The Mare
The Mare.
Lonely horse
On a misty spring field
It neighed
Came to the fence
I stroked its damp flank
It began grazing
But looked up to see if
I was still there
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Misty Water Woman
I was driving round, as the sun went down
When I came upon a lake, the sign said misty water
And standing there, with wet and tangled hair was a girl
She said her name was bo, she was a farmers daughter
I said get in, Ill take you home, you must be cold
Misty water woman
You never get to her
Misty water woman
You never get to touch her
And feel her near
It began to storm, and our talk grew warm
Till I stopped the car outside a cold and lonely place
I said were here
But she had disappeared
And on the seat was a pool of tears
And a handkerchief of lace
I did not see her leave
I was amazed
Misty water woman
You never get to her
Misty water woman
You never get to touch her
And feel her warm
I sped into the house,
It took her father and her mother to straighten me out
What was it all about
Please let me know
She looked sad, and he looked mad
And he said, yes youre right, once we had a daughter
Her name was bo, but that was long ago
Years have gone since she drowned at misty water
And the way he took it, took me by surprise
Misty water woman
You never get to her
Misty apparition
You never get to touch her
And feel her near
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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High Horse
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
And get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Moonlit shadow, she starts a trippin' firelight
Jumpin' the trees lyin' across the right of way
Silvery mornin' it glistens down the valley
But she don't stop 'til we ride the night away
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
Get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Blonde braids tangle at the misty break of mornin'
Catchin' light through a dusty window pane
Lost in lust, in denial of the warnin'
She digs her heels in this stallion's flank again
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
Get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Get up on your high horse, woman
You paid the price, you get to play
Get up on your high horse, woman
You're gonna ride to the break of day
To the break of day
To the break of day
To the break of day
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
Get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Get up on your high horse, woman
You paid the price, you get to play
Get up on your high horse, woman
You're gonna ride to the break of day
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In baseball you hit your home run over the right-field fence, the left-field fence, the center-field fence. Nobody cares. In golf everything has got to be right over second base.
quote by Ken Harrelson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Telling The Truth
Telling of Truths
A brown horse galloped across a snowy field at the end
of the pasture a fence, it jumped over and continued its
crazy gallop into the woods only came to a shuddering
halt when it saw a moose. Steaming nostrils, the moose
charged, horse fled deeper into the woods. Where it met
a forest troll who took it into his cave and gave the horse
a bucket of hot chocolate to drink. Since the snow deep
and tiring to sink into when walking, the troll also fitted
the horse with snow shoes; also, the troll had no need of
a horse led it back to its field. When the farmer came to
fetch his horse and saw the snowshoes, he had a nervous
breakdown and sent away to an asylum, where doctors
tried to convince him it was all in his mind. But the farmer
would have none of it. So he is still there and they will not
release him until he agrees with them that a horse wears
iron shoes and not snowshoes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am Just A Horse
I am just a horse
I have no dreams I have no choice
I'm mad I'm sad I can rejoice
Yet still I have
No voice
Revere me regard me discard me
The greenest field the killing pen
I never know just how or when
I'll live or die or
Speak again
Love me respect me dissect me
I'll be your friend or someone's steak
Or pay the debts on bets you make
Whatever I have you
Will take
In the end I'm still a horse
And my fate is not my own
Of course
The power of female
A farm horse is drawn to a farm mare.
A race horse too will be
Averse not to a farm mare.
Such is the power of the female.
03.03.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lovely To His Eyes (Hybridanelle)
A farmer walks up to his horse and it is spring again
in the distance there’s ploughing red Massy Ferguson tractor
and he bridles the horse and there is pain
His son is out there tracking the field
seems young, vital and strong
and it’s as if he has now got to yield
and the earth is soft underfoot after the rain.
and he’s still the administrator.
A farmer walks up to his horse and it is spring again
and he still has some power to wield
and his eyes measure the ploughed field, the smell of fresh earth,
seems young, vital and strong
and he wonders how many years still remain
but the ache reminds him of the words of the doctor
and he bridles the horse and there is pain
that surrounds him, almost like a token of new birth
and the ardent Arabic horse knows its master well
and his eyes measure the ploughed field, the smell of fresh earth
and stretched out lies the farm that he has to maintain
and on the house’s thatched roof gleams the lightening conductor.
