Fed 3 Horses
The narrator spoke
'She fed her 3 horses that morning'
Hippophagy...
a tragedy
============
While it is probable that the author meant that she
fed 3 horses in the stable,
horse slaughter occurs at Texas slaughterhouses
and the horse pieces are sent to France and other
hippophagous countries
poem by O. Anna Niemus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Do Cows Not Count?
The board of
The National Horse Protection League
advertised in a newspaper that there are no vegetarians on their board.
Do cows not count? Does God love horses more than cows or pigs?
****************
US regime (unelected) wants to murder (euthanize) wild horses
Senator Craig who has resigned because of a sexual scandal
(effective with election or before) is trying to prevent horse
protection. Horse slaughterhouses have moved to Canada and Mexico
poem by O. Anna Niemus
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Getting A Horse
So here I am
15 and over weight
not especially pretty
but not bad;
but invisible
and I hide in gym
and the looks I get
keep me in my place.
I try for friends
but the other outcasts
like me
don't seem to want to
draw attention;
can't talk to anyone,
teachers think I'm dull
I talk to my pillow
only my cat understands me
And, of course,
I don't have a boy friend.
She:
'Ok, let go through all of this.
What do you think comes first.
Why don't you pretend that you are your best friend
What would you tell you best friend to do? '
Daughter:
'I don't know.
I would tell her to think about what she can do
or what she really likes.'
'And that is? '
'Horses'
'Horses'.
'I didn't know you liked horses.'
'They are neat.'
'Ok tell your friend what to do about liking horses.
What does she want to do? '
'She wants a horse.'
'Wants a horse
To get a horse what does she needs to do.'
'Get some money.'
'Well how? '
'Maybe babysitting? '
'Sure tell your friend I have someone who needs babysitting
and she can do it to make money.'
'So I did, took a year,
but I got my horse.
some friends along the way
and a boyfriend.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Horses And Trains
I love them both…., but the Equine more….,
Power to spare…., so different, so rare….,
Only one can breed…, the other can rust….,
But together they leave us all in the dust.
We can train a horse….,
But we can’t horse a train….,
And a horse can’t hide you from the rain…,
Seems this all sounds so insane….,
Still my heart and soul remains….,
With Horses And Trains.....,
Horses And Trains.
poem by Trade Martin
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A Horse Is A Horse
A horse is a horse and a man is a man
And neither can be the other
And each can survive but is much better
In the company of one another.
And while a horse is a horse and that is true
A horse is but a beast
As a cow is a cow, some ask how
On its flesh we should not feast?
For they do so in France as in other places
And I don't know how they can
For while a horse is a horse and is only a horse
It is less a cow than it is a man!
poem by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
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He Is A Trier
He once was a man who owned greyhounds going back a few decades ago
But for them he was all the poorer the dogs that he owned were too slow
And now he has shares in a racehorse but for that he's not a wealthier man
The race horse though well bred is quite ordinary as they say one more also ran
With greyhounds and horses he has had it this horse he does swear is his last
Venture in the greyhound or horse racing business these things he will put to his past
Any spare cash he has he'll invest in stocks and bonds with a far greater chance of success
It is due to greyhounds and horses that he is in a financial mess
He has erred twice but never again greyhounds and horses are now in his past
The horse has never run a place the greyhounds just could not run fast
Dabbling in the stock market his newest business venture trading on stocks and shares he will try
Fortune favours the brave some will tell you this time luck him may not deny
But never more greyhounds or horses for his mistakes he has had to pay
But credit him he is a trier and good times for him may not be far away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Old Black Tom
My dad sold black Tom our old work-horse when he had known a better day
But what happened to him after that I do not know for to say
Suppose he was slaughtered for dog meat few work-horses of old age do die
To say that all work-horses become children pets would be telling a lie
Any way old black Tom would never have been any good as a child's pet
A few nips he gave to me I never will forget
Old Tom he was surely not gentle or quiet
And given the opportunity he surely would bite
Five out of ten for him would seem a fair score
He was a good work-horse that and nothing more
Not the finest equine west of Millstreet Town
For Tom the old rogue horse no such a renown
He was sold to a horse dealer more than three decades ago
And what happened to him after I cannot say I do know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Him My Wild Horse...I, the Chosen to Fly on HIS RIDE!
