Best Trots Poems
On a Sunday in the evening
The old barn becomes a hall
Social place where every weekend
The town folk go for a ball.
The inside is decorated
Lights are lit, the banners sway
By the walls barrels and cartwheels
Wooden stools and bales of hay.
Everybody loves a shindig
Where square dancing is the craze
Violins, guitars and banjos
Loud hillbilly music plays.
There’s a guy who’s always present
He’s the handsome Cowboy Kurt
On his head a leather Stetson
Dressed in jeans and chequered shirt.
Carol comes in golden pigtails
Gorgeous looking in flared skirt
She stands out; her smile is charming
She is hot and likes to flirt.
Cowboy Kurt looks quite appealing
He taps his feet to the beat
As other couples are reeling
Pretty Carol takes a seat.
Kurt decides to mosey on up
And lay his heart on the line
See if Carol would share some grub
Perhaps a swig of moonshine.
Tiny Carol surprises Kurt
Chugging down half a bottle
She eyes him coyly, looking pert
Then starts to jig full throttle.
Stunned Kurt is reeling to and fro
As wee Carol takes the lead
Dance floor clears; they put on a show
Kurt looks like a tumbleweed.
Music wouldn’t stop fast enough
For Kurt who couldn’t square dance
Carol is made of tougher stuff
And has high hopes for romance.
Totally lit and loving it
Carol trots to the outhouse
But when she returns, Kurt has split
“Where’s my man?” Carol does grouse
In his truck Kurt has hit the trail
Head still spinning from the dance
Carol sits upon a hay bale
Hoping he’ll return to prance
After the hoe down was over
Banjos and fiddles tucked away
Cowboy Kurt was still a rover
Out cold on the hay Carol lay.
------------------------------------------------------------
Written 6th October, 2014
A collaboration by Paul Callus and Carolyn Devonshire
Remember all the Wise Men on their knees upon your yacht?
With orphans on their backs they’d crawled (with others that they’d brought)
Through rubble on the highway sands and residues of Lot.
They came from severed cities selling postcards of your thoughts,
Though offered for a penny piece, not even worth a jot.
They mused
“How are you feeling? What it is you want, you’ve got.
The words you scrawl on calling cards: ‘I AM – the others NOT’
Shun wisdoms of the Seven Seas: ‘Salvation can’t be bought’ –
Your fathers tried before you and your fathers came to naught.
“You started out by gelding goats and then by casting lots
Of bodies to the battlefields, contorted, tight and taut,
Then wallowed in the wake of trails the dervish devil trots.
“With marching bands of fatherlands, and drums of Hottentots,
You lure your legions in harm’s way like giant juggernauts.
Like Tweedle Dum your minions come (the sober and the sots,
The troglodytes, barbarians, and mislead patriots,
The Vandals, Huns and Hannibals and seaport Cypriots,
The Japanese, the Congolese, Americans and Scots)
To vanquish bows and arrows, spears and catapulted shots
Of those who hide in bamboo huts their families, pale, distraught,
(Their withered wives with dried up breasts, their swollen babes in cots)
Who swoon, engulfed in poison darts and vats of acid hot,
Consumed by magic mushroom clouds, atomic megawatts.
“In churches of your deities, your Holy Huguenots,
Your Imams, Rabbis, Voodoo Dolls and Mitered Lancelots
Lit wicked kindled candled walls in temples (while we fought)
(Used pins and needles, magic spells on makeshift mock whatnots)
And mosques, cathedrals, synagogues have blessed each new onslaught
With prayers for pipers, puppets, pawns, your rigid armed robots.
Continued in Part 2…
A cold lion roams, doctrinaire and sterile,
The expanse of Africa offers him no sanctuary, the Saringehti no salvation,
He can only smell the scent of his pride now, his cubs shun him,
Repelled by needless roars, the revolting rants,
Tail tattered, biten by jackels at will,
His nose bit and beaten from battles better avoided,
Soul tethered to a label, only a title, "King of the Jungle" ,
Fleas and insects of all sorts find haven in his muddy mane
once so puffed and wide like a thunderhead trampling over Tanzania,
I hear him in the twilight, lonely, unsated and undesired,
Paranoid about a life that does not seem to love him,
His heart became a desserted Athens, a broken, rigid column slumped on the earth,
He wanders near the Nile, nearsighted and nervous
As an Egyptian boy of ancient lineage stalks him sensitively
Putting the speartip to own temple saying,
I see your ribs, your broken paws, your futility,
I will now deliver your soul unto the cool night,
The spear is launched with a certain bloodlust
piercing behind the shoulder blade, his heart hollers
with the cry of scarred suprise, the lion stumbles and pants
vanity not allowing blame for lack of vigilance,
the boy trots to the spot, kneels in token reverence
telling him, sip the black puddle of your error, as eyes fold ever shallow,
let me feed you these apples of arrogance
so to quiet your grievence, to sooth your ego before final sight,
there is no shame in being slain by a Pharoah King, old lion,
I shall wear your teeth as a timeless trophy of tragedy,
Emblematical of Pride gone on too long,
may the spirit of Herodetous teach this lesson to a new breed -
J.A.B.
.
In my arms
in the depths of mine heart
in the shadows
in the bright
in the pastures
in betwixt the trees
in his thought's
inside of mine
in Noah trots
into Pop's life
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.
I'm as free as the wind as I sway in the saddle!
