02 Tuesday Apr 2019
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Canada Geese, Cowboy, Freedom, Hope, Horse, Horse Poem, Horse Poems, Horse poetry, Horses, Life, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Ravens, River, Soul, Souls, Spirit, Spirits, Spokane, Spokane River, Spring, Survival
We rode dirt and mud,
through standing water,
like ponds, to verify
the sun, and life
of returning things:
Canada Geese, wood ravens,
mule deer, grazing at dusk,
and the river, surging
with the spring run off
of our souls, singing.
06 Thursday Dec 2018
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Equine, Foal, Herd, Horse Poem, Horse Poems, Horse poetry, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry
The familiar sounds of mi familia,
a hu-hu-hu-hu-hu of many hellos,
and a foal’s heart-shaped muzzle
pressed through the bars,
waiting for a welcoming kiss.
There’s only one way for the heart to go,
and that is up, up,up, where the soul,
the spirit, the thing we know
that is delighted there,
has finally founds its home.
08 Wednesday Oct 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Autumn, Cowboy, Fall, Hawthorn, Horse Poem, Horse Poems, Horses, Paint, Palisades Park, Pinto, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Ponderosa Pine, Serviceberry, Spokane, Trail Ride
You should have wished for rain,
But you relished the sun, instead,
And the sweet smell of orchard grass,
In the pinto’s October sweat.
Before you left,
You stood under the bow,
And plucked an apple,
Ripe with the full bloom
Of a long summer.
You held it outstretched
Until all that was left
Was the juice, and the salt
From the palm of your open hand.
You should have wished for rain,
But you relished the sun, instead,
And his slow steps down steep trails,
Adrift of dirt and loose chunks of basalt.
The robin and wren, tree swallows and chickadees,
Flitted among branches of Ponderosa, Serviceberry,
and the Hawthorn with its dangerous nails,
While you thought of nothing but that,
And how your horse’s mane felt in your hands.
22 Tuesday Apr 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Have you ever felt the quiet,
A sundown that steadies your bones?
I stood for a moment as the horses ate grain,
Big, bold geldings as gentle as whispers,
As noble as gods:
Old Red, his eyes blurred with cataracts,
My horse, the orphaned-pinto,
His breath always in my hands,
And the arthritic gray herd leader,
Now totally white with age.
Some people hope for castles,
As for heaven, I’d prefer a barn.
