all the captives she needs:
Her spider-string oozes like sap,
The unicorns step in her trap—
Soon they will serve as her steeds.
Glissandra rides out from her lair,
The wind singing tunes in her hair,
Unicorn under her thighs;
With spider-web stirrups and reins,
Glissandra rides hillside and plains
Under the thunder-split skies.
She gallops the high road to town,
But gates in the walls clatter down,
Sentries with crossbows appear—
“Turn back, pretty rider, turn back”
The sentinel cries through the black:
Darts whistle close to her ear.
Glissandra returns to her nest,
Resuming what she knows the best,
Weaving her webs—her life’s chore!
But sometimes she pines for the life
Of being some villager’s wife—
No one wants her—as before!
Categories:
stirrups, fantasy
Form:
Ballad
Life’s greatest mystery
is Death –
It’s not God,
It’s not Soul,
It’s not the heavens
Or the laws of Nature.
The inevitable end
to our existence,
The only sanctuary
from the rigors of life,
The final destination
to our life’s journey;
No matter which way
you traverse,
You are bound
to end up dead!
Life is like riding a horse
without you holding the reins
Or your feet in the stirrups,
Like driving a car
without your hands
on the wheels
Or your foot on the brakes;
It’s like taking a
roller coaster ride
over a route of steep
inclines and sharp turns
with the prospects of
all the thrills and
heart-stopping descent!
Death is life’s greatest miracle –
The Absolute, Irrevocable Truth;
Your only road to salvation,
A portal to the soul’s
ultimate metamorphosis!
Ha, give me death any time,
For life exacts harsh wages,
Life for once might abandon you
But death,
It will always stand by you!
"The Life of Death" contest by Anthony Salusen
~"Death and Dying" contest by Debbie Guzzi
Categories:
stirrups, death,
Form:
Free verse
My Old Saddle
Like a heavy rose in silver and leather
Every stitch a life, thirty-three pounds,
In cow hide, veined by fields
In the foothills of Alberta,
Reined and grained by waving wheat,
Watered by a woodland creek,
Nourished by the mouths of cattle,
Shaped by the hands of an artist
Tooled in flower and leaf.
That old saddle
Rode.
We trotted.
Mule, rider, and saddle;
Taut in a padded, black suede seat
Relaxed, eager and ready,
Flanked by silver studded eyes
That smiled skyward
From that chestnut leather,
Golden, with that hard horn of happiness
Freedom in that roping saddle,
We cantered
With a good and gentle cantle.
From that soft arising swell
Of vibrant, equine, musty smell.
The saddle lathered as
We galloped.
My mule’s back swam in padded fleece
Muscles floating the saddle from underneath.
The side skirts swelled
Buckles and stirrups yelled
The trail ride refrain
We’re doing it again!
Categories:
stirrups, poetry,
Form:
Prose Poetry
There are tall ones, and short ones,
Plastic ones, and leather ones.
Some made with thick rubber soles.
Others have soles full of holes!
That's right! Boots! Dozens of boots.
All types! Both ugly, and cute.
Some are made for walking over the moors,
Then others are worn by soldiers to wars.
There are those that come to the knee,
Made to keep out the snow. Maybe?
Rubber boots let us walk in the water,
Or go into places we didn't oughter!
Boots with laces, which may be pulled tight,
Others that slip on, might be dull or bright.
Some which we wear when playing a game,
While others carry a famous name.
"Wellington," named the boot of rubber,
Worn mostly by seamen and land lubbers.
Knee high boots buttoned right to the top,
Thigh high boots that appear not to stop.
Boots for riding, they fit in stirrups.
Really needed, when you go for gallops.
Some people love boots with a fierce passion,
They're always an important part of fashion.
Whatever your taste might be in boots,
Styles can be found, to match any suit.
Short, long, heavy, or light. Take your pick,
Even to Jackboots, with heels you can click.
To the rest of the world, we have found.
Boots can make statements. Most profound!
Rhyme. August 22nd 2016
Hauled this on out of my archives in response to Linda's Poem -Walking Boots.
Categories:
stirrups, fashion, , cute,
Form:
Rhyme