I love life! There's no clutter, nothing to addle!
I give my faithful horse Wild Lightning free rein,
As we meander across God's magnificent terrain!
My pal Spooks trots ahead surveying sagebrush and crags.
I sense that he enjoys life too by the tail he wags!
I crave no roof - the wide-open range is my home.
Territorial bounds don't confine me - freely I roam!
Well-worn saddlebags contain my earthly possessions.
I don't aspire riches nor am I burdened by obsessions.
My soul abounds with wealth as I view His Creation!
Ah! The grandeur of it all! 'Tis ample compensation!
I pause on a knoll viewing the vast panorama and ponder,
The river, a lake, those snow-capped mountains o'er yonder!
In the valley a herd of pronghorn antelope gambol and play.
At dusk The Master Artist paints a majestic sunset display!
Campfire embers slowly die - Wild Lightning grazes nearby.
Spooks lies at my feet - snug in my blanket I gaze at the sky.
I anticipate being awakened by a glorious sunrise next morn,
When Wild Lightning, Spooks and I continue our vagabond bourne!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
*Image of Patronus by Wizarding World
The White Doe and The River Of Life
Comes a white doe, quaint sight a wandering,
Murmurs, her head swerves about, hesitates,
A snow owl offering sky, pondering,
Nibble's green herbs with care then elevates,
Hooves paves a path, my blue being, surges clear,
Alert nose take air, head bent back, above,
Unaware, her head drops, tickles my sphere,
Cast her spot of me, blanched soul feel her shove,
Tempt, I tide my being, yet pursuit was keen,
The full breadth of her trots to my chilled beat,
She alights her weight to level her being,
Trots to shore, genteel flow, dares to repeat,
Perchance another day of challenging,
Comes a white doe, quaint sight a wandering.
2019 May 12
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS(JUN 8)
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 June 08
I rode to power on a Midwest horse,
Bearing amongst the feathers in my cap this terse brief
from my broken people:
To lay waste to the irksome order
That home and abroad now prevails.
Strained voices break out in the valley below
And many more in the world across the seas
Bidding me to dismount at once
And move to saddle the global kingdom
Of Reagan, Roosevelt, Clinton, ...
That now is mine to ride.
Yet this very kingdom I came to crush;
My Midwest horse, I wouldn't trade for it!
In her neighs, I hear a nay
Forbidding me to consider the bargain.
Her counsel I think I'll heed
For between the two, she's the easier to ride.
A horse that trots on cheap lies
Or a kingdom that floats on costly allies--
That's the question I now confront.
loud cracks and creaks permeate the silence
inferno’s roar is heard in keen ears of wildlife
terror is felt throughout the forest
animals flee, but many do not make it out
the blinding smoke and their fear leaves them helpless
some curl up, waiting for death
the fire walker trots through the forest looking for her young
not realizing she lost them several decades ago
she is the only soul stuck in this purgatory of flames
Earth trots
Behind the meandering
Leashed by their anxieties
And we in silence
Cannot tell of our perplexities
This age
Is too politically correct
And will not stand
Such truths
There is no lattitude for correction
No urgency
To mend fences
'Fore the frivolous forays of destruction
The seeming acquisition of intellect
Is nothing more than brawn of tongue
Defending the flimsy vulnerabilities
Of hoisted egos
A status quo of exhibitions
The panting tongue
Exalting empty ambition
Tempestuous slobbering
It is such a sensitive subject
Our fragile self esteem
And the earth
At dog school.
My toilet paper
regularly trots
out of the bathroom,
throughout the whole house,
no, it is not trained.
If it were trained
I am certain
it would proudly
stay nice and neat.
My cat walks
it every
single day;
Toilet
Paper
trails.
Mama deer pranced diffidently
checking the meadow for man’s smell
Her spotted fawn trots along
unaware of danger
checking out the food
of pure and sweet
glorious
verdant
grasses
Amber Nights
The streets where I live are soft as rugs,
Lamplights of deep amber light them.
A lone, orange tabby trots on his way,
Nobody yelling to f'ind him.
The stars' eyes peek over sleepy trees.
The moon lights a white cat asleep on the deck.
The waterfall drips happily,
On goldfish , so joyful beneath her.
5/28/2019
10pm PST
Color fades into the pines
The whites of the eyes of the birch
Places for the birds to perch
Bark can be seen in tall lines
For now, just a drizzle of rain
Brings dampness and cold to the air
Today, will not be so fair
But, color outweighs the gray stain
That is left in the sky for a while
Storms just before Halloween
Mix with decorations to be seen
But, pumpkins and scarecrow smile
Autumn is leaving its expression behind
Each day, it trots some more
Kicking leaf piles, closing the door
Until it opens, for the winter I find
Heidi Sands
10/30/21
A game of hide and seek breaks out
In the living room I duck behind the couch
Like a ninja on vacation
My dog trots by
Sniffing
Chuffing
Absolutely unconvinced
Until I pop out with a peekaboo
She jumps
Like she just met a ghost wearing my face
She sprints around the house
In victory laps of pure joy
Tail wagging so hard
It could power a small village
I pretend I meant to hide better
But she’s already celebrating her win
Like she solved the world’s greatest mystery
Round two begins
I “stealthily” slide behind a door
My dog staring straight at me
Because I’m terrible at this
Yet she still plays along
Bless her goofy heart
When I leap out again
She wiggles with delight
As if hide and seek was the greatest game on earth