horses.roaming

i sat with a nomad who had a deep voice
he was a bit tired not feeling all that great
today started the annual horse racing season
here was a holiday, a tradition, with a horse race
the nomad talked calmly with little fanfare or play
the role he read was perfect, i think he was a convict

not much chatter from the clamed up convict
he sorta lost interest once my interest started to play
time slowed and hunger growled i hoped fruit was in season
sitting in the coolness made the morning great
the horses in a cloudy canter headed towards the race
i wish there was more time with the nomad and his voice

when he speaks he opens a door with his voice
especially when he starts towards his horse to play
his horse responds knowing how close the season
the nomad and his horse will soon line up for the race
he was interesting this nomad who was also a convict
wouldn’t have noticed except those scars were great

once he stood his nomad height was great
was he taller than his horse that was to run the race
would it matter or come into play
wanted to ask the nomad, is this the season
as a person he would answer, as a convict
and a nomad not sure, would i hear his voice

sometimes he talks as if he has no voice
and when i see the nomad near his horse and they play
as if there was nothing else and there was no race
the smallness of the space the horse and the convict
within this arena the nomad his horse how great
once a year it comes by way of the season

looking around one could tell it was the season
flying multi-colored banners announcing the race
a few instruments soon came into play
the musicians arrived in one be quiet of a voice
from afar i could see his horse and the convict
the nomad will soon be racing towards a win so great

i watched him leave, the nomad and horse, who was a convict
it didn’t feel so great, already i missed his mysterious voice
the season passed and the race finished, it was a great play

day 12 napowrimo
2021 April PAD challenge write a poem using at least three of the following six words: convict, great, play, race, season, and voice. Extra credit for using all six words. Extra extra credit for writing a sestina….

poet’s note: wanted to attempt a sestina. it has been awhile. i enjoyed it and will attempt to use it again soon.

herd

this weeks one single impression sunday prompt no 144: meld, courtesy of Creative Cottage Dreamer ; photo: save wild horse herd, courthousenews.com

tied to a free range
horses canter and run free
spring summer winter

* * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * *

not for long if BLM has their way in the pryor mountains of montana.. if you like your freedom you may want to consider a moment and remember cloud…

voodoo child

big tent poetry monday prompt this week offers a wordle of wonder
cafe writing – the bistro, do you believe in magic, option 2 poetry

hung around his neck  a tinkling sound of seashells and the roar of tsunami splashed wet at his feet. his cupped hands dripping with honey, the bees stayed too. come he motions, his words prancing in a chorus line of thundering hoofs, i’ll not wait forever. shoeless she wanders awake in a world of alice. his cheshire smile remains sincere while her thirst resurfaced in the ash pit of frozen fire longing for heat. who could tell the connection he held with gentleness as he roped her in.

listening to some great music, jimi hendrix always always brings it on….

bird on a wire

thomg’s three word wednesday: this week’s offer: abrupt, kernel, wield
photo: bird on a wire, miguel lasa, photo.net

a kernel kept quiet beneath his steel wing
the beating heart of a breathing man
let him be as a distant silver shining knight
wielding his weight upon his white steed
abrupt his flight steady his gait

and for those who would enjoy leonard cohen, bird on a wire 2009…

Red Lips

Big Tent Poetry: circus
photo:   sonora carver and red lips

eavesdrop on the early
budding bright beginning
adventurous reading upside down
cuddle crazy craving
pink sparkles, ballerina tutu
dainty diamond slippers

umbrella balancing act
riding relaxed rendevous
anchored to her strong back
she’d carry me
beyond the hills and
valleys of this small
town world
my pony and me

answering an ad
a simple task of turning
ink stained pages
the phone rings wild

there wasn’t much to it
together
we rode the tourist tempest
waxed wings melt

we’d climb
up high
about 30
sometimes 60 feet
and with swift stride
we’d leap and soar
diving downwards
plummeting plunge

sooner or later
inevitable
we’d make land
with a splash

sensing the surface
of cool waters
a deep pool
of water waiting
encompass our weight
happy for momentary flight

Red Lips was the name of the horse she rode and the horse diver was sonora carver [great link to story]