Posts Tagged ‘Horse’

Three nights I have lain awake
Storming through half-sleep dreams
And possibilities, thoughts,
Mental magical carpets,
Half real, half realized;
Doors half opened and swinging
Smooth computers peripherally
Analyzing and verifying
Believing yet incredulous
Of the panoramic impossibility.
The stark lightning of imagination
Energized and rampantly naked;
Leaping obstacles with merry, nimble feet
Barely touching – gracing – the earth.
A sweeping wave of everything
Reconditioning, revitalized
Colorization by raw power
Of a reality as credible as anything,
Dreams of genie lamps opening
Construction paper flowers blooming
Water falling, cities lit by their own fires,
Shadows mocking their creators.
Stories so rich in texture
That you live them overnight,
Morning comes when it comes
With the snap of the blind
And a sense of weariness bone deep.
Aches from riding warhorses,
Twinges from old wounds,
Bruises and abrasions that quietly throb,
That you don’t remember receiving.
Nights pass in a variety of times
Lying awake, or so I think,
Chasing reflections in mirrors,
Tuning in to the colored snow
Falling inside my eyelids.

Arguments

Posted: February 9, 1995 in Poetry
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You stand on your viewpoint
Like the top of the mountain
As the floods rise,
Carrying off your unicorns.
They, like you
Were too proud for my ark;
For their pride,
We all have horses with no horns.

coming calling

Posted: December 13, 1994 in Poetry
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The snow has touched the mountaintops
And the leaves drift on the ground.
My breath is grey before my face
As I’m walking into town.

I left my car parked in the drive;
I wished to go on foot.
A whim the moon brought to my thoughts
When I laced my father’s boots.

When I come calling at your house
I’ll check to see that your light shows.
If it’s off, I’ll admire the frost
A moment, then I’ll go.

Sometimes I won’t see one car pass
Going either way.
The wind spins papers through the dancing trees;
They keep my footsteps gay.

The silent night and the Christmas lights,
The pine-bough’s fresh perfume;
The ribbons and wreaths and lost Autumn leaves —
They all point my way to you.

When I come calling at your house,
I’ll check to see that your light’s on.
If it is out, I’ll leave without
Telling you that I have gone.

The walk back home is always long,
But the beauty still remains.
I imagine a sleigh, two horses; some hay,
And my hands upon the reins.

The moon is calm in the darkened sky
It silvers the windowsills.
I climb into bed with you in my head;
Stuff for these poems I build.

When I come calling at your house,
I’ll check to see if you’ve lit your light,
For if it’s not, then I guess you forgot,
And I can’t come and say goodnight.

Horse

Posted: December 9, 1994 in Poetry
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There seems to be a certain point
where a great deal of intelligence
becomes a stallion too strong,
or wild to train, to ride.
Madmen have become so smart
that their brains have snapped:
the reins have cracked,
and they cannot let go, or get off.
Simple people are said to be happy —
their mounts aren’t unruly
and serve them well.
Those with the powerful steeds
that are still under control
are successful and productive:
the plows they pull are deep,
the furrows they plant are wide.
Yet as we pity the farmer
with a lame or weak horse,
pity the land-worker with
an unbroken or wild beast.
For we admire the size
and the strong shiny flanks
from over the split-rail fence,
yet the owner’s field is criss-crossed
with uneven and crooked berms,
or stand fertile and untilled
next to the brown-eyes
and restless
horse.

2 Stories

Posted: June 16, 1993 in Poetry
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I had a beer with an Indian.
he said he was an Indian
so I bought him a beer
and he told me about a ghost horse
who could run faster than the wind
who he was sure he had seen
in the long grass behind his trailer.
he bought me a beer and
I smiled and told him
that I loved him and
we drank our beers.
we left and I walked home
slower than the wind
to a bed of empty dreams.

Hoping Like You

Posted: June 7, 1993 in Poetry
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oh I hope for a natural disaster, too
just like you, so I can make do
with my own resources
and tame wild horses
to ride past the memories of fossil fuels.
just an earthquake or two
gentle enough to shake apart
the concrete and steel,
to crack the awful ribcage
around the city’s broken heart
barely beating, it can’t support
the far-flung extremities that it can’t feel,
worn roads like nerve systems
that are so slow to report.
sunder it with waves in the earth
and blame it on a poet’s curse.

Eagle Feathers

Posted: November 27, 1992 in Poetry
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from my hair flutter many eagle feathers,
tied to the dark ends of curls,
framing my face in the chill wind
which flies over flat expanses:
the seas and the prairies.
it is this wind which cloaks
my feathered brothers and sisters
while they hunt with their keen eyes.
in these skies, dusted with clouds,
runs the horse of my spirit
and my name, glancing from
one end of the world to the other.
these eagle feathers tug at my hair
in the wind to tell me: fly! fly!