Long Gelding Poems
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These vain attempts at verse could not be droller.
Your stuff is less inviting than ebola
(and not as catchy). Wordier than Emil Zola,
you haven’t got the steam to be a roller.
I’ve seen more cutting-edge in Pepsi-Cola.
You clearly honed your style in Fuengirola.
About as challenging as last year’s “¡Hola!”
(I’m sure you’re highly thought of in Angola.)
But that aside, I need a favour, mate.
The flood of would-be Spensers is in spate.
I’d like you to review – that is, donate
your time and talent (at the going-rate,
which happens to be zero.) Desecrate
the pricks who prattle, and the prigs who prate.
Denounce, detract. Indulge that gelding hate
that wells in all of us. The cut-off date
is looming, so get hacking. Don’t be late!
Charley my wheel horse says that Jim is a yack, always jawing now.
They are both scrunchers, they nearly swallow their teeth on chow.
Jim is unsalted, but not lazy or slow, although he has trail dust grime.
He always responds well to “all hands and the cook” and in good time.
When the Mexican vaquero joins us, there is back slapping sure.
That’s when the biscuit roller trades in biscuits for tortillas, pure.
A ballyhoo? I do not think so, Bar dog. Can I get a John barley corn?
I would like to drink the cattle drive off my spurs, until it be morn.
How much does it cost to stay in the dice house tonight?
Don’t want to be honey-fuggled, so no Kansas sheep dip, all right?
a fresh mail order cowboy just entered the saloon, of course.
Don’t want to be a nosy parker, but did he just dismount the iron horse?
Did you see where I put my gelding smacker? I sleep with it naturally.
I am no lapper, but I could go for another John Barley Corn from thee.
Texas cakewalk tomorrow? Hmmm I wish I could stay but I am dragg’n.
Say hello to my cousin Sam, he drives the county’s meat wagon.
I kind of like a good hang’n when there’s a well-deserved California collar.
Was they horse thieves or murderers or what? Hey give my horse a holler.
I thought I saw a Cottonwood blossom when I rode into this place.
But there was no hellaballoo, so I wondered if it was the case.
These weak attempts at verse could not be droller.
Your stuff is less inviting than ebola
(but not as catchy). Wordier than Emil Zola,
you haven’t got the steam to be a roller.
I’ve seen more cutting-edge in Pepsi-Cola.
You clearly honed your style in Fuengirola.
About as challenging as last year’s “¡Hola!”
(I’m sure you’re highly thought of in Angola.)
But that aside, I need a favour, mate.
The flood of would-be Shakespeares is in spate.
I’d like you to review – that is, donate
your time and talent (at the going-rate,
which happens to be zero.) Desecrate
the pricks who prattle, and the prigs who prate.
Denounce, detract. Indulge that gelding hate
that wells in all of us. The cut-off date
is looming, so get hacking. Don’t be late!
Sixteen years old and in a world of her own
Confined to life lived in a wheelchair
Ever since birth, doctors don’t know what went wrong
But, it was like no one was at home in there
One summer vacation with the other kids in tow
The family visited a Kentucky horse stable
They left her alone in a sunny grass meadow
While off riding with the children who were able
While sitting alone in a catatonic state
Staring out somewhere in space
A gelding that was grazing, Mr. Truly Amazing
Came up and licked her on the face
The family returned to a shocking surprise
Seeing the wheelchair left unoccupied
They looked all around, then couldn’t believe their eyes
When they saw her standing with a horse by her side
She was petting his nose, feeding him an apple
And seemed to be whispering something
They were frozen in their tracks not believing the fact
That their Jenny was no longer a nothing
The mother walked up, in a delicate manner
Not wanting to interrupt this miracle’s course
When Jenny turned to her and in a shallow voice
Whispered, “Look, Mommy, I have a horse”
The two year old mahogany stallion's nostrils flared out
mist in the cool April morning, his veins prominent, his
sweat frothy on his regal neck and muscular chest.
His exercise rider, a youth himself, gently pulled him
to a stop from his run on the dirt track.
"They named you Apollo for a good reason," he spoke
as he patted the frisky colt on his withers. The nearby
elderly railbird nodded in agreement as he spat out
chewing tobacco through yellowed teeth.
I, the author of this prose, am against horseracing.
Some young and older Thoroughbreds break down on
the tracks. Many are euthanized. There is no, "Sport of
Kings," in that.
From idyllic days in the horse farm pastures, fledgling
fillies and colts are separated from their dams who
call out in anxious neighing for their babies as they are
taken into the horseracing world.
Two famous racehorses, the great mare Ruffian, and
the gelding Barbaro, became gravely injured during
races. They had surgery but the rehabilitation process
for both unfortunate horses became too complicated,
and they were euthanized.
Please, no more sacrifices of beauteous horses,
no more exercise riders and jockeys falling to the earth.
A Kentucky Derby winner, Ferdinand, was sold and then
killed in a Japanese slaughterhouse.That is the fate of
some racehorses. This is a blood sport. Please boycott
horseracing. Please also boycott dog racing. Dogfighting
is another cruel abomination. The animals can't speak
for themselves, we must speak up for them. ~
Mother rams with baby lambs
for greener grass are hunting.
Mama cows spy mama sows
with piglets softly grunting.
Creature ma’ams are joined by dams
whose baby colts start snorting!
Calves and colts and pigs like dolts
in meadows are cavorting.
March 10, 2021
for Eve Roper's Nursery Rhyme Poetry Contest
(I learned a new word doing this, which kids might enjoy learning:
dams are female horses!)
From Wikipedia:
The word (dam) can also be used for other female equine animals, particularly mules and zebras . . . A horse's female parent is known as its dam. An uncastrated adult male horse is called a stallion and a castrated male is a gelding.
What’s in a Name
The ranch has many horses
And all have earned a name.
Through color, deed and disposition,
Their moniker will proclaim
Their value to the cowboys
That gave each horse his name.
Pete bears the name of a long lost friend
No longer here to ride.
And offers two ears worthy
For a cowboy to confide.
Legs is taller than the rest
And boy can that steed run.
Lean forward in the saddle
And you could have some fun.
Cottonwood is dirty white
Like the fluffy seeds of the tree.
And a May colt, too!
He went to the mud with me!
Sunny is a bright sorrel gelding
Colored like the sun.
His choppy gait makes saddle sores.
Riding him is never fun!
Jim is black as midnight
Like a character of Mark Twain’s.
They sometimes call him something else
But the meaning is still the same.
S.A. is a red roan stud
With initials for a name.
To write it out would just be wrong.
You can guess his name.
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…
When I was young I had two horses,
A gelding and a mare.
The gelding's name was "The Cheyenne Star",
With a temperament so fair.
The mare, her name was Candy,
She was anything but sweet.
She looked just like a Clydesdale
Without the hairy feet.
Riding Cheyenne was a joy,
With power steering and power brakes.
He responded easily to each touch
And what a difference that makes.
Candy, on the other hand,
Was like driving a big dump truck.
Hard to get her to move at all
But if she took offense, she'd buck.
They are both long gone now
But I remember both their styles
And they left me with many memories
Which can always bring on smiles.