Fond And Happy Memories
In the middle of February they always came to Annagloor
And parked their horse drawn vans by the by road the travelling Irish poor
They came for the March horse fair in Millstreet Town horses they bought and sold
And a beautiful Pinto to them was a horse worth more than gold.
The coldest part of the Winter is in mid February
And a cold wind blew across the sky in temperatures low as minus 3
Their horses they did not tether on the by road they ranged free
And though that was close to fity years ago those memories remain with me.
And though many Seasons have come and gone since then the memories remain evergreen
Around their camp fire they drunk their illicit booze the stuff known as poteen
And the accordionist played the old tunes and with him they sang along
And they were bound through their cultural links to music dance and song.
Their ancestors were the dispossessed that Cromwells's army had put on the road
That led them to the wandering life of the 'no fixed abode'
Their mothers gave them life in their horse drawn vans and in their horse drawn vans they died
And from birth till death they roamed around the Irish countryside
Outcasts in their own country and homeless and downtrod
But through their music dance and song linked to a greater God
And though they too had their human frailties so too don't we one and all
And fond and happy memories of them I can recall.
Their children and grand children don't live in a horse drawn van
For the late fifties brought great changes to the lives of the wandering clan
Yet by the by road at Annagloor around their camp fire in the moonlight
I still can hear them singing on a cold and frosty night.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Memories Of The Irish Travellers
The travellers parked their horse drawn vans at the Shannaknock cross when I was a young boy
And recalling such good memories is a thing I still enjoy
And though their colorful Romany caravans are no longer to be seen
Good memories last a life time and we recall what has been.
I loved their colorful pinto horses with white patches through the brown
On March the first they bought and sold them at the horse fair in Millstreet Town
In the early sixties the increase on automobile traffic brought an end to the horse drawn van
And jeeps and motor vans became the transport of the born to wander clan.
At the cross road around their camp fire on a starry Winter's night
They played their tunes and sung their songs under the pale moonlight
And something lost forever that won't be found again
And only the fond memories of the past now does remain
Of Ireland in the fifties and the early sixties long before I reached my prime
When the travellers travelled in their horse drawn vans that is going back in time
They added so much colour to the green old countryside
As the byroads of the County they travelled far and wide.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Fond Memories Of The Irish Travellers
The wanderlust was in them and they moved from place to place
In their horse drawn gipsy caravans but they were a happy race
Of people for they had the gift of music and they had the gift of song
And to the dispossessed of Cromwell their ancestry belong.
I loved their pinto horses in their coats of white and brown
As they trotted down the byways towards another country Town
They parked by a quiet crossroad a few days prior to the horse fair
And around their camp fires they sang their songs and drank their grog in the chilly night air.
Their nickname it was 'Tinker' since they were tinsmiths by trade
And their women travelled from door to door for to sell the tin pots and cans their husbands made
But they did not like the Tinker name when to them it was referred
The tag of travelling people they very much preferred.
The late fifties brought much change in Ireland for those of no fixed abode
And the sharp increase in motor cars and trucks forced their horse drawn vans off of the road
And though nothing last forever it has always been that way
Fond memories of the Irish Travellers till my end with me will stay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Now A Memory Of The Past
The travellers parked their romany horse drawn vans at the Shannaknock Cross when when frosted fields were bare
But despite the cold and damp weather they did not seem to have a care
Their pinto horses with ropes tied to trees munched on bunches of hay
And old Clara Hill wore his hat of snow on a cold February day
The coldness of the Winter chill was in the frosty air
A week before the first of March and Millstreet Town Horse Fair
The by roads of Duhallow they had travelled up and down
On their way to the big horse fair that was held in Millstreet Town
Time does not wait for anyone and leaves us looking older and gray
But the good memories of our childhood years till death with us will stay
I loved them for their love of poetry, song and music and life they did enjoy
But the sixties brought great change to Duhallow where I lived as a boy
The late twentieth century to Ireland brought great changes and few things seem to last
And their romany vans and pinto horses now a memory of the past.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Farewell To The Travelling People
Farewell to the travelling people their fame it was known far and wide
Their horse drawn vans are no longer to be seen on the by roads of the green countryside
Their descendants live a different sort of a lifestyle with the passing of the decades few things stay the same
And so it is for the children of the wanderlust people who too are often called out of name.
