Hobby Horse

 

I should have known

when I offered Hobby sweet, lovely sugar cubes

and she just sat there

like, lobotomized or something.

Sing a song with me Hobby!

Tell me a story about horses!

Recite a fun rhyme!

Dance with me!

Or, just fall over on the floor. 

~sigh~

Doctor Dollie, Hobby seems sick.

She won't eat anything,

she hasn't used the bathroom, like ever

and seems out of touch with her body.

Neigh if you can hear us, Hobby!

Stamp your hoo--

Oh, right. 

Wink, then! 

Oh Hobby, I love you

even though you don't do anything

or say anything

or even seem to know I'm alive

just like Mommy loves Daddy!

Hobby, we shall ride the range

even though you're passing strange

I will love you, love you true

and never make you into glue

Hobby, wild horse of the western bedroom!

with a head full of fluff

and a body like a broom!

Hi-yo, hi-yo Hobby! Awayyy!

I will do everything!

Do for you and talk for you 

preparing me for marriage 

somedayyy! Hoorayyyyyy!

____________

for  Poetics: "Running  With Horses" hosted by my friend Queen Cool Dora!

The adorable hobby horse pictured is available on Etsy from HappyHobbyHorsesHH. 

Music: Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band Equestrian Statue.

Lil Bruja

 

Lil Bruja rides on into Dust Flats, New Mexico on her trusty steed Viejo Loco.

It's been a long slog from the wild gold rush towns where she spent a hard year and a half, on through Gila Valley where she barely escaped old jealous Pecos Charlie and his branding iron in the middle of the night and lit out across the range in pitch darkness. 

Now, watching Viejo pick his way around rattlers and tarantulas, with her Stetson low over her eyes and the same bandana around her neck for the last 200 miles, Lil just wants a hot bath and a shot of whiskey.

Finally she hits town, leaves Viejo at the livery stable with a nosebag of hot oats, and pushes through the swinging doors of Texas Jim's Saloon, her spurs jingling with every step and what in blazes does she see but a sign over the bar that says KALE SANDWICHES, ARUGULA QUICHE, MANGO FLAVORED SPRING WATER, WINE COOLERS.

The barkeep has a man-bun and chuckles at Lil when she slaps a silver dollar on the bar, saying, 'Oh my, cash is so over!"

Lil pulls out her Colt Peacemaker, grabs the barkeep by his man-bun with one hand and with the other tucks the cold steel barrel under his chin and growls, "Gimme the veggie burger and a banana smoothie, Hefe," and he does.

__________

for Denise's Six Sentence Story ("range")

Music: Cyndi Lauper & Jewel I Wanna Be A Cowboy's Sweetheart

R.S.V.P.

Thanks for the invitation, but last time you wouldn't let Molly past the front door. She hasn't forgotten and neither have I. 

What was the big thing with making me take my boots off?

Ooooh, imported rugs,

and everybody making a big deal out of your barfy tea.

Bitch, please.

Next thing you'll build a she-shed with paper walls.

Nope, me and Molls will be nine miles from here,

Molls with her ear buds in.

(She likes western swing.)

We stop and doze any time we want,

Molly dreaming of a bag of warm oats

and me dreaming that I'm dreaming, which will be true.

So go step in a gopher hole, girl.

You can post it on social media and call it a wine grotto.

_____

for Sunday Muse #82 where I am hostessing. Bring your pony.

Quiet On Set

A career in opera doesn't always work out for a girl,
and so then she has to fall back on Plan B.

The land around here looks like it's been through God's own laundry press,
and it only rains every Fourth of July,
leaving the year-rounders feeling itchy and bad-tempered.

This is no place for Bo Peep, with a pink bow in her hair.
Nobody wants to hear Puccini,
but there's a snake handler under every tent.

Into this maelstrom of dust and cowshit comes Our Heroine,
by means of Plymouth automobile,
ready for a different kind of star turn.

