Collection of equine themed poems
#1 of Poetry
Some were interested in seeing my poetry so...here is a small collection that I used in my writing portfolio for my final university year (first semester). Equine themed and I submitted three together as there is no "poetry" section on SoFurry...yet! (please, admins? <3 ).
Poems (c) amethystmare
The Red Mare
They say we lead to borrow freedom,
Freedom to let us be.
Perhaps, my dear, you'd be so kind
As to share your freedom with me?
Forget distress, to hell with the rest,
Curling onward - you think the shadows care?
Honey, what danger? They do no more than stare
At you and I, our passing by.
Clip-clop, clip-soft hooves to pine spines,
Sharp and stale from time's fall.
We shall take heed of flight, dare not stall,
Hooves flicked airborne, lost moment.
Two are one but one is two
And must farewell on life's way.
I do so wish that I could stay
In the shadow of your musty sweetness.
When twilight groans, do you watch
For a figure, rearing from dark?
Scrambling up bareback, that forbidden lark,
Now the gate is latched and you graze alone.
Dance with me
A stable houses many heads,
Well groomed manes and tails.
Some are schooled, quick to prance,
One or two prick ears at a jump
And others were bred to dance.
The grey mare is not for the harness -
She snorts and trots on a dime.
Delicate to defy human gravity,
Her hooves light as feathers
Lost measure of severity.
Collect your canter,
Now twenty metre circle.
She pivots over sand,
Ears flicked to and fro
Over sweated brow band.
They call it a half-pass,
But she knows only
Movement: precise, calm.
Hoof after hoof, stretch to the left,
Reins tucked firm in rider's palm.
Piaffe, passage,
A flawless dance,
Hoof raised, hoof placed:
Her dancer's idealism
In keeping pace.
The Empty Stall
A tribute to 'Twiggy'
She licked salt blocks,
Gentled children on lead rein.
Thirteen hands to the wither,
They could barely stretch to reach her nose
Or reach to feed her grain.
She steamed in winter,
Children scrambled to groom
The hard-working school pony,
Who was quiet in the little hands,
Though her pale side did loom.
Lowering her pink nose
Into dark buckets, she drank,
Taking her fill and snorting droplets,
To the delight of those standing alert:
They never thought to thank.
One day, she did not come to call,
We wondered where she hid.
Upon searching Bryndias up and down,
We stumbled upon a sight:
A broken body below the hole.
No peaceful death with her dam
Standing sentry, as at a birth.
She went in a painful, sudden fashion
Somewhere unpredictable
That we fail to impassion.
Day dawns, cock crows,
Yearling nickers.
Her stall is empty now.