En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Vic and Vo

When one remembers Vo Rogue the famous race horse one remembers his trainer Victory Rail
For they were great together and they never seemed to fail
To give value for money Vo Rogue the gallant bay
Was a champion on pace galloper who often led all of the way

The mighty weight for age horse who galloped without shoes
He won many group races and was seldom seen to lose
Well trained by the likeable Vic and ridden by Cyril Small
Their feats Australian racegoers forever will recall.

Not one bred in the purple and of an unfashionable breed
But when the starting gates flew open Vo bounded to the lead
An out and out front runner he did not need a racing plan
He galloped on relentlessly and 'twas beat him if you can.

Since Vo Rogue was a champion a decade has gone by
And on looking back those years have sped how time just seems to fly
He must be getting on in years and time has left him slow
And where he lives in retirement now I wouldn't even know

And as for Vic Rail well he died young a rare bug laid him low
He lost his last battle in life five or six years ago
Around the trainer and his horse a legend it did grow
And racing folk will long recall the feats of Vic and Vo.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Once Mighty Bay

Fifteen years ago he could run as fast as the wind
The champion group 1 gelding of the thoroughbred kind
At the big City race tracks big races he won
The big bay in his prime was the Nation's number one
Racehorse and highest stakes winner and the one to beat
In his racing life he never tasted defeat
But in his retirement his face looking gray
A shadow of the horse he once was is the ageing big bay
In his younger years he was the Nation's pride
And to watch him race people came from places far and wide
But it has been awhile now since he was in his prime
And he is losing out to the father of time
And like every dog every race-horse has it's day
He can scarce raise a trot now the once mighty bay.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Lesson From The Horse Race

There's no such thing as gallant loser and there's no glory in defeat
And coming first is all that matter and victory is always sweet
For the winning horse and jockey there's a mighty hip hooray
And the jockey he is smiling victory has made his day.

The stable lad leads in his winner he has never known such joy
And the owner pats his race horse as if to say well done me boy
And there's applause for the winning trainer from the large onlooking crowd
And the horse is centre of attention and those who backed him clapping loud.

Near by stands the beaten favourite held there by his stable lad
And with no trace of the horse's owner and the trainer looking sad
In a thrilling photo finish beaten into second place
But he get little recognition for running such a splendid race.

Human life is like the horse race at winning post you've got to lead
Losers are quickly forgotten and to be loved you must succeed
You must strive hard for your glory and if you fail in your vital test
You too will be quick forgotten as winners are remembered best

And there's a lesson from the horse race and it read plain for all to see
If you live for admiration go for outright victory
And you will be the main attraction and all the applause will be for you
And like the poor defeated race horse there will be none for number two.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

On The Death Of Peter Hayes

You won't find any life around where his remains will lay
And words of praise won't bring him back his soul has gone away
And though he died young at fifty one suppose he had his day
And for flying in fast planes you might say there is a price to pay.

This morning I heard in the news how Peter Hayes did die
The light plane he and his mate David Noble were in just dropped out of the sky
Near Mildura in Victoria their end came suddenly
A cruel blow to the Horse Racing World and the Hayes family.

A brother to Hong Kong's leading trainer David and the late Colin Hayes eldest son
So much success in horse racing the Hayes family have won
Peter was Victoria's and South Australia's leading trainer and his passing leaves a void
In Horse Racing a household name he was known far and wide.

The Horse Racing World is in shock at the news of the death of Peter Hayes
And though the horse racing writers write the eulogies and heap upon him praise
You won't find any signs of life where his remains will lay
A shy and unconceited man his soul has gone away.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Black July

The fastest dog in Millstreet when I was a young boy
Was owned and bred by Maurice Connors his name was Black July
Trained by Paddy O Keeffe at Dooneen a leading trainer then
In the Kennedy cup at Limerick he had a famous win.

A son of Cheeky Tippy and Maddest Lily the striking black and white
Was Ireland's fastest greyhound when he was in full flight
The Irish Derby favourite he was the one to beat
And one of the fastest greyhounds to come out of Millstreet.

Sold to Harry O Neill the bookmaker the word it got around
For a record price for a greyhound then 'twas said two thousand pounds
And Black July for Maurice Connors had surely paid his way
For two thousand pounds in those times worth thirty grand today.