Sick of marrying the same guy over and over,
she sets her happy ass down in front of the big yellow ball of the setting sun,
and memorizes her lines,
which are, basically,
the sort of stuff some screenwriter in L.A. thinks a girl like her might say.

Well, who cares?
Her leading man is gay anyway,
and she's doing the job for a flat fee, 
so she doesn't give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut whether it tanks or is a smash.

Tomorrow she'll rope the young actor from Indiana,
and by the time the stars come out,
he'll be rattling off nonsense about the future, and men on the moon.
She'll have shown him,
first hand and--though softly--right in his ear
how well she can yodel,
among other wondrous things.
_______

Mixing fact with bullshit for Magpie #231.

 

Close Your Eyes And Think Of England

You said,
"stay in the compound,
mind the babies,"
but the babies grew while you were out in the cane fields.
Now they roll those laughing bones
and speak the local dialect,
distrusting the gendarmes like natives.

"What about the girls?' you might ask,
if you were ever here to ask.
That is the girls.
In the afternoon, they walk barefoot and hatless,
with a pack of stray dogs trailing behind,
hoping for a bit of biscuit.
The dogs are brown,
the girls are brown,
and neither have ever been to England.

Reach for me in the night; pretend I'm a receipt.
Drop your suspenders off your shoulders like a coquette,
while I close my eyes, thinking of the fox hunt
with me as the fox,
but this time
with a cane knife beneath my petticoats.
I've been in the trash again, yes I have.
Better strangle me now.
Howl, man-hound, though you never had the scent.

The household budget allowed for two Arabians.
Our oldest and I go riding,
but not side saddle. 
We are as wild as Indians, painted like Zulus,
shrieking in island French, 
our cheeks rouged with fresh chicken blood we get from the cook.

You complain about the fare every night,
addressing us as if we were the candlesticks,
blustering about everything being too spicy.
The girls and I,
we doctor our dinner until we hallucinate,
just to be able to bear it.

Still, how bold you are, how genuinely manly,
coming here and conducting a successful business
in this sweltering mosquito hell
where the women cast spells
and the men are weak and lazy.
How amazing what you manage to accomplish
wearing a sturdy wool suit
in this place where you couldn't claim to truly know
anyone at all.
______

for Fireblossom Friday, featuring the art of W.T. Benda.

"Close your eyes and think of England." Queen Victoria's famous advice to English ladies being depended upon to produce more population for the Empire.

' Blossom

Couldn't work at the saloon
cos I always kept a derringer in my garter
and anyways I wasn't that kind of girl.

Went and bought me a fine horse,
then built a bonfire and burnt up all my hoops and corsets
cos,
you guessed it,
I wasn't that kind of girl.

Stuck around town a while,
whilst I got provisioned.
When the corner boys laughed, I invited 'em to dance
to the music of my new friend Mr. Colt .45.

Coulda stuck around town,
raising chickens and fillin' a pew every Sunday,
but I wasn't that  kind of girl, neither.

So I lit out.
Made the moon my friend and bathed in the stream,
just adding a little scent that lasted until the current took it.

Days I didn't bother getting gussied up
for the prairie dogs and critters, cos they don't care.
Whistled a tune and nobody told me "Woman, hush!"

I'd-a plugged 'em if they did.

Pulled my hat down low over my eyes,
and listened to the eagle cry the same song that lived in my soul.
Nights, a good fire and a dime novel was all I need.

Got lonely, though.
Started to pine for that blacksmith's daughter,
the one that used to half smile as I went by,
makin' my heart ring like a hammer on an iron shoe.

Finally went back into town for biscuits and rose water,
payin' no mind to the weaker sex, with their scruffy beards,
until one of 'em shouted, "Hey mister!" and slap his knee laughin'.

I started to ride by--
didn't come for no trouble,
and I was dusty from the trail and not feelin' my very best,

but then I straightened my back
and brought my horse around as the afternoon sun went behind a cloud.
"Better step out in the street," I told that man.

