I once knew a cowboy named Stew
Riding broncs caused him to ahchoo
The broncs didn’t care
Bucking in the air
It was all they knew how to do
Though it’s still partly cloudy in this street
& everybody follows the king’s fleet,
I’m following you to the ends of this world,
where I’ve replaced everything with your word,
I remain elsewhere like the empty plea
because you’re that fire burning inside me.
Though those agencies that create duets seem
to believe that a system employing well over
2, 000, 000 couples with infusions of bright visions
will need certain clearly specified characteristics
with objectives & noting costs to protect the new moon.
You’re that whirlwind blowing everything away,
that’s why in this play, I pray not to be the next prey.
I’m too late this morning & I won’t catch any bus,
though traders in their market won’t understand us.
To them, we’re actors in a tragic-comedy stage.
& we made a bold decision to try out the phage.
Give me your hands for a warmth of touch
& I won’t be in operational form in that skutch.
Give me your mouth for a kiss
when I listen to your coos.
Give me your whole body for burying me completely
when I pledge fealty.
Race starts, runs fast.
Horse darts, comes last.
I am broken in, i’ve learned
i have got no message to return
my ears ring, the streets sing
with your smile on displace
tomorrow takes today
Minnie mini horse
no taller than a poodle
~ won't rock a saddle
AP: 2nd place 2025
There is a story of a gift,
A Titan of a horse,
The Greeks presented it on wheels -
an olive branch, of course.
The Trojans were so very pleased
And opened city gates,
In rolled the massive equine thing
Now Troy could celebrate!
But all was not just as it seemed
And, as the Trojans slept,
The horse’s belly opened wide
And out Greek soldiers leapt!
All the Trojans met their doom,
Their city razed to ash
The gift they’d thought a lovely horse
Was really meant to smash!
Our modern Troys are still besieged
By tricks and clever ploys,
As Trojan Horses sidle in,
Our systems to destroy.
I saw misery
in three horses
huddled in the corner
of a paddock -
cold, rainsoaked
they stood motionless
in the open
heads turned towards
a large tree
with its wide canopy
a few lengths away
on the other side
of a barbed wire fence.
Those, whose path sprung forth good fortune,
Rode a smooth and gentle course.
But, on the flip side, it's well known...
That bad news...rides a fast horse!
drink from the same
water the horse drink from
do not worry
For long I worked in varied jobs,
Fending from bosses their dead lobs.
Retired, I find it tough
Getting not a day off
From new boss-- no more like doorknobs
Who demands, better learn
Your daily bread to earn,
Stern, she chases, all my peace robs.
But too late to regret
For having lost the bet,
Me, a harness horse oft called cobs.
________________________
Happenings | 20.08.2025 | humour, husband, horse
Desire overcomes my fear
I ride to her through the night
Night’s coldness upon my face
Nothing can stop me
I open the oven door
to a blast of heat
and hot bread bulging
out of a high tin, brown, crusty
and ready to be taken out.
That smell wafts across
seventy years to when I can
remember bread being delivered
in a horse and cart.
Carrying a big
wicker basket full of hot bread,
the baker would run
house to house whilst his horse
ambled along at a pace
in perfect sync with the bakers
progress along the street.
Weekday mornings
I would wait out front
and rush the hot bread
inside for my mother to make me
sandwiches for lunch.
Mum always complained
that the bread was too hot
for cutting. I had a steaming
slice smothered in butter
before I left for school.
Big, thick, uneven slices
of bread holding metwurst
or cheese or peanut butter
greeted me when I opened
my lunchbox at school.
Bread was never better.
Nearing eighty, I keep
baking bread, writing poems,
as if trying to recapture
those pleasures still steaming
in the past before they go.
18th April 1775 on the strong big-boned mare
'Brown Beauty' may have been her name
borrowed from John Larkin a very good horse
of Narragansett Pacer fame
a copper-bottomed silversmith
Son of Liberty Patriot and Boston-born
riding with Prescott and Dawes toward Lexington
then Concord minutemen in advance to warn
of the British Army's actions
was intercepted in Lincoln but doing his bit
the man had lanterns as the plan
and arranged to have a signal lit
in the Charlestown Old North Church
with one if by land two if by sea
but in those long-gone days
as it was unknown technology
right then and there
it was quite unlikely to see
three if by air
some say vestryman Pulling and sexton Newman
(not a deacon)
as the midnight rider never made it all the way
were the real heroes of the day in fact quite a beacon
Again the dreams, each dark cold night,
of a white horse, oh sweet delight;
he turns to me, waiting it seems,
each dark cold night, again the dreams.
The snow falls, each flake filigree,
waiting it seems, he turns to me;
a small bird sings, with sad birdcalls,
each flake filigree, the snow falls.
Oh ... be still, I ask my heartstrings,
with sad birdcalls, a small bird sings;
the night quiet, I hear his trill,
I ask my heartstrings, oh ... be still.
And we ride, his hooves a riot,
I hear his trill, the night quiet;
across a meadow, swift we glide,
his hooves a riot, and we ride.
there he stood
as if a dream come true
my little pony
AP: 1st place 2025
Specific Types of Horse Poems
Definition | What is Horse in Poetry?
Poems Related to Horse
colt, plug, pony, nag, foal, mare, stallion, filly, steed, gelding, mustang, bronco,