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LATE BORN FOAL
Weather beaten earth turned to mud
awaits the birth of a late born foal
as a mare sweats and struggles
to give life to a newborn soul.
No dry barn shelters her misery,
no sweet-smelling bed of clean straw,
only rain on a lava rock pillow
in a harsh mountain draw.
Finally from her womb emerges
four spindly legs, a lifeless head.
She nickers to her babe
with no response. The babe is dead.
Exhausted from her struggle
swollen body racked with pain,
she knows within her heart
she’ll not join the herd again.
Winter winds whisper
echo the coyote’s cry;
dreams of heavenly meadows
drift in the breath of her final sigh.
The scent of death is in the air
as one bird of prey circles, then another,
Weather beaten earth turned to mud—
a bed of death for the foal and mother. |
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COWBOY KINDA GIRL
I like a man in Wranglers ‘n boots.
They’re not for me those Armani suits
in high-polished wing tips or loafers with tassels,
‘n rings on their pinkies, who live in glass castles.
I wanna a guy who’s rugged ‘n tall,
speaks words of love with a Tennessee drawl,
swaggers beside me with a bowlegged stride,
yet has no fear of his feminine side.
I need a man who’s toughened with muscle,
sports at his navel a PRCA buckle,
a rodeo champ who rides a bare-back bronc,
then dances the two-step at the honky-tonk.
He smells of old leather ‘n fresh mown hay,
rides a fine pony, a Quarter horse bay.
Together they work to bring home the herd;
that job gets done with nary a word.
His home’s not the city, why he’d go insane,
it’s nights under stars on an open plain.
A well-worn saddle cradles his head
as prairie grass becomes his bed.
Tequila kisses melt me to the core
when jinglin’ spurs walk through the door.
The spark in his eyes ignites me like fire;
my body quivers with naked desire.
A wide-brimmed Stetson sits low on his brow
as he plays his g’itar and tells me how
“he’ll love me forever, just wait ‘n see,
if a cowboy’s girl I’m willin’ to be.”
His fingertips feather my sensitive skin,
send me to heaven again ‘n again
as hot passion flows in pure poetry.
Yeah! A cowboy’s girl I’m gonna be! |
