My title - the culmination of a recent ad on TV
from a company well-respected in my home town.
They offer a nonpareil chance for those who think "free".
I take issue, feel vouchsafed and venture to frown.
"No interest, No payments for twenty-four months"
Enjoy the wide-open window of opportunity.
A bit incredible which makes one suspicious at once
this sugary-sweet offering must have finer print to see.
It brings divinity to mind, remember that puffy treat
made of whipped egg whites and sugar, maybe pecans.
Unsubstantial candy, so-named to sound so sweet --
My advice, be sure you check out all the pros and cons.
"We don't want your money!" (at least for right now)
"Go buy a pony!" how whimsical does that sound?
Ponies need space, 1-2 acres at least and lots of chow;
or you can board them at costs which truly astound?
I've gone on long enough about commercial fare.
A rarity once in a blue moon, too good to be true;
hidden catches and scams are out there everywhere.
It's the teasing of viewers with proposals beaucoup.
warmth of springtime sun
ponies shed winter clothing ~
giddy gadflies grin
(May Full Moon – Oglala)
For centuries we tamed this land
We built our lives clenched hand in hand
The simple ways we understand
Mother Nature at our command
We hunted in the month of June
And slept in peace by shining moon
Serenaded by crickets tune
But now the end is coming soon
Our lands were taken with their lies
White Devils in a dark disguise
False promises and alibis
The death of tribes neath bloody skies
Since all our future dreams denied
We paint our ponies now to ride
Today to battle for our pride
I'll meet you on the other side
For Christmas, I wanted a pony,
But all I got was some bologna.
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.
Ten little ponies jumping on the bed
One fell off and the other said
Look at Chester! That horse is dead.
He runs like the wind with his mane flowing wild,
Flashing his blaze in his powerful style,
Handsome like his father, a king among the ponies,
On Chincoteague Island, Riptide is never lonely.
Recognized and loved by countless admirers,
Sought out by many fascinated photographers,
Riptide is an icon like his dad, Surfer Dude,
Both fiercely protected their mares to the point of a feud.
Rip continues the legacy that his father brought the Isle,
Free, uncontrolled and always wild,
Those sassy looks as he peers through his mane,
Once you meet Rip, you'll never feel the same.
But mainly we love him for more than his fame,
Because he brings attention to the stallions and their dames,
Reminding us how important to just let them be,
So future generations can see them wild and free.
Where no ponies free ranged, I dreamt to break and wrangle paints.
Where ponies bent, broke and bridled, I dreamt to hang away my spurs.
Where no ponies free range, I have no spurs and wrangle paints.
The horse is dead but the parade is live and well
Kick the bucket an romance the smell
Hook,line ,sinker the blinkers busted
Jesus saves the flavor
Is the craver to be trusted
Money, pleasure along with plastic little ponies
The evening seduces as grapes crush the holy
Not acting normal is starting to effect
Broken heart`s are bleeding broken from the wreck
Years wasted spent drowning me in dares
Plastic little ponies are the only ones whom care
Paint ponies in the snow
delicate dusting across their backs
like confectioner sugar
sifted
so fine... and
puffy, light, white powder
laying on the land..
Oh how we love
our gentle
Arizona winters!
She left
and the job went too.
Empty
I watch them go
like two trains
charging for the horizon
someplace worth getting to, fast.
Alone.
I am an abandoned town.
The once-proud schools
have all been informed
that they are only buildings
after all.
And the silent ballfields
look foolish-
still fully dressed
still eagerly clutching
their neatly squared bases.
But this morning I awoke from dreamless black sleep,
to find the world had made itself anew.
Someone, apparently, had coaxed it through a car wash:
all sparkling puddles and whistle-sharp shafts
of clean sunshine.
Spring leaves shine with dew,
wriggling wildly in the wind like fresh ponies
and when the wind eases momentarily
they hold out their palms to show me their tiny prizes.
And the air - the air!
Springtime fresh, it's fierce, and alive-
the air of high mountain passes
has turned up down here, somehow.
It seems
the world makes itself anew
for me
every day
and I would do well
would I do the same.
I thought there would be pretty ponies
Ponies to carry me around the bend
But I find there are no ponies at all
Only empty wishes at the end...
A simple human hand
Comforting their forehead
They looked so sad
They seemed to drain my heart
I wanted to stay for longer
To keep them company
They grasped at every part of me
Their busy eyes
Veiled by the fence
I brushed aside their mane
To see hope
To see a friend
To see a thankyou
Tomorrow
I will go back again
With carrots
And a promise to stay longer
The last of a dyeing breed, outlaws they are
Running away from captivity, wanting to be free
High mountain mustangs coming on the run
Day break is saying good night to the evening star
Old lone wolf howling at the moon under a pine tree
And hello to the morning Sun
A chill in the air,the breeze is still
Sounds of the herd, echo off the canyon walls
Rocks rolling, creek water flying high
A sight to compare with none, a Rocky Mountain thrill
Snow is melting, pine trees standing tall
Reaching up to the sky
Mountains dragons blowing smoke and steam
Their nostrils flared and eyes are red
Bucking, pitching and kicking high
They know that it is about the end of their dream
They can feel what is ahead
Heavy hearts and a tear in their eye
They drink their fill, then slowly retreat
To high mountain meadows where they graze
Bathing in the morning sun
Watching for cowboy, with ropes of their defeat
Trying to change their ways
Let the ponies run
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