Since Denny Dennehy and John Joe Cronin's hounds brought to their Paish fame
Duhallow home of champion dogs so many one could name
And Black July a top class dog when he was in his prime
The mighty speedster from Liscreagh inspired the bards to rhyme.

It must be nearly forty years how quick the time did fly
Since Millstreet had a champion dog his name was Black July
And Millstreet had many great dogs since of their big wins we hear
And the latest Donie Mahony's champ the great Mountleader Peer.

Trained at Dooneen by Paddy O Keeffe a leading trainer then
In the Kennedy cup at Limerick he had a famous win
The fastest greyhound of his year when I was just a boy
Was owned and bred at Liscreagh the mighty Black July.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Jumping Horses

As you step into the arena,
Your heart rushes,
Horse following close behind,
Giving you steady nudges.
You mount yourself slowly into the English saddle
You move toward the jump.
Faster, faster.
Your feet ready in the stirrups
In jumping position,
As you grow closer to the jump
You are overcome by a weird sensation,
A sensation of happiness, nervousness, and excitement
As you post you feel the heart rate of the horse.
You are both one.
Faster, and faster still,
You feel as if you where flying,
Your horse raises its front legs,
You are flying!
Over the jump you feel relaxed,
You feel great.
You draw your horse to a slow gait,
Your heart racing.
Again and again you jump
15 minutes pass you loose time,
You slow down.
The horse’s heart is racing to the pace of yours,
You slow to a halt
Lower yourself from his back,
You pat him congratulate him,
And return the tack.
(Pause)
Jumping… Such a wonderful feeling,
Your heart rushing!

poem by Bethany Maxwell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Horse Racing Legend

Along comes a horse
So powerful and sleek
He runs with his heart
Not his feet.

The heart of a champion
Is what this horse has
The looks of eagles in his eyes
Just as

He runs and runs with all his heart
While the crowd is awed with his amazing arts
He crosses the wire in first
And becomes a legend, know

In a time of need
This horse has shown power
He shows no fear
At the passing hour

From a broken-down claimer,
To a racer with heart
This horse has become
A Legend, no doubt

We all lose a few
But it doesn't matter much
If your a horse like this
With spirit and punch.

poem by Hannah Branz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Pride Comes Before A Fall

The great one does not last a champion in his prime
He lost to a younger man with some help from father time
The years had left him slow time takes care of us all
He defended his pride but pride comes before a fall.

And even what a difference five or six years can make
To keep on keeping on for him a big mistake
He should have called it quits a couple of years ago
For the money he kept going though the years had left him slow.

Once feted and admired but that was in the past
And he too had his day and nothing ever last
He went down rather tame to one that he once would beat
And for one proud as he there is no pride in defeat.

The beaten one this time he has called it a day
Though perhaps six years ago he should have given his game away
But his pride kept him going wisdom never was his friend
And his glory day for him one might say at an end.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Race for the Cure

I had a sister once
She had sunshine in her smile
She was everybody’s friend
For you she’d gladly walk a mile

When I see her in my mind’s eye
Jeanette’s forever young
When we lost her to the monster
She was only 41.

So that is why tomorrow
I’ll be racing for the cure.
With caregiver’s and survivors
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if my step should falter
As I am no longer young
Her ghost will run beside me
Until my race is run.

Perhaps you have a sister too,
Or someone that you love
Perhaps she’s a survivor
Of a battle bravely won

We must celebrate the victories
Each year there are still more
Until what was a feeble cheer
Becomes a mighty roar

So that is why tomorrow
You’ll be racing for the cure.
With caregiver’s and survivors
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if your step should falter
For you are no longer young
Your survivor friend will pace you,
Until this race is won.

Gather at the starting line
Young and old together
The sisters and the daughters
And survivors feeling better
There may be 20,000 here
The organizers say
They fail to count the shadows
Who will run with us today.

