Recently I wrote a poem called: The Story, to honor a high school classmate who passed away. It was the first I'd written in quite a while, but it prompted me to look at some of my old work. Some of it is good, some not so good and some has proven to be just, well, trash. But this one, Fresh Horses, still seems fresh as do a few others, which I will publish as time goes along. I've always liked Fresh Horses and I hope you will too.
Fresh Horses
This string of horses is all that I own,
they keep me sane enough,
but mostly they keep me from being alone.
I watch their steamy breath when
the air snaps with cold,
and they nicker softly to me when the day's
"Hello" is told.
Their eyes grow wide and fearful
when my lasso's loosed to speak,
and they've thrown me to the ground, pitched me up
and down, so often that my brittle bones creak.
Still I listen for the music of their hooves
on rocky ground, and watch with pleasure
the joy they take in a dusty roll-around.
And if they weren't my living
I'd thank them for the best they were blessed to give,
and turn them loose with a tip of my hat and a wish to
live and let live.
Not all of my poems are about animals or cowboys, some are in blank verse and some are just nonsense. No, I'm not the former Poet Laureate of the United States, Billy Collins, but I have fun with words.
Copyright, March 25, 2013