A farmer walks up to his horse and it is spring again
and he horse acts with love, as if under his spell
and life is really great under the sun, wind and sky
and the ardent Arabic horse knows its master well
and from riding horses he have got to abstain,
but he keeps his face pleasant like that of an actor
and he bridles the horse and there is pain
everything is familiar like any other day, where he is saddled high
and he feels full of spirit
and life is really great under the sun, wind and sky
the farm stretches out lovely to his eyes without a stain
and he rides to the chicken coop and the incubator.
A farmer walks up to his horse and it is spring again
and he bridles the horse and there is pain
and probably soon his only child will inherit.
His son is out there tracking the field
and he feels full of spirit
and it’s as if he has now got to yield.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On A Winter Afternoon
A gray mare standing beside
The snow covered wooden fence.
The fence along a country road
Icy and well traveled.
Cars and trucks passing by;
Few noticing the gray mare
Breathing hot fog
From her nostrils.
The gray mare noticing all
Passing by, the wind in her hair,
Ruffling her mane. Patiently,
Standing by the snow covered
Wooden gate.
Awaiting her masters return
From work to bring her safely
Across the country road
To her home, the red barn,
And a meal of winter hay.
poem by Joe Wocoski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As I Sit Upon My Horse
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the field
A field of rippling grass
Blowing in the wind
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sky
A clear blue sky
Filled with clouds
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sun
A yellow sun up high
Shining on my face
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at this world
A world fashioned,
Created by my God
poem by Horse Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ghost Horse
Sitting on the window ledge
Staring straight ahead
I see you grazing in the field
The sun shining bright
And the sky a baby blue
Clouds no where to be seen
He must really love you
You wander off
Just out of sight
Behind the light pink blossom tree
I am drawn to you
I race, I run,
But I’m to late
Where have you gone?
I see you by the water stream
So quiet, so peaceful
And so magnificent
Your moves are like an angel
They almost float and fly
Your coat sparking in the sun
Your mane a radiant white
Your standing over me
Nudging me…..
I don’t know what to do
I put down my pencil and pad
And leap on your back
And you set off
So here we are
Racing through the field
Hunters go past
The hunters are gone
Yet I see a horse
Its rider face down in the mud
A Whinny but no scream
Sitting on the window ledge
staring straight ahead
Now I watch that hunters horse
because that horse lost its rider
I asked around
Yet noone knew of a horse
With a coat that sparkled in the sun
With a mane a radiant white
and till this say, i swear ill see you again
poem by Megzii Invisable
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Move with a reservation
Imagine a field with a fence.
Imagine it without a fence.
Imagine it with a fence and a gate,
Like which must be your contact field.
27.12.2011
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Man to Follow
Apart from the crowd with its banter and mirth,
Sitting loose on his mare with an eye to the whins,
He has looked to his curb, he has tightened his girth,
He has marked out a place where the big double thins.
Here's a good one to follow,
To follow, to follow-
A good one to follow when business begins.
'Mid the murmur of meeting, the laugh and the joke,
'Mid the trampling of horses, the cheer and the rate,
He has caught the low whimper when Challenger spoke
And has seen the raised hat of the man by the gate.
He's the right one to follow,
To follow, to follow,
The right one to follow and trust with your fate.
When they tumble from covert, each hound giving tongue,
When they carry it, confident, over the plough,
When the hurrying Field down the headland is strung,
Here's the man for your money! You follow him now!
He's the right one to follow,
To follow, to follow,
So bundle and after him! Never mind how!
Ere the gay coffee-housers are into their stride
He is over the hedge with a trifle to spare
And down in his saddle and ready to ride,
For whoever may miss it he means to be there!
This right one to follow,
To follow, to follow,
This lean lashing lad on the bonny blood mare.
If you're riding a horse that can gallop and jump,
That can creep through a cat-hole or spread at a ditch,
If you don't mind a thorn-scratch, a bruise, or a bump,
A drain or a double and Devil care which,
Here's the right one to follow,
To follow, to follow-
The man that's a wizard, the mare that's a witch!
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Eyes for me
Lonely, till i hear the word, 'lovely! '
lonely, until my mistakes are accepted gladly.
lonely, until i'm missed terribly.
Lovely it is, and without it i'm lonely.
Gladly i'd accept if asked, for i feel lonely.
Terribly i convey my heart and it remains lonely.
