At popular Pennsylvania State Fair,
ponies were preparing for prissy pony pageant,
promenading ponies' pretty polished hooves,
parading promoter, Percival Poppycock,
promised prize-
pauses, perplexed,
as Penelope Percheron,
a primping draft horse,
prances into pavilion,
petite ponies patter,
prima donna Penelope presents
perfumed self,
pricey pink ribbons, pearly teeth,
panache!
Prestigious panel of judges
promptly present Penelope as
"Princess Pony",
she pirouettes, pulverizes display
of plentiful pumpkins,
pummeling stands,
pure pandemonium,
people, popcorn, peanuts everywhere,
Penelope picks herself up,
proceeds with precious Princess Pony prize,
proudly preening,
positively pompous!
Categories:
percheron, 6th grade, 7th grade,
Form: Alliteration
it is that look in your eyes
that commences mine closing
the world disappears
the aroma in your hand
echoes the feel as your shoulder
guiding, powering the arm
the deliverance is in hand
all the senses wait for the touching
held at bay by a Percheron steadfast
angel wings whisper
as your hand arrives on my cheek
my heart in a pyroclastic bursting
as enchantment grasps
every atom within me
where time and space have no meaning
and in that instant when lips meet
the Percherons are in a full gallop
in a universe gravid with an elucidation
that consumes my life
a plethora of galaxies i so adore
all of this from a social event
i had no intention of attending
where just one perchance look
from afar across the room
became the smile on Klotho's face
OKC 4/23
Categories:
percheron, i love you, missing
Form: Romanticism
Three of a kind for as long as we can
remember. Parents would shake their heads,
wonder when we’d grow up and get serious
about serious stuff. We egged each other
on. “Did you see that strawberry roan
in the field on the way to school?” “I’ll loan
you my book of ranch-girl poems!”
We loved dogs and anything with hooves,
and words that rhymed or not, that made
sense in a westwind sort of way.
We rode our imaginations bareback.
We never grew up. And now it’s come
to this – no Cowboy Poetry this year
for the old-west Wagon Train event. We’ll
meet on Main Street anyway, to watch
the teams come into town; stand
on the corner, listening for hooves
on pavement drumming to the heart. Just
the three of us reading horse poems
to each other and anyone who cares to listen.
And when the first big black Percheron
comes into view – a wagon-teamster’s Pegasus –
we’ll be flying 17-hands-high on the horses
of our never-grown-up dreams.
Categories:
percheron, friendship, horse, poetry,
Form: Free verse