"filly" poems
Visiting a friend on his Quarter
Horse farm, the day sunny and warm.
We walked out to his brood mare
pasture, the ladies were running,
awaiting and sunning, anticipation
in the air and their nervous behavior.
Noble his name, consistency his game,
a reliable aging stallion, sire to many
fine sons and daughters, years of proven
pairings, came halter led and prancing.
He had their scent and his spirit awakened,
the three ladies believed to be in season began
to snigger and whinny, their excitement growing
as the stallion entered their grassy domain,
the dance was about to commence.
The handler led the big fella' forward,
both sides began their quizzical inspections.
one young filly more aggressively willing
than the others. Noble excitedly returned
her heightened interest.
Within a few minutes Noble began to rear up,
he knew his job, his august appendage extended,
trying several times to mount his mate intended,
adrenaline pumping his back legs began to shake,
on his fourth failed attempt the eager proven
suitor fell to the ground, rolled over, paused for
a moment and struggled to stand on unsteady legs.
Appearing even somewhat embarrassed.
The mare moved aside, kicked her hind legs in
the stallion's direction, whinnied loudly and
ran away. Rejected the old stallion stood looking
perplexed, failure was something unknown to him.
His spirit was willing but his aging body was weak.
The old stud slowly returned to the barn, his head
hung low, no longer prancing.
For every time and being there is a season, aging
is part of the cycle, like this stallion, we all reach
this moment of understanding. Sometimes gracefully,
most times with stunned disbelief.
From Noble to nothing in one afternoon.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
That cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
Sittin’ on the pisspot in a one horse town
Salient sista, she sees them cowpokes
And they do their damndest to draw her attention
Oh, she’s seen chairs thrown, barfights break out
And the piano man run away
Sometimes they shoot the others down
All for the chance to pay two dollars
To lay with the only cowgirl in town
She’s the Queen Sheba of the saloon girls
**** loose and fast
Motherly and tender, it’s all for the askin
Sanctified or sinister, that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
I asked her to marry me
Many times before
She laughed and said, “Honey, you can’t have me.”
In my naïveté I thought I could change her wayward ways
Domesticate her like I’d break a young filly
All the thoughts of getting off the trail, building a house,
Settling down and starting a family.
But that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
Saddle up
Gurl!
It's time
to hit the trail,
as quietly & gently
I spank the pony-
tail,
&
know,
it's how
I love you, baby..
You'll see me riding like the wind,
spurred on by our time & trials ~ that no-one got to win.
We were always mining Fools Gold & giggle indulging every sin!
Our
Poke(h)er
hands
stayed empty
&
the music's...
long since died.
Your sweet songs done,
gone & left me
(sobs)
tumbleweed rolls by
Once
we prospected forever
in this inky ol' ghost town
marking spots with X's before
a WANTED sign was found
and
One Moonshine
still
ain't big en'f 'f both of us
to get our quills thirst drowned
(hic-
cup)
"Look West,
and to the horizon,
see the stage at the edge of town?"
My last performance, PRIVATE, snigger to all the wide-eyed boys around
Ace-high, on a barebacked filly, play gallerying all my skills
I'll slap my thigh
&
Yee-haw !
riding for them there hills
~Saddled up in the softest leather
Chin up!Deep Breath!Chest out!
Corseted
& brimming,
encased in
perfume scented lace
~Bat my eyelids for the masses~
I'll find another place.
And
then you can
cut a swell down Main Street,
(remember the brothels to your right)
keep your low slung loaded though, for it's no place to start a fight
cos just outside that swing (ing) door,
the coffin maker winks at such a cheerful sight,
stood grimacing in his top hat,
grasping 13 nails
tight.
&
I'm sure
you'll measure up
darling
blowing rubied kisses
as
I bid
mine own
true-love's heart
goodnight.
***HiHO Silver,
away..........!***
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say?
"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?"
The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"
Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.
And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.
And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!
Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.
But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.
"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.
2.8k
He is just a wild mustang,
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
With one eye on the horizon,
the other on a place he calls home.
And it's a rough road that he travels,
but he know he'll reap all the seeds he's sown.
He is just a wild mustang
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
He may fall and he may stumble,
but he never seems to let it keep him down.
Just gets back up, shakes off the dust,
and knows next time to run on truer ground.
He keeps his nose to the wind,
as if she was a tellin' which way to go.
He is just a wild mustang
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
And he's never been the kind
who was content to stay.
