Posts Tagged ‘Shakespeare’

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.


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

Wash ‘n’ Wear

Shakespeare sports wash 'n' wear everywhere.

A bright spring day
It’s very warm,
Flies buzz around me
In a swarm.

The Scribe and I
Spend training time
In outdoor ring
With dust and grime.

When done are we
Sweaty am I,
My horse couture
Must bathe and dry.

So to the wash stall
Lumber we,
Relief, you see,

With water splashing
‘Pon my skin,
A wet and wild
State we’re in.

I feel refreshed
So too the Scribe;
Together then
We go outside.

Stand in the sun
Ourselves to dry,
And grass I eat
While Scribe stands by.

And muse, do we,
Without a care,
It’s easy when you
Wash ‘n’ wear.


I love the warmer weather, but it does have at least one drawback. Okay two … the annoying swirl of flies around my tummy (save me, mummy!) and humidity-driven sweaty workouts.

Last week we had a particularly hot and humid day for mid May. Flies buzzed busily around me while I was being groomed, which invariably lead me to kick at the little buzzers, which in turn inspired the Scribe to apply copious amounts of fly spray all over me. This was somewhat helpful.

We then trained for about 40 minutes, however that was enough to leave me slathered in sticky sweat. Like any good steward, the Scribe hosed me down in the wash stall to take care of my sweaty woes. The advantage of horse couture, of course, is its wash and wear-ability. Just ten minutes of watery bliss and brace and presto! — the icky stickiness was washed from my body, leaving me fresh as a daisy, delightfully damp and deliciously dapper.

As is our usual practice following a frolic in the wash stall, we ventured outdoors to bask in the sunshine — my nose buried in a mass of bright green spring grass and the Scribe running her free hand up and down my neck reminding me of her adoring presence.

I love these moments. A serenity of space and time; feeling good after a workout and in the presence of the one who knows and loves me best.

I’m one lucky horse.

See you next time in Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011. All rights reserved.

Horse Couture

Shakespeare models Horse Couture

Spring has arrived
My coat’s a state.
No way to be
A fashion plate.

Hair’s falling here;
It’s falling there;
My coat’s in tatters.
Horses stare.

Cold season gone
And with it snow;
Last season’s coat
Has got to go!

A little help it
Needs, tis true,
As it feels stuck
To me like glue.

So, patiently I
Stand and smile
As Groom releases
Spring’s new style:

A shining coat
Of black and tan,
I feel quite

And of one thing
You can be sure,
My new Spring coat
Is Horse Couture!


No doubt about it, I’m feeling extraordinarily hip in my new Spring duds.

The blankets are done for the season, and the last of my thick Winter coat is being curried away in stages by the Scribe (aka Groom). Those pesky little hairs get everywhere, of course. I hear moderate complaints about hair up the nose and all over clothes, etc., but there’s nothing I can do about that. If you want me to look my dapper best then “Deal with it!” is all I have to say.

But really, is there anything more satisfying than stepping out into the world in your fancy new Spring finery to the admiring glances of those who can only dream of looking so handsome? (Yes, as a matter of fact, there is … a bucket full of carrots or grain; a mound of fresh hay; apple bobbing in the paddock trough; stud muffins; Timmie’s Cranberry & Blueberry Bran muffins … I could go on but I don’t want to change the subject … 😉 ).

Certainly I am feeling rather fine in my Horse Couture.

See you next time in Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Note: Fab photograph taken by Cary Andrew Penny, CAP Photographic Solutions, Spring 2010.

All rights reserved. Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011


Shakespeare waits for spring

Spring is here;
Brings with it change.
My life and habits

With paddocks closed
Alas, to dry,
Amuse myself in
Stall, must I

With dreams of fresh
Green grass to eat.
I count the days with
Stomping feet.

On warmer days
Bid rugs farewell
And feel sun on
My back a spell.

With joy I revel
In its beams,
As through the window
Pane it streams

Upon my shiny
New spring coat.
Handsome and dark,
But I won’t gloat.

And birds, they sing
Their song so sweet.
“Tweet! Tweet! Tweet! Chirp!
Tweet! Chirp! Tweet! Tweet!”

While buds appear
And set to bloom,
Adorning our great
Garden room.

Yes, I love spring
A time of joy.
Reminds me I’m
A lucky boy.


I do love the spring, although I must say this one is taking a long time to settle in. Such changeable and erratic weather patterns — rugs on one day; off the next. And we’re in that part of the season where the larger paddocks are closed and recovering from the perils of winter, so turnout is shorter as we all take turns in the smaller paddocks.

But the inconvenience is so temporary. One of these ever-finer days we’ll be back on all-day turnout languishing in the warmth of the sun. I’ll be bobbing for apples in the water trough (the Scribe promised), and we’ll be working outside and then enjoying the occasional soapy bath followed by extended periods of grazing with the Scribe at the other end of the lead shank. (I need to keep track of her somehow.)

Yes, spring is a special time of year full of hopeful anticipation of warmer days to follow.

I do love the spring.

See you next time in Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

All rights reserved. Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011

The Horse as Therapist — Part II

How may I help you ... ?