Looked for it everywhere,
looked for him without a corner to spare.
Looked but dint see, eyes for only me so rare.
Everywhere i turned, saw others being looked for.
Spared not a tear, for him to be as before.
Rarely it is true, whats said in a folklore.
poem by Jessie Peter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ghost Song
An old man and an old horse moved slowly and steadily
towards the furthest mountain.
An old man on an old horse.
The old man thought of the many times he'd been thrown;
the old horse, how many times he'd been ridden.
They weren't in no great rush.
The old man sat straight in the saddle, head held high.
The old horse kept his head high too,
letting his feet choose the way as they
searched the clouds looking for any old friends
they had passed on the way.
A soft gentle rain started to fall,
the horse stopped, the old man bent over
and stroked his friend's neck
poem by William Mendelson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One Lonely Tree
One lonely tree
Standing
In one lonely field
One lonely field
Sitting
In one lonely city
One lonely city
Laying
In one lonely state
One lonely state
Drowning
In one lonely nation
One lonely nation
With
One lonely person
Watching
poem by Heather Schroer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Sit Upon My Horse
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the field
A field of rippling grass
Blowing in the wind
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sky
A clear blue sky
Filled with clouds
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sun
A yellow sun up high
Shining on my face
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at this world
A world fashioned,
Created by my God
Horse
What does the horse give you
That I cannot give you?
I watch you when you are alone,
When you ride into the field behind the dairy,
Your hands buried in the mare's
Dark mane.
Then I know what lies behind your silence:
Scorn, hatred of me, of marriage. Still,
You want me to touch you; you cry out
As brides cry, but when I look at you I see
There are no children in your body.
Then what is there?
Nothing, I think. Only haste
To die before I die.
In a dream, I watched you ride the horse
Over the dry fields and then
Dismount: you two walked together;
In the dark, you had no shadows.
But I felt them coming toward me
Since at night they go anywhere,
They are their own masters.
Look at me. You think I don't understand?
What is the animal
If not passage out of this life?
poem by Louise Gluck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Those Who Come To Bull
When is BS,
BS?
And begins to spoil the atmosphere?
When bullies attempt to jump over the Moon,
To stumble over pebbles instead.
With a sneaking done over a fence,
To stench the field.
With disguises to pass themselves off,
As prized cows...
To spy on the thoroughbreds grazing.
As the real prized cows swoon,
To gain the attention...
Of those who are true champions.
No matter what those who come to bull do!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0328 Holy Shit
jeez I thought here’s
this lady I have the greatest
respect for and she
comes out with this holy crap
and holy shit stuff
so yesterday I was
walking through the
winter-wet tufted grass
of the field they keep
the cows in this year
avoiding the cowpatties
the outside tap for
gumboots is frozen
and stopped and looked at one
fresh and steaming
the way you do
and the cow down the field
looked at me with that
not very enquiring look
they have but today
it came across as So?
and I remembered
the milk that morning which
had that layer of extra
spring cream
and the roast beef
smell when the kitchen
door’s open on a
spring day and it all
linked up later
as I got home and sat
contemplating
the bathroom fittings
as one does and
thought
holy shit yeah
the lady’s right
(for Mary and PoHo)
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On the Boundary
I Love the ancient boundary-fence,
That mouldering chock-and-log.
When I go ride the boundary
I let the old horse jog
And take his pleasure in and out
Where the sandalwood grows dense,
And tender pines clasp hands across
The log that tops the fence.
’Tis pleasant on the boundary-fence,
These sultry summer days;
A mile away, outside the scrub,
The plain is all ablaze,
The sheep are panting on the camps,
The heat is so intense;
But here the shade is cool and sweet
Along the boundary-fence.
I love to loaf along the fence,
So does my collie dog,
He often finds a spotted cat
Hid in a hollow log;
He’s very near as old as I
And ought to have more sense,
I’ve hammered him so many times
Along the boundary-fence.
My mother says that boundary fence
Must surely be bewitched;
The old man says that through that fence
The neighbours are enriched;
It’s always down, and through the gaps
Our stock all get them hence,
I takes me half my time to watch
The doings of that fence.
But should you seek the reason
You won’t travel very far,
’Tis there a mile away among
The murmuring Belar:
The Jones’s block joins on to ours,
And so, in consequence,
It’s part of Polly’s work to ride
Their side the boundary-fence.
poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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