Farewell to the travelling musicians on their culture they too took great pride
They used to play beautiful old tunes but sad to say their old tunes with them died
A thing of beauty is lost forever and the Seasons they come and they go
And across the countryside they travelled in the winds of change ever does blow.
They knew about discrimination the under class of their Homeland
But they had their own ways and cultures that others could not understand
Their love of their coloured pinto horses their great love of music and song
Lost to the winds of change forever their culture to history now belong.
Farewell to the travelling people fond memories of them do remain
They travelled the by roads of Ireland their likes we will not see again
They played their music by their camp fire and sung in the glow of the fire light
And their romany vans drawn by their pinto horses made for such a beautiful sight.
poem by Francis Duggan
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March Horse Fair Day
The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet Town.
In Ireland on March the first the sun doesn't often shine
In fact the day is seldom ever fine
Old February till latter March remain
You take your hat and coat expecting rain.
Near 10 A.M. it makes a heavy shower
And it keeps on raining maybe for an hour
And horses and their owners soaked right to the skin
But rain doesn't worry tough horse loving men.
The deals were clinched with hand slap and hand shake
Your bond your word and your word you would not break
The Town Square packed with people young and old
And deals were done and many horses sold.
And people there from many walks of life
The travelling man with his children and wife,
And the man who owns forty acres of moor
By any standards he's considered poor.
And wealthy farmer down south for the day
To buy good horse and make the journey pay
And horses changed hands when the deals were made
And Uptown pubs were doing a roaring trade.
My thoughts return to happier days gone by
When I was younger and a school going boy
And March horse fair was always school free day
The better memories with us tend to stay.
And I too went to Millstreet old Town Square
For to watch the dealings and the barterings there,
The slap of hands, the handshakes deals were done
And old friendships renewed and new friendships were won.
A nip of winter in the morning air
As people made their way to the horse fair
A shame about the weather some did say
But rain or sleet did not keep them away.
A time of year between winter and spring
Too cold and early yet for birds to sing
Old February till latter March remain
And you take your hat and coat expecting rain.
The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet town.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cabinessence
Light the lamp and fire mellow,
Cabin essence timely hello,
Welcomes the time for a change.
Lost and found, you still remain there.
Youll find a meadow filled with grain there.
Ill give you a home on the range.
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
I want to watch you windblown facing
Waves of wheat for your embracing.
Folks sing a song of the grange.
Nestle in a kiss below there.
The constellations ebb and flow there.
And witness our home on the range.
Who ran the iron horse?
(truck driving man do what you can)
Who ran the iron horse?
(high-tail your load off the road)
Who ran the iron horse?
(out of night-life-its a gas man)
Who ran the iron horse?
(I dont believe I gotta grieve)
Who ran the iron horse?
(in and out of luck)
Who ran the iron horse?
(with a buck and a booth)
Who ran the iron horse?
(catchin on to the truth)
Who ran the iron horse?
(in the vast past, the last gasp)
Who ran the iron horse?
(in the land, in the dust, trust that you must)
Who ran the iron horse?
(catch as catch can)
Have you seen the grand coolie workin on the railroad?
Have you seen the grand coolie workin on the railroad?
Have you seen the grand coolie workin on the railroad?
Over and over,
The crow cries uncover the cornfield.
Over and over,
The thresher and hover the wheat field.
Over and over,
The crow cries uncover the cornfield.
Over and over,
The thresher and hover the wheat field.
Over and over,
The crow cries uncover the cornfield.
Over and over,
The thresher and hover the wheat field.
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The White Horse...
on that early dawn
they arrived. I will not tell you
exactly how many were they.
they brought the wild horse again
this time it is white and coy
they did not speak to me
my attention was focused on the
beautiful horse
i did not show that i liked it
i did not talk too
then they brought the horse inside
the house
and then the windows and doors
were closed
and then the white horse started to
dance
and i liked it more
it was then that i realized
what are they really
and why are they here bringing me
a beautiful white horse
will they take my antique chairs
made of rosewood?
will i bargain my house
for a horse?