To follow with the heard,
or be afraid to stray.
And there's never been a filly
who could ever tie him down,
for he knows just where he's goin',
but he don't know where he's bound.
He's searchin' for the answers
he has yet to comprehend.
He know's he'll need a love,
but for now he'd settle for a friend.
He's always been a loner,
though never really like to be alone.
he is just a wild mustang,
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
De Camptown ladies sing dis song -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
De Camptown racetrack five miles long -- Oh! doo-dah day!
I come down dah wid my hat caved in -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
I go back home wid a pocket full of tin -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Chorus
Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day!
I'll bet my money on de bob-tail nag -- Somebody bet on de bay!
De long tail filly and de big black hoss -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
Dey fly de track and dey both cut across -- Oh! doo-dah day!
De blind hoss sticken in a big mud hole -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
Can't touch bottom wid a ten foot pole -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Chorus
Old muley cow come on to de track -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
De bob-tail fling her ober his back -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Den fly along like a rail-road car -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
Runnin' a race with a shootin' star -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Chorus
Seen dem flyin' on a ten mile heat -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
Round de race track, den repeat -- Oh! doo-dah day!
I win my money on de bob-tail nag -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
I keep my money in an old tow-bag -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Chorus
2.3k
A Barry Hodges poem by Edna
I remember a girlfriend called Mary
Whose ***** was exceedingly hairy;
She came from Newcastle;
And the stench of her ********
Converted me into a fairy.
Thus I rejected your Glorias and Glendas
In frilly white bras and suspenders;
And sought sweet catharsis
From the nice juicy arses
Of poofters and other gay benders.
Redemption came to me from Millie:
A big girl, a well-padded filly;
She was just a Geordie
And really quite ******
But her **** smelled as sweet as a lily.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC
(Never underestimate the power
Of the gift of giving a flower)
You can't fail her
with a bright dahlia
With it's perfect symmetry
Caress her nose
With the scent of a rose
And a cup of Earl grey tea
Make a daisy chain
For her flowing mane
And rub her tired toes
Treat your filly
To a glorious lily
And a day of sweet repose
Surprise her at the station
With a bunch of carnations
And hold her hand for a while
Make things swell
In a field of bluebells
That'll surely bring a smile
Get down on one knee
With some lovely peonies
And look deeply into her eyes
The sight of an iris
Could fill her with such bliss
If you take her by surprise
You could please her
With some pink freesias
And a well planted kiss
If the romance slips
Choose some bright tulips
The thought won't go amiss!
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
I’m on my way to San Antone
Gonna cowboy up
There’s a filly there I need to see
Sure enough, we’ll build a fire
Take in the Alamo
Then we’ll dance at The Wagon Wheel
The best honky-tonk I know
I’ll be on my best behave
The whole weekend through
I met her through Cowboy Date
The internet is cool
This solo buckaroo
Don’t intend to be single for long
This is our fourth rendezvous
I’m not usually wrong
I got a new Stetson hat
Took my spurs off
There’s a spring in my gait
I look like George Strait
In my fresh-pressed cowboy shirt
I even got some cologne on
Now, that’s a first
I could go on and on
I told my Mom she’s the one
I’ll tell my gal tonight
We’ll ride off into the sunset together
Assuming everything goes all right
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
anxious
afraid
thoughts racing
heart beating
out of control
fearful
like a filly
knowing
you're wolf’s prey
wanting a man
to protect
reign you in
anchor your mind
soothe your soul
sssh, baby girl
daddy’s here
to take all your fears away
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 11:46 PM UTC
Sixty Eight years of age
and he texts her puppy love
msgs six time a day,
in between phone calls.
long ago lovers,
high school, I think,
Facebook stumbled upon,
and the inky surprise,
that they have relearned to be,
a new shade of
a true blue tint of
the word,
devoted.
mushy is the heart that goes
soft to hard to soft,
soft by innocence, then
Pharaoh hardened by life, then,
softened by reflection,
mushyed by wisdom,
that came costly.
when relearning
the side effects of
discovering the words
that were left unsaid,
or even better,
spoke this time with
better understanding,
greater appreciation.
Now so better
After Aging Aching
in an oak cask
of finally, filly fully
fermented love.
I don't need inspiration
to clap for you,
but your confidence un-betrayed,
name omitted,
as one grandfather tips his hat to another,
all he can smiling say,
God ****
romantic rediscovery at 68,
I suspect is even better than the
first fumbled go around.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Blue streaks shew across the sky.