Eye Drop his translated name
In Portuguese just 'Pingo'
My Dearest Horse for so many rides we joined
Him, my brother, his horse and I
“Pingo” supposedly
'The Little Daddy's Boy's Horse'
But my brother he would drop
And scared the little boy was,
forever no horses he would ride...
Of “Pingo” he was afraid.
None’s to be on fault
The horse’s translated name was “Drop”
But truly just meant to join for a Gallop
'The Little Daddy's Boy afraid...
My Dad mad...No fun for me
YES! Let’s Swap!
There it was, all resolved.
'Pingo' forever now My Wild Horse
My brother and I on a run
My Dad Happy laud and proud
'Go Little Son', and all happy we were
Pingo and I, my brother and his friendly new horse
Following the horse tracks
Wild and Free, there we were
For our remarkable back horse rides
So what about the “Drop”?
Pingo and I jointly on flight no time to play
Any other act, Let’s Run My Wild Horse!
poem by Florida Angel
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Cloud Chief Horses
I never had a horse at Cloud Chief
Even though horses were in season
My dad would say I ate like a horse
So to save food that was the reason
I guess it was either me or a horse
My dad had an horse in early days
Must of had more food in his time
Good reason to love his yesterdays
poem by John McCornack
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Dream Horse II (Revised)
Galloping, galloping in the night sky,
a pale dream horse and his dream herd float by.
There's no sound from their hooves,
There's no pound of their hearts,
as silently, soundlessly they waft
through the dark.
The moon was a chalis brimming with light,
when I first looked up and witnessed
their flight.
In a swirl of mother-of-pearl stardust they rode
and freedom of spirit was their only load.
Dream Horse, you are made of dream dust.
You rear on your hind legs,
and paw at the sky.
On earth you were a sight to stun the eye.
Ah, but now you are old or without a home.
There is money to be made, and Hearts run cold.
There are those that lie to sell your bones,
No matter how many weep or how many moan!
They say on this planet there is no grace,
for you and your wild herds,
there's not enough space.
but in endless eternity you've found a place.
So ride, Dream Horse, ride. Whirl by
with your dream herd,
through the vast incandescence of night!
There's no friction of resistance
in their noisless race
as swiftly they slip through rimless space.
Author's Comments:
'I was deeply shocked to learn of our horses being sold to foreign countries for food. According to articles owners were told they were going to retirement pastures or mercifully euthanized. Proposition 6, Save the Horses and http.//Save the Horses.com make fascinating reading.
poem by Mary Naylor
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Dream Hoese II (Revised)
Galloping, galloping in the night sky,
a pale dream horse and his dream herd float by.
There's no sound from their hooves,
There's no pound of their hearts,
as silently, soundlessly they waft
through the dark.
The moon was a chalis brimming with light,
when I first looked up and witnessed
their flight.
In a swirl of mother-of-pearl stardust they rode
and freedom of spirit was their only load.
Dream Horse, you are made of dream dust.
You rear on your hind legs,
and paw at the sky.
On earth you were a sight to stun the eye.
Ah, but now you are old or without a home.
There is money to be made, and Hearts run cold.
There are those that lie to sell your bones,
No matter how many weep or how many moan!
They say on this planet there is no grace,
for you and your wild herds,
there's not enough space.
but in endless eternity you've found a place.
So ride, Dream Horse, ride. Whirl by
with your dream herd,
through the vast incandescence of night!
There's no friction of resistance
in their noisless race
as swiftly they slip through rimless space.
Author's Comments:
'I was deeply shocked to learn of our horses being sold to foreign countries for food. According to articles owners were told they were going to retirement pastures or mercifully euthanized. Proposition 6, Save the Horses and http.//Save the Horses.com make fascinating reading.
poem by Mary Naylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Boy Lives On Our Farm
The boy lives on our Farm, he's not
Afeard o' horses none!
An' he can make 'em lope, er trot,
Er rack, er pace, er run.