So that is why today we’re here
All racing for the cure.
Family, friends and lovers
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if our steps should falter
For we are no longer young
Our dead will bear us forward,
Until their race is won.

poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Intimidator

He knew when he was a boy
that racing was his game
As he got better in his car
They knew he wouldn't be easy to tame

As his racing years went on
he became to many The Intimidator
In the hearts of many and his son
he soon became their main mentor

He is known today as a racing legend
because of his style and races won
We will all remember that fateful day
The Daytona 500, February 18,2001

His name is Dale Earnhardt
and if you ever saw him race
the one thing we will all remember
is his intimidating face

poem by Denise Girod
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Willie Neenan Is Still Running

Willie Neenan is still running as running to him is as much a part of his life
As the lives of his athletic daughters and of Marie his good wife
An Irish champion in his seventies and an Irish champion in his prime
No doubt Millstreet's greatest athlete he's proved that time after time.

Willie Neenan is still running to me that comes as no surprise
He runs in sunny weather and when the rain pours from the skies
He has run in the depths of Winter in the frost and in the snow
Willie Neenan was a champion more than fifty years ago.

He won a World silver medal for Ireland at the Master's Games in San Juan in eighty three
Losing out on gold by the narrowest of margins in his surge for victory
The Pipers band came out to play for him in Millstreet his Hometown
He had proved himself against the World's best cannot keep a good one down.

Willie Neenan is still running his great victories we recall
Of Millstreet's many famous athletes the most famous of them all
He was an Irish champion when I was a schoolboy
And he will go on running until the day he die.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Old Timer's Steeplechase

The sheep were shorn and the wool went down
At the time of our local racing;
And I'd earned a spell -- I was burnt and brown --
So I rolled my swag for a trip to town
And a look at the steeplechasing.
Twas rough and ready--an uncleared course
As rough as the blacks had found it;
With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse,
And a water-jump that would drown a horse,
And the steeple three times round it.

There was never a fence the tracks to guard, --
Some straggling posts defined 'em:
And the day was hot, and the drinking hard,
Till none of the stewards could see a yard
Before nor yet behind 'em!

But the bell was rung and the nags were out,
Excepting an old outsider
Whose trainer started an awful rout,
For his boy had gone on a drinking bout
And left him without a rider.

"Is there not a man in the crowd," he cried,
"In the whole of the crowd so clever,
Is there not one man that will take a ride
On the old white horse from the Northern side
That was bred on the Mooki River?"

Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow,
And a cow would look well beside him;
But I was pluckier then than now
(And I wanted excitement anyhow),
So at last I agreed to ride him.

And the trainer said,"Well, he's dreadful slow,
And he hasn't a chance whatever;
But I'm stony broke, so it's time to show
A trick or two that the trainers know
Who train by the Mooki River.

"The first time round at the further side,
With the trees and the scrub about you,
Just pull behind them and run out wide
And then dodge into the scrub and hide,
And let them go round without you.

"At the third time round, for the final spin
With the pace and the dust to blind 'em,
They'll never notice if you chip in
For the last half-mile -- you'll be sure to win,
And they'll think you raced behind 'em.

"At the water-jump you may have to swim --
He hasn't a hope to clear it,
Unless he skims like the swallows skim
At full speed over -- but not for him!
He'll never go next or near it.

"But don't you worry -- just plunge across,
For he swims like a well-trained setter.
Then hide away in the scrub and gorse
The rest will be far ahead, of course --
The further ahead the better.

"You must rush the jumps in the last half-round
For fear that he might refuse 'em;
He'll try to baulk with you, I'11 be bound;
Take whip and spurs to the mean old hound,
And don't be afraid to use 'em.

"At the final round, when the field are slow
And you are quite fresh to meet 'em,
Sit down, and hustle him all you know
With the whip and spurs, and he'll have to go --
Remember, you've got to beat 'em!"

*

The flag went down, and we seemed to fly,
And we made the timbers shiver
Of the first big fence, as the stand dashed by,
And I caught the ring of the trainer's cry;
"Go on, for the Mooki River!"

I jammed him in with a well-packed crush,
And recklessly -- out for slaughter --
Like a living wave over fence and brush
We swept and swung with a flying rush,
Till we came to the dreaded water.

Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think
Of the way I contrived to work it
Shut in amongst them, before you'd wink,
He found himself on the water's brink,
With never a chance to shirk it!

The thought of the horror he felt beguiles
The heart of this grizzled rover!
He gave a snort you could hear for miles,
And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles,
And carried me safely over!

Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back
In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver:
And I waited there in the shadows black
While the rest of the horses, round the track,
Went on like a rushing river!

