Naked horses
On the prairie, there are many horses, healthy stallions
galloping about impressing the coy mares.
Under a tree, there are not many trees on the grassland
a few ragged horses with unkempt manes and swaybacked
look as if they have been eating weed and not green grass.
As things are in life, they are ignored.
But they have something in common with healthy horses
looking nude; horses need shorts.
Near the cash machine, a broken man sat he was pale
and thin begging for coins; he was blithely ignored and
called names, you see, he was not a lost dog.
I too needed to draw cash; I had seen his eyes too late
for me to ignore him; gave a note of 5 euros it was not
for me to ask what he intended to do.
The man thanked me but luckily didn’t lick my face.
Some were born to be show horses.
Pampered and fussed over to the extreme.
Accolades outperforming accomplishment
Living for tin-can applause.
Some are born thoroughbreds.
living for glory and the golden oats
blinders ablaze- racing through life
oblivious to the rattle of time...
Then there's the humble plow horse.
Overworked, underfed, underappreciated
Swaybacked from society's harsh gaze
smoothing the way for both sashay and racer
forever looked down upon-never any applause
bending over for the ones
that will eventually eat them....
The plow horse will bury the stillborn in the fields
and crows will give it a name-
I think I get it:
You want me to swallow your acidic avalanche.
Those billion frantic snow globes
of brilliant-clownish confusion.
You want me to rebuild your burned-out shrines.
Atop broken blue glacial climbs.
Straddle boulders of swaybacked hope and jagged stones of regret.
You wish me to inhale the barbs of shadows
and the velocity of your death.
You want me to embrace the fire of your ID.
With paper arms and gasoline fingertips,
lasso your run-away mind.
Make a bouquet of roses from a wall of
rock and ice.
I know you'll get this:
I can't embrace your avalanche,
while I'm digging out from beneath mine.
Patchwork quilt of a metal roof,
with a hip-shot lean to the left.
Boards, weathered, to a storm cloud grey,
with remnants of red in the cracks.
Generations, hub of the farm.
If only the old barn could talk.
From its birth, in a barn raising,
lumber from a family saw mill.
Mares with foals, town dances and plows.
Hay in the loft and moonshine.
Sign of the times, acres were sold,
but the old red barn is stubborn.
It may be swaybacked in its spine,
yet, its rugged beauty is ageless.
For the contest: That Old Red Barn
Host: Rick Parise
Placement: 10th
In Memory of Jimmy Dale Still, Barrel horse rider, KIA, Song Be, Viet Nam, 1/1/70
Old Bill,
swaybacked, sand burrs in his mane.
He stands no longer hopefull by the fence up near the house,
but follows the shade around the shed,
switching flys.
Nearby the dented barrels
rust rank and file akimbo,
no longer equadistant prey
of steed and gladiator.
Hay in a self feeder.
The last time Jimmy came to break a bale,
carrot in his pocket, bridle in hand,
they were both young,
impetuous,
fearless,
bullet proof.
Bill's walked a trail, deep,
along the fence to the old arena.
Quiet now; full of weeds.
A place for breaking horses.
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