Sometimes he drives two horses, when
He comes to town an' brings
A wagon-full o' 'taters nen,
An' roastin'-ears an' things.
Two horses is 'a team,' he says,
An' when you drive er hitch,
The right-un's a 'near-horse,' I guess
Er 'off'--I don't know which--
The Boy lives on our Farm, he told
Me, too, 'at he can see,
By lookin' at their teeth, how old
A horse is, to a T!
I'd be the gladdest boy alive
Ef I knowed much as that,
An' could stand up like him an' drive,
An' ist push back my hat,
Like he comes skallyhootin' through
Our alley, with one arm
A-wavin' Fare-ye-well! to you--
The Boy lives on our Farm!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Equine Laureate
What if horses had the pulpit on Sunday morn
Would there be as many people staying home
Or would our Churches be filled to the rafters
To meditate with a horse that is free to roam
What messages would an old horse say to us
Maybe of much love and sayings that forewarn
Maybe just some rules that we could all live by
What if horses had the pulpit on Sunday morn
poem by John McCornack
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Were I A Horse
A balding man my hair is gray decades ago it was brown
Were I a horse I'm sure by now that I would have been put down
I feel so very stiff and old father time is catching up on me
And I for one don't fear life's end what is to be will be.
I was not any good at sports I cannot dance and sing
I'm just your average ordinary bloke not much good at anything
They say only the good die young and I still linger on
And better people by far than I deceased, forgotten and gone.
Were I a horse I'd have been put down that may seem crude to say
But that's what happens to most horses when they have had their day
Most horses save for the lucky few not allowed to grow old and die
I feel grateful to be still around more living I'll enjoy.
Were I a horse I'd have been put down for dog or cat food maybe
The knacker takes the worn out horse the Reaper will claim me
The years on me begin to tell my fastest pace is slow
And I was in the prime of life some thirty years ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Of Horses And Flies
A fly had ventured from his nest
and flew (of course) then came to rest
upon the tailbone of a horse.
And with considerable force
he pushed his stinger through the hide
which promptly ended up inside.
The horse, whose tolerance of pain
was governed by an oblong brain,
a horse, that much is widely known
is born without a funny bone
It follows that a horse may cry
when bitten by a nasty fly.
The fly, whose cousins own the dunny
inflicts his germs and thinks it funny
when bits of half-digested dung
infect the spot where he has stung.
Though in the case of any horse
it matters little since, of course
a horse makes, on command, vaccine
which brings resistance to the scene.
Thus horses won't, upon reflection,
pick up a Coliform infection,
which pleases me (you may ask why)
but tell me, why the horse would cry!
A horse will cry at times, of course
due to the fly's lack of remorse.
Which does intensify the pain
I hope I've made this subject plain.
Since stings make horses jump and wince
you'll never see a horse that grins.
You may consider this quite silly
but think about it, as a filly
a horse soon meets the dreaded fly
he suffers, as the years go by
and stores the thought inside his head
that flies would better off be dead.
And if, the Gods in the hereafter
outlawed all flies we'd hear the laughter
of horses just as now and then
a nicker sound comes from the pen.
This is a soft and pleasant sound
containing vowels that are round.
But if you hear them whinny-ing
you know they're thinking of the sting
and of the time when God will boil
all flies in holy Hyssop oil.
All mammals then will celebrate
the new and blessed stingless state
and will, in gratitude endorse
the king of critters, yes the horse.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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The Election set a trend
Despite dismal performances,
The mule has been reelected
By the mixed population
Of horses and mules in the stable.
The whole mules voted for the mule.
The opponent horse lost the race.
The horses divided themselves
And voted on ideology.
The victory of the mule is
Due more to the racial backing
Than to the performance reckoning,
An ugly trend set for the first time.
08.11.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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What is a Horse?
What is a horse?
A horse has eyes as dainty as a mink.
The grace is interrupted merely by a blink.
A horse is beauty.
What is a horse?
A horse is a tree in a storm that never goes down.
A horse is a weathered rock that stays around.
A horse is ancient.
What is a horse?
A horse waltzes like breeze over rivers.
She curvets and leaps like rain shivers.