I love my ‘mother,’
Really I do,
But I’ve had to teach her
A lesson or two.

Live in the moment
Be patient; endure.
Don’t make a decision
Until you are sure.

Don’t worry the future;
Don’t dwell in the past,
Do open the present
Like each moment’s the last.

Work hard when you need to;
Take time to have fun.
Be open; be friendly;
And bask in the sun.

Be pampered by someone;
Have boundaries too.
Be playful; be happy;
Be alone when you stew.

Give what you can,
Learn when to say no,
Keep some for yourself,
Know when to let go.

Be kind, be consistent;
Be joyful, be free.
In other words, mother,
Be perfect like me.


What more is there to say on this particular subject? If our companion humans would be self-aware 100% of the time when they spend time with us their lives would be so much easier … and so would ours.

So much to teach them … so little time … I need a carrot!

See you next time in Poet’s Paddock …

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

Farewell to Miss Fergs

Dedicated to the fiery Miss Fergs who succumbed to colic, February 13, 2011, age 22

Gone to gallop with the angels
In a place where spirits soar,
You can squeal to your heart’s content
As others pass through Heaven’s door.

Your last hours were a struggle.
We all sensed your dreadful pain.
With sad heart I felt you leave us
Never to return again.

So I bid you fond farewell, dear,
Now your life here is complete.
Rest in peace, my darling girlie,
Til one day again we meet.


It wasn’t a very happy Valentine’s Day in our barn. Any joy we might have felt was blown away on the gusts of a terrible wind as we mourned the immense loss of the barn diva, Seville, aka “Miss Fergs.”

Affectionately referred to as “The Madam” she ruled the roost and none of us were allowed to forget it. She was the only mare in our small barn of boys and occupied a stall located next to the barn door. This world-dominating location put her in the perfect position to squeal disapprovingly every time one of us was lead past her stall, either coming in or going out. We loved her just the same.

I actually believe she had a soft spot for me; I know I had one for her. She had spirit, and I liked that. Whenever we worked in the arena at the same time she’d shimmy for me and give me the eye and I’d strut for her in response. It was such a game, and we loved it. I’ll miss her.

A lot of people thought Fergs was cranky, but in my heart I knew she just needed love. So when Gammy’s horse died a couple of years ago (Gammy is my pet name for my Godmother) it seemed logical that Fergs’ owner would ask Gammy to mother her sullen, old mare.

Gammy poured her broken heart into nurturing Fergs, and Fergs quickly learned to revel in Gammy’s special brand of love. It was wonderful to see them both so happy, though Fergs never lost her feisty ways. That would be too soft.

Lately Fergs had been having issues with her womanly attributes, coming into season frequently and intensely so it almost seemed like her body never had a chance to rest. (Those darn hormones take their toll on the older woman, don’t you know … .) Whether or not this had anything to do with her ultimate demise is hard to say, all I know is that suddenly on Sunday night she wasn’t feeling well in her tummy and two hours later, even after ministrations by the vet, she was galloping into the great beyond, never to return.

And we are left behind, bereft and sad.

RIP Miss Fergs …

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises, 2011


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

Ghost Hunting

It’s in the corner
Can’t you see
The spook? It’s
Waiting there for me!

It’s nondescript,
But I can tell
It’s a really nasty

And there’s another
Over there!
What do they want?
I’m going spare!

I pop a spin
As flee I must
From ghosts that linger
In the dust.

And yet the scribe
Stays nice and calm.
Just rides me through
And carries on.

Creates a rhythm
To soothe my mind.
So I can leave
Those ghosts behind.


The ante is up. The scribe has figured out that I’ve got Third and Fourth level dressage goods and I’m having to deliver. No longer can I simply get by on my good looks and charm. She wants 100% of my talent now as well!

Up until recently I’ve been able to work in the shadow of my solid training. It’s been an easy ride. While the scribe has been honing her skills I’ve been able to fly beneath the radar.

But things have changed. She’s starting to get it.

Her cues are more confident; more consistent. I’m feeling her elevated skills and they’re elevating me! I can’t help myself. And recently she has found access to my secret expressive power canter. Now, I love my power canter — but it’s hard work, so occasionally I ghost hunt to distract myself.

The other day I found a noisy one lurking in the kick-boards. When the scribe asked for a walk-canter transition on a straight line I “accidentally” kicked to the side and knocked my feet against the boards. Naturally this spooked me, and I performed a canter pirouette that might have scored a ‘10’ for velocity if such events were measured. In fact, I almost completed the movement on my own, with the scribe taking dictation from the ground!

Miraculously she clung on (I have to give her credit — she’s tenacious that way) and launched me into that canter I’d managed to avoid. She then brought me back to a nice rhythmic trot so the dust could settle in my mind once again, and from there we executed a perfectly elevated, relaxed and expressive canter that left me feeling like a million dollars. I’m pretty sure the scribe was happy too.

Funny really, although it seems like a good idea at the time ghost hunting never leaves me feeling very good. I hope I remember that the next time I’m tempted.

See you next time in Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Photo: Christine Holmes

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011