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.
Categories:
hoofprints, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The horse was pale,
paler than the light off the mountain
that reflected back in memories long abandoned
Its mane was long,
longer than the struggle to save what
fortune had vehemently denied me twice
The time was short,
shorter than the flashes of history
that hoofprints trampled in the disappearing snow
The trail was closing,
closing on one last intrepid promise
crying out for life amidst a stampede of death
(Valley Forge Stables: March, 2021)
Categories:
hoofprints, death,
Form: Free verse
At dawn I heard a baby calf moo,
the birth of vernal stock
and ripe spring tract,
where phorbs are sown for hungry mammals,
where pregnant skyline clouds are merely shepherds to those hoofprints on a landscape,
that patch for future issues
to run free
Categories:
hoofprints, beautiful, beauty, birth, care,
Form: Prose Poetry
One morning I awoke to find
in soft garden shadows
mythical, unicorn, hoof prints
How I imagined its perfect form;
a magical horse with a spiraled horn
stepping through a pink mist
into my garden at dawn
I decide I will hide
where the first light
slants through the trees
my heart all aflutter,
waiting to see this miracle.
A rustle of leaves-
I hold my breath -
ready to face
the impossible
Oh! Disbelief! What do I see?
But two horse shoes attached to sticks
and father planting mythical hoof prints
Quiet as a fae I steal away
and later with wonder, I softly say
"A unicorn has strayed, Pa Pa-
into our garden today."
Written in June 2003
Categories:
hoofprints, child, fantasy, father daughter,
Form: Free verse
Language flowing out the corridor
Hoofprints of history juxtaposed
The unsettled gashes of human experience
Returning again to unfold new contours
Armed to the teeth
Our story replete, posted
From ancient backdoors
Charging mystic dreaming banshees
What planes will we walk?
As extreme inches have been carved
The hustle to flow capital gravitates
Through the backs of skulls
Highways like particle accelerators
Feet to photons on asphalt glass
Barriers pounce at break neck speed
Charging the stolen past
And the fantasized future
Categories:
hoofprints, devotion, education,
Form: Free verse
After dousing the bride to a nice flame,
in between the howls
there were songs.
On mud path the hoofprints
came out prominently. On bullock carts
they had come for a sit in,
to resist, rebel or kill.
All day the heat, dust & winds
blurred the vision.
Hills between us
to feed the hate.
It is nothing like the good old earth.
The nascent bleed.
Time of non-movement.
Shadows of snow-peaks.
SATISH VERMA
Categories:
hoofprints, art,
Form: ABC
From conception death is chased
through hollow and hill
sunlight and shadow
backalley and byway
synagogue and saloon.
Through fresh bells of wallstreet
worn bodies on mainstreet,
death is chased relentlessly.
Its muddy hoofprints climbing
the crackpipes of
calvary eyes
clop-clop-clop.
Bending nightmare to angel
then back again-
Death slows brilliantly
(overtaken of course)
smiling-teeth plaqued with burning rubies
(sins of the flesh).
Just as its always been
life breaths into death,
Mad -mad circle of conception and chase
death woven to life
blackness and whiteness
whirling into blackholes
enlightened or not
roll down the window
silk on the rot
scrambling for (exacting) change
pay pay pay
the toll man your destiny
Categories:
hoofprints, death, life,
Form: Free verse
fresh blanket of white
icing up the tender shoots...
green grass is confused
windows steamed again
blocking out the wintry scene...
hoofprints in the yard
squirrels look for seeds
dig in snow for something more...
false alarm for spring
Categories:
hoofprints, nature, seasons
Form: Haiku
After dousing the bride to a nice flame,
in between the howls
there were songs.
On mud path the hoofprints
came out prominently. On bullock carts
they had come for a sit in,
to resist, rebel or kill.
All day the heat, dust & winds
blurred the vision.
Hills between us
to feed the hate.
It is nothing like the good old earth.
The nascent bleed.
Time of non-movement.
Shadows of snow-peaks.
SATISH VERMA
Categories:
hoofprints, art
Form: I do not know?
"News Flash"
Bambi is under arrest
The Associated Press stated this morning
That he had failed the polygraph test
He's been charged with murder one
With the death of his own mother
He was a suspect in the case for years
But always blamed it on his brother
But DNA doesn't lie
And his hoofprints were on the gun
The authorities have been looking for him
That's when he decided to run
They say that he's been hiding out
Somewhere in his daddy's field
Trying to look inconspicuous
Ever since his mama was killed
Anger was the buck's only motive
According to what the authorities say
Thumper wanted to play a game
But she wouldn't let him go out and play
As soon as we get more updates
We'll pass it straight on to you
So stay tuned to your poetry websites
Until I can tell you something new
Categories:
hoofprints, funny
Form: Rhyme
A canyon junction west of Soledad
and south of Mint (named for purple sage) –
this scoured maze of Canyon Country
where I rode bareback
down arroyos, leaving hoofprints in sand.
Today, I’ll stop at the general store –
does it still sell bubble gum and dry goods?
Recollection is so fuzzy in 9th grade.
Who cares for canyons
on the late-bus under stars?
Today, my map shows no way
to get there. Everything’s re-engineered,
highway widened for commuters;
interchanges. Do canyons still exist
under terraced multi-something homes
and quick stops? Where is Solemint?
Next off-ramp, I’ll drive
to the end of the road. Walk
till I find sand unbulldozed, eroding
like time.
I’ll listen for birds in the arroyo,
a promise of water. I’ll climb higher
and look for purple sage. Sniff
deeply. I’ll feel cold wind off the passes.
Can I still taste Solemint?
Categories:
hoofprints, childhood
Form: Free verse