I hadn't used the Colt in a month of Sundays,
but as my fingers flexed just touching the handle,
it all came back to me just like makin' a pie crust.

Sam Colt got a way of sobering up a loud man,
and he just looked down at his boots and mumbled,
"Sorry Ma'am."

I still had half a mind to put one between his eyes, just for the practice,
but then that blacksmith's daughter was at my side, saying,
"C'mon honey. Let's fetch some sweet tea."

She give me that half smile,
and said she knew a place where I could shake out my hair
and get fresh.

That's when I remembered what kind of girl I am,
and it put the dip back in my hip
and the glide back in my stride.

'Blossom's back in town,
and y'all had better 
show a lady a little respect.
________ 

American birds

shake loose your hair.
run your fingers through mine,
like spirits dancing in fire.

lean over me.
take your time, as the hawk does,
or the gentle mourning dove.

do anything you like with me.
i will stay with you,
just as the native grass leans with the wind,

unable to help itself
and not meant to.
_______

for Susie's mini-challenge at Real Toads: the poetry of Jim Morrison

turn and burn

I dreamed of you last night.
It was an outdoor summer party,
with lanterns, and I was walking barefoot across the lawn, 
carrying my shoes and the same old broken heart.

In the far part of the yard, where the wax myrtles grew,
I found a path and walked down it,
wearing my light gray and white dress
as if it were undecided clouds over moonlight.

I have dreamed of you before, with my eyes wide open.
I have watched you choose tomatoes,
or swing into your Cherokee,
like clear water that calls you with its movement,
knowing it will never stay.

Finally, I came to a barn, its doors and loft open to the night.
The light was yellow on the hay, and as I walked in,
I caught the strong scent of horses and saddle oil.
There you were, with your back to me,
wearing Wranglers and a blue and white snap button western shirt.
Your hair was tied back loosely, 
like you'd done it in a hurry,
and you had roping gloves tucked into your belt.

In my dream, you turned,
and I knew what your wandering strays must feel like when you find them.
You dipped your head and then looked back up at me;
I recognized your old shyness, the sweetness that you hide.
Kissing you is all there is, really.
Being touched by you is all I care about.
Don't you know you are water to the willow,
and the whole reason I came here?

I said these things out loud, in my dream of you,
and maybe out loud as I slept, who knows?
Later, it rained, and I went into town wearing my brown cowgirl hat,
the one you gave me,
the one people always notice up here in Michigan.
"I like your hat," they say,
and I tell them, "Thanks. So do I."
Sometimes my voice catches when I do, in spite of myself,
and I quicken my stride,
though I'm not on my way any place, even though I'm in motion.
_______

for Artistic Interpretations With Margaret at Real Toads.

Image by Merri Melde, used with permission.

for you city slickers, "turn and burn" is a barrel racing thing. I love barrel racers.

I really do have a brown cowgirl hat that I wear whenever it rains.

 

Paint Horse

I am the paint horse--
I have high-stepped through a thousand snakes,
mouths open like poisoned prairie flowers;

I have left their heads beneath my hooves,
a row of flat, dull silver dollars
staring at the endless open sky without seeing it.

You have called me,
whether you knew it or not.
You, beneath your buffalo blanket like the moon behind a cloud,
you have drawn me here.

With a circle around my eye,
and a hand print on my flank,
I feel the bones of all who came before us--
yours,
and mine--
beneath this dirt, these roots, this earth in all directions.

I am calling you,
you, the beautiful one I love.
You have pushed the bone shard through the flesh of your slender arm,
and not flinched.
Surely, every ghost will honor this.

I am the paint horse,
waiting;
you are the one I love.
We will not need reins, a saddle,
or anything but our bodies
together like cloud and storm,
across the plains.
________

for Hannaballistic's Transforming Friday challenge at Real Toads. She commands that we write about the prairie and its creatures.