just for a horse
and they whose names i do not really know
shall laugh
after they had finally taken the whole of what i have
just for a white horse whose talent is just
to dance?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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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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A Horse-Drawn Carriage Ride
Oh what fun it is to see
A carriage drawn by a horse
Still after all these years
You can find them still, of course
For in special towns you can find
A horse drawn carriage to travel in
In New Orleans for instance, folks
So very beautiful with lots of trim
But can you imagine just how
Exciting they were in their day
Perhaps a roof and maybe not
Like riding atop a trailer with hay
So many wonderful styles there were
You can see in museums and such
Fancy some of them really are
With an old-fashioned classic touch
So if you get a chance to see or ride
On a horse drawn carriage some time
Jump at the chance ‘cause you know
It’s the most exciting day you’ll find!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Me & My Horse
riding together,
you and your horse.
as you run against the wind all you call hear is-
the wind wipping your ears,
the horse's hooves thundering beneath you,
the chains of your bit as the horse pulls against the reins,
and the faint sound of the horse behind you.
your horse stops,
the horse behind you catches up.
the race is over,
freedom will have to wait until next time.
poem by Horse Lover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Those were the Days
The horse drawn hearse impresses me
Drawn by a pair of well matched blacks.
Moves slowly onward sedately.
With an attendant at the back.
The coachman in dark livery.
A black crepe bow adorns his hat
Controls his horses easily
There can be little doubt of that.
It is a sight we rarely see.
In the busy world of today.
A horse drawn hearse traditionally.
Was seen to be the only way.
To embark on your last journey
To the local cemetery.
Tuesday,17 April 2012.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Horse Play
Four gallant horses
galloped forth.
One was white, one was black,
one was red, one was brown.
One had four legs,
one had three,
one had two,
and the fourth had one leg.
The one-legged horse
said to the others :
the time for dance has come,
sweet friends,
let's dance on a single hoof !
All of them liked the idea,
and the dance began.
The four-legged horse fainted outright,
the three-legged horse slipped and fell,
the two-legged horse limped to a fall :
only the one-legged one
danced on and on.
poem by Ayyappa Paniker
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Sonnet: Piggy-back Ride
Yes, children enjoy a piggy-back ride!
The father as horse and mother beside;
The thrilled little ones just simply enjoy,
And mock at the horse while laughing with joy.
Giddap! Giddap! They goad the horse faster;
Today, they are the jockey and the master!
And then the horse must dance well to their tune,
Slowly, gracefully and speed up too, soon.
Sometimes, the horse is just compelled to neigh!
Shaking its head for the entire day;
No doubt, the act gets troublesome indeed;
Until taken to the ‘stable’ to feed.
At times, children can the wildest horse tame!
But, condescension’s, the key to the game.
poem by John Celes
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The Wild Horse
(r. stewart/a. taylor)
Born and raised
In a motel in new orleans
I ran away
With a hobo and his gypsy friends
We rode a freight train up to cleveland
Across the utah plains
Proud men, troubadours torn and frayed
Sleeping under the stars
While gently strumming guitars
Played the songs of woddy guthrie
And the open road
I knew right then I could never go home
Cause the wild horse runs free forever
Oh yeah, a wild horse runs free forever
And ever and ever
I met a girl
From a family of position and wealth
What a hand
This rambler had been finally dealt
A beauty six years and ten
I felt the walls closing in
Like a swollen river
Bout to overflow
Like a losing gambler I kept on rolling
And a wild horse runs free forever
Yeah yeah yeah
A wild horse runs free forever
The wild horse runs free forever
Yeah yeah yeah
A wild horse runs free forever
Play the guitar
So understand I must go
But Ill drink you one last toast
Oh heres to the heart
And the hands of a man
That come with the dust
And are gone with the wind
May the wild horse run free forever
Yeah the wild horse runs free forever
The wild horse runs free forever
Yeah the wild horse run free forever
Wild guitar, baby, come on, wild
I know, I know, I know, I know
Play it for me, come on.
Yeah, hit it. yeah yeah. let me hear it, yeah.
The wild horse run free ...
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cavallina Storna
The grey horse follows its familiar road home,
it pulls a wagon with a man at the reigns.
Its hooves kick up dust. This is Sicily.
It's Summer and it hasn't rained in months.
The man at the reigns is dead.
The horse waits patiently for her master's whip.
She won't speed up without it.
At the barbershop in town
hair floated cutting through beams of light
and irritating his breath.
He thought he was to die right there,
but they waited till he was on the road.
The horse's eyes are covered to keep her calm.
She can only see ahead where she can make out
the house, and the children waiving
from the branches of the orange tree.
poem by Matthew Christopher
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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