A horse is a marionette.
What is a horse?
A horse is determination, that never stops flowing.
A horse is fondness, that never stops growing.
A horse is poetic power.
poem by Lily Whittaker
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Troy
I’ve been counting down the days to
see the shoeing of my beautiful horse
bandit
he has bad feet because
he was run hard in barrel racing
and put away wet
by the people who owned him before I did
I was taking my last ride on him
for the week
or that’s what I thought
at 3pm troy drove up
I told him all the angles he needed to shoe
my baby
I let him be and do his thing
I came back a hour latter see how he was doing
and to offer some water
cause of
the kind hearted person I am
he said I may have to stay off bandit for a while
I didn’t think that meant
A WHOLE YEAR
that man messed bandit’s feet up so bad that now
I couldn’t ride him for a year
it wasn’t fair to bandit he didn’t do anything
to deserve a whole year of pain
It wasn’t fair to me either cause
that is one of the strongest way to build your confidence up
and bond with your horse
I love riding horses
I have 11 other horses
I have to ride on a normal day
but bandit is my baby
and my best friend
and when you mess with my friends
you’ve crossed the line
but when you’ve messed with my horse
if I could I’ll screw over your life
cause when you do that you’ve gone way to far
y’all
my horse is my best friend
my companion
my bond for life
my everything
why my horse troy
why bandit
why troy
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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The Will Makes The Way
He left a will to share his nineteen horses:
A half to his son; a quarter to daughter;
One fifth to his maid. Indivisible;
A wise man was sought, who came on his horse.
He placed his horses with nineteen horses.
Making it to twenty, he did as the will bid.
Ten to son, five to daughter and four to maid.
He took his. If will is there, way will form.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Brown Horses
The brownness of a rider and his horse carried his horse,
A major and great horsemanship approached the brown horse.
There was magnetism, speech of behaviour, with the horseman
Who was riding his animal of great pleasurableness.
To please this pleasure was great, but the riding housed a rider
Who had spectators looking in this and that direction.
An insect was a smaller kind of animal, housing a rider,
But animals like horses of brown worked hard and fast,
Too praiseworthy, in a gamble, far too important and big.
The brown horses had shadows with the hospitals,
A novel became written of them, of their health and waists.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Tale Of Violins
The Mongols used the hair of horses’ tails
to make the ancestors of bows of violins
which move across the strings when playing scales
like fish that skim through water with their fins.
Music that’s the food of love has forces
which move men with its airs, all made of Luft,
to love far more than any long-maned horses,
as I do, lucky Luftmensch who's not hoofed.
Edward Rothstein writes about horses in the NYT, May 16,2008 (“Man’s Best Friend, Hoofed Division”) :
Without horses, where would we be? Trousers might never have become fashionable. The violin might never have come into existence. The Aztecs might have thrived another few centuries. The Industrial Revolution might have sputtered out before its time. No one would have to get off his high horse, and no political race would have a dark horse candidate. And the American Museum of Natural History would have had to find another subject for its sprawling, charming and illuminating exhibition that is opening on Saturday: “The Horse.” The opening festivities will include demonstrations of horseshoeing and horse grooming; an appearance by Thumbelina, a creature billed as the world’s smallest horse (17 1/2 inches tall) : and a visit by a vintage horse-drawn ambulance. But the exhibition itself relies far less on country fair spectacle and far more on a provocative history of the ways in which humans and horses became, as the show says, “powerfully linked.” Those links may be as slight as fashions in clothing (trousers, we are told, developed specifically for the riding of horses) and as important as the fate of empires (“Next to God, ” Cortés is supposed to have said about the conquest of Mexico, “we owed our victory to the horses”) . The exhibition is suggestive about the evolution of the arts. (The 13th- and 14th-century Mongols, who held their immense empire together with the aid of the horse, also used hair from its tail to create the ancestor of the modern violin bow.) And it invites speculation about the course of technology. (The Industrial Revolution ultimately displaced horse power with horsepower, but not before horses shared the burden with machines: on display is a horse-drawn, steam-powered firetruck from 19th-century Pennsylvania.)
5/16/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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