At the second round, as the field swept by,
I saw that the pace was telling;
But on they thundered, and by-and-by
As they passed the stand I could hear the cry
Of the folk in the distance, yelling!

Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang!
And I said, "Well, it's now or never!"
And out on the heels of the throng I sprang,
And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang
As I rode. For the Mooki River!

We raced for home in a cloud of dust
And the curses rose in chorus.
'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must!
And The Cow ran well -- but to my disgust
There was one got home before us.

Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen
In the part of the race I'd ridden;
And his coat was cool and his rider clean --
And I thought that perhaps I had not been
The only one that had hidden.

And the trainer came with a visage blue
With rage, when the race concluded:
Said he, "I thought you'd have pulled us through,
But the man on the black horse planted too,
And nearer to home than you did!"

Alas to think that those times so gay
Have vanished and passed for ever!
You don't believe in the yarn, you say?
Why, man, 'twas a matter of every day
When we raced on the Mooki River!

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Horse Life

In a horse life.We can play with a burlap feed
bag, an empty milk jug, or chew on the barn stall
door.Just to kill some time, or to kill some every
day bordom.In a horse life.We get names like
Black Beauty, Flicka, Seabiscuit, or Secretariat.
In a horse life.We do tricks like bowing our heads
down, or placing our shoe upon a pedastool.Picking
up the cowboy hat.While tapping our feet rata-tat-tat.
In a horse life.We like a good block of salt.With lots
of minerals, to lick upon.A wholesome bale of hay.To
start off a brand new day.Or a bucket of grain.To keep
us all healthy, fat, and sane.And a fresh bucket of water,
to wash it all down.In a horse life.I could be losing a
horseshoe.While the rider is losing his mind.In a horse
life.We can be a workhorse, a race horse, or a trick pony.
Or maybe a showhorse, or possibly a circus horse.With
out all the phoney baloney.In a horse life.We can run all
day in the open sun, or run the race trak.While the betters
place their wagers.Of course, at the horse racing track
betters window.In a horse life..

A Horse Life Poem by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2011.All rights reserved.

poem by Kim Robin Edwards
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

My Friends Back In My Prime Years

My friends back in my prime years I never did disown
It's just that I live far from them and apart we have grown
We drank and played football together but our separate ways we've gone
And we have forged new friendships and life of course goes on.

My friends back in my prime years may now look a bit gray
And they might not know me or I might not know them if by chance we met today
In my memory they have remained young but in reality
The years have left their mark on them as the years have left their mark on me.

Old father time the aloof one to anyone doesn't bow
And some of my friends of my prime years may be grand parents now
Perhaps they now are showing their age and time has left them slow
They could run fast as I recall some twenty years ago.

My friends back in my prime years I may now not recognize
For time leaves it's mark on all of us I've come to realize
I drunk beer with them in the pub and with them played football
And that was many years ago as I can well recall.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Color Blind

What color do you see
or is it what you believe?

I see a horse blue
and the grass purple,
or is it the other way round?

I live in Lexington
where horse racing is fun,
where grass is believed to be blue
and the horse is seen as purple.

You need not this believe.
You I do not deceive.

The horse stands proudly on the corner,
conceived in purple for the contest
to promote what the city is known for best.
Everyone knows that who wagers.

Our eyes sometimes us deceive.
What we believe is not what we see.

poem by Ben Gieske
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Vote! | Copy!

The Horse That I Am Riding

then finally, the horse that i am riding,
the black one with long hair and
long feet, flying without wings,
speed nearing the speed of light,
has taken the lead, and the rest follow
tirelessly still,
i do not look back,
i do not beat the horse with a stick
i keep on riding making the horse
feel confident that i am still
supporting its cause, to be first,
to be famous

and then my horse wins,
the owner gets the real buck,
and i the jockey,
merely receives a little name
and a little commission.

the horse gets nothing.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Eastbrook

Though his racing days are over
on the marsh he'll gently graze
where he'll spend his last remaining years
sharing all his days
with herons, skylarks, ducks and geese
from a racing life to utter peace

Small children come and feed him hay
and Suzy grooms him every day
a soft brown horse with gentle eyes
resting underneath the skies
that follow the marsh down to the sea
retirement, peace, tranquility

poem by Gill Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!