Manifesto: Riding my own broncs

Saddle your own broncs

 

Riding my own Broncs

I will write. My poetry. My own way. For me. Sometimes, for an audience of one, or maybe none. Sometimes for more. And to them who come to read, to share, I say, “Thank you”

I have written in the dark of the night. Through the tears. Laughing with utter joy. And those times of the greatest hurt awaken my muse to words.

I will keep alive the story telling legacy of the cowboy poets, the romantics. T.S. Eliot the cats. All those who stood at the cross roads and took the road less trod. And those who took the well worn road and made it their own. And those who stood at the cross roads, grabbed a machete, a pack of matches or a strawberry roan bronc and blazed a new trail.

I will respect the muse, and I will also lure, bait, promise and chase her down when the words are shying away. I will ride my own broncs, and ask only that those who also ride to come along on the wide roads, and the narrow mountain trails. We need to write, it is to our spirits the breath of life. I need to write, the words speak to my soul as my eyes see poetry everywhere. My hands feel it. My heart beats for it. I dream it, and will never forsake it.  Like the breath of my beloved, the heartbeat of our child – it is part of me.

I will not succumb to the threats of busy-ness, boredom, harsh critics, lazy readers and those who won’t try to see the poetry that breathes right in front of them.

I am a poet. I will write. I am a poet. I will breathe, bleed and sweat poetry. I am a poet.

Gay has us writing our Manifesto for dVerse. This is mine. Trying to keep it within the criteria given, and yet taking it on my own ride. Come on over!

What a rotten day

“what a rotten day this turned out to be” (George Strait, Baby’s Gotten Good at Goodbye)

Belle is calling for you, her whinny’s searching.

You called to her, one of your last breaths.

Trusting us, through near misses.

Close calls, but this one was too close.

 

Gone so fast, no time to even get a vet here.

The angel’s needed a good horse to ride.

I guess you were needed more there.

My heart just doesn’t understand why.

 

Look for Grandpa there, he’ll have his hat on.

Buddy up to Lefty, Rudy and the rest.

Kelly will take you riding, I’m sure he will.

I’ll braid your tail hair to wear, to remember you.

 

What a rotten day. The tears just keep coming.

I know I look like a wreck, a mess. Losing it.

Never, ever ‘just a horse’ but more. So much more.

I’ll miss riding you, petting you and smelling you.

 

Another piece of my heart is missing now.

The wound will heal with love and friends.

I’m thankful for that but still I could do

without another horse, dog or cat shaped scar.

 

Ranger died today, very fast, from ingesting a poison probably like water hemlock.  We’ll miss him.  

Ranger, Belle, Tika and Lola