Archive for the ‘Horse poetry’ Category

The Field — A Sonnet

Through yonder window look I to the field
And all the lovely grass it there doth yield,
And realize, too, the bounty of my life:
More of joyful mirth; less of toil and strife.
And to the Scribe do I attribute this
As on my nose each day she plants a kiss,
And lavishes on me such carrots sweet —
And apples too are such a tempting treat.

My life the verdant field doth reflect
Full flush with love in one or more aspect.
For with each day such blessings ‘pon me pour
There is no doubt the beauty of life’s store.
And glad am I for each day fate has sealed
As I look through the window to the field.

*

Shakespeare in the field -- Photo: Dorothy McDonall

I’ve been on a brief writing hiatus. Sometimes the muse (and Scribe, go figure) just needs a break. One cannot rush, nor force, creativity.

While enjoying this break from the rigors of creative industry the Scribe became re-acquainted with the sonnets of my namesake. And thus, while meandering the verdant field in search of tender grassy morsels, I began to muse in 14-line formal rhyme schemes with 10 syllables per line.

Herewith my first attempt at sonnet writing. Read and enjoy and perhaps, when the mood strikes, I shall dream up another.

See you anon in Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011. All rights reserved.

Away

The Scribe’s away.
I’m on my own.
She is so far
Away from home.
But not for long
She’ll be back soon
And then I’ll jump
Over the moon.

*

I know, a weak attempt, but the Scribe is away and I’m left here figuring this out all on my own. It’s a challenge. The only apple I’m familiar with is the one you eat!

See you next time in Poet’s Paddock … with Scribe in tow.

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011

Food Matters

I love my food;
There is no doubt.
With my nose in the hay
There’s no reason to pout.

I like it wet,
So in water I dunk
Each mouthful I eat
To get rid of the gunk.

Carrots I love;
They’re juicy and sweet.
Served in pieces bite-sized
They’re a wonderful treat.

And apples are great
When in eight pieces hewn.
Served in some other way
Well, I’m likely to fume.

Bran muffins with berries
Are best fed by hand,
And you know that I’ll
Tolerate only one brand.

Yet, more sacred than all
Is my grain morn and night.
By itself in my bucket —
Or I’ll put up a fight!

Yes, I love my food,
But I like it just so.
And if anything’s wrong
Believe me, you’ll know.

*

I’ve been trying to impress upon the one who shall remain nameless how important it is to my mental health that my food be delivered to me in exactly the way I like it every single day.

No need to review it all as the above poetic rendering pretty much covers it.

But let me just say that recently the esteemed British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) noted in the documentary Out of the Vortex: Poems Inspired by Depressive Illnesses that, based on a study of major British and Irish poets between 1600 and 1800 by eminent psychologist, Kay Redfield Jamison:

“ … poets are 20 times more likely to end up in an asylum than the general population.”

The report also notes that a lot of creativity comes from a conflict somewhere in the mind; that is, if your mind is “alive” it can produce both positive and negative responses.

Now, my mind is very much alive, (some might prefer to say it’s conflicted) and while I don’t wish to make light of a serious subject, I might venture that for this particular poet to be truly sound of mind he must be well fed, well exercised, well groomed and well amused by the world around him.

Being well fed is of utmost importance, for it is from the well-satisfied stomach that all things worthwhile emerge.* And note that in my alive mind well fed implies method as well as madness … food matter (i.e. grain, treats, etc.) so, as I have already indicated, while I am an easygoing kind of guy I do enjoy my food served in a very particular way.**

Truthfully, I have been known to freak out when my food routine is disrespected. For instance, just last week the scribe had the audacity to place carrots in my bucket while I was still working on my grain. I just about lost it! Nothing exasperates me more than having to nose dive into a pile of root vegetables to get to my grain!

And I love carrots — I just don’t want them with my grain! Ever! I’m sure my incessant bucket banging against the wall to dislodge the offending objects clearly demonstrated my disapproval. I hope the scribe got the message.

As a prolific and sensitive poet I feel that to be productive in mind, body and spirit my temporal needs simply must be met as I dictate, else I shall surely …

(Scriptus Interruptus — Geez, Bear, way to be melodramatic! Cease and desist or I shall be 20 times more likely to smite thee with a carrot in thy grain! Seriously!)

Alas, see you again in Poet’s Paddock …

Shakespeare “The Equine”

* This is true of non-poets also, though I might venture that a little bit of the poet lives in us all.
** Note that in the summer months I prefer to bob for my apples in the paddock trough — very stimulating.

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011

Love

In love I bask;
With love I grow;
In love I feel,
Where’er I go.

In love I’m glad;
With love I’m kind;
With love I feel
Peace in my mind.

With love I’m groomed;
With love I’m fed;
With love I feel
No thoughts of dread.

With love I move;
With love I’m sound;
In love I feel
The love I’ve found.

*

I have found love. It resides in the beautiful soul of the woman who found me, took me into her heart and now showers me with love and carrots. Together we grow as our lives and experiences expand and integrate. Together we evolve as we share our mutual love for self-expression.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Dorothy … my scribe, “mother” and best friend!

See you next time in Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011
Photo by Cary Andrew Penny, CAP Photographic Solutions

Winter Moon

Winter moon through window gleams
In radiant glowing icy streams
And through the bars into the aisle
It casts a glow that makes me smile.

For somehow from its lofty place
Its light beams on a special space
Just fifteen feet across the floor —
A sack with carrots by the score.

In moon’s embrace to me they call
But I’m secure within my stall.
Indeed it isn’t fair to be
So tortured by moon’s reverie.

(Sigh!)

They are there and I am here;
Oh, so far while oh, so near.
So winter moon, please go away,
For carrots I must wait til day.

* * *

Oh, the torture! To see what you want so close at hand and not be able to have it … yet.

Thank goodness for the word “yet.” It leaves room for possibility. In this case the possibility that when the beautiful winter moon has bid farewell for the day the scribe will soon enter the barn, dip a practiced hand into that tantalizing sack of orange root vegetables, extract a few and place them lovingly into my waiting bucket for my eating pleasure. Just the thought of it whisks me into the vortex of possibility.

In truth, it is the glowing winter moon that allows me to see that even when the night is at its darkest it is still possible to focus on the target of my desire. This keeps the possibility of the dream, i.e. a bucket full of carrots, alive … notwithstanding the sometimes excruciating wait.

See you next time in Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011