Manic days and semper fi.
Red dawn smashes out the sea.
Honor is all I claim to be.
Though I love and feel like saintly.
I reek, timorous, spineless and dainty.
But I have no respect for you!
Till we are in court, tried and true
It was the world, the world of defeat.
I planted my flag on a daisy and creek.
On a light dominion of my summerhouse place.
There sit, the lovely Welterman case.
Weltermans family gathered in boon.
Farewell to a daughter, a motherly loon.
I killed her. There. I said it okay?
But don't blame me, she was just in my way.
On a cold summer day, and a hot summer night.
Cicadas bizzled but hardly struck a fright.
Daisy lay sleeping, sweet next to me.
Leaving behind her unfinished dreams
But lo and behold, an undertaker.
Ruinous desire, I decided to take her.
My confession means nothing, my killing, an iota.
So love would not infect Alexander of Macedonia.
Down the throat and across the sea.
Of loquacious gelatinous sanctimony.
I'll cut deep without thinking, I'll slash without aversion.
Ophelia and her love is a tainted **********
I bathed in the blood and cried myself silly.
She only deserved death, that ***** old filly.
No more would Welterman reek of my sin.
To lower a king, to a peasantly Tim.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 2:59 AM UTC
her mind was as open as the crystal blue sky
but she was lost in the cage of her heart
the one she carries with her
covered with a fine silken golden cloth
the one one that she has attached jewels to
attached tales of Madrid and the
travels she made as a young girl
it was on one of thouse dusty roads that she found this tale
written on a placard that reads so well
like something Hemingway would have said
that reads like a key to all the closed doors in
any city of the ancient world
forever sealed
by times jewel encrusted hand
by the golden trim left the passing of
thousand pilgrims on the road to divinity
the rain had swept away the tastes of yesterday
and leaving behind a scent to the air like rebirth
like a second chance for this one run filly
all the heads hang low in the humid sun
all the thoughts come to the coming carefree night
but as she steps carefully through the picked fields
carrying her basket of treasures
her soft cotton dress revealing more than it hides
she sings sweetly to me
in a voice only i can hear
of a dusty road near Madrid
of a sweet young girl that she was once
and in her heart still is
i pull aside the golden cloth
and unlock the cage
for some beauty's were never meant to be
captivated by any less than
real love
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
The Irish word for poet
is "File".
This always fascinates me
Because it reminds me of a youthful horse
(The filly)
Pushing the boundaries
And stumbling on awkward legs
Being
not the most majestic
But the one who discovers
Joy and passion
and vibrancy
in every action of life.
When just putting
one foot in front of the other(s)
is a deed as majestic
As galloping
Like a knight with surmounting pride
Or a night with no end,
It's indeed a gift
of youth and innocence.
Like the old mare,
We may bear wrinkles.
Like the war horse,
We have our battle scars.
But we are the “File”.
And we have something to say.
and we will forever be
infinite
in our hoof beats
and our heart beats.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
pure pleasure prairies me
amongst pastures and me filly Polly
posies pretty poignant paradigm
of Palominos rhyme and rhythms
play me pictures posting and posing for
me pretty filly Polly
prancing let me see her
lil' sassyfrass haunched up back
please
lay me pleasantly out on pink pastures
my days a paradise visage
a Petunia pasted poster all portraiting
perfect pure pasture and
me pretty filly,
Polly.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
Some things come naturally,
like breathing or crying;
they are embedded into us.
Other traits we seem to
acquire over time --
like a carefully raised
Thoroughbred, being taught
to clear the steepest jumps.
Some things come naturally,
like sleeping or eating;
we're born with the urges.
But others will fall
into cyclical habits slowly --
like a filly taking
her first shaking step,
I place a pen to paper.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
she had undue haste , like a filly in gallop.
i was slow and stedy, an ambling horse.
our road a broad bed; but how did we reach there together?
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
Federico was the man in black, abstruse were his eyes
He was a dandy highway man, a mask for his disguise
His gaze was cold and steely, trained upon the track
His mount held fast, like the night, but almost twice as black
The church bell broke the silence, a single, solitary sound
Right on cue the coach appeared, his quarry he had found
He urged his filly forward, drew his flintlock from his side
With beating heart he waited, to see what would betide
As the coach drew closer, his voice let out a boom
His pistol cocked, and gaze still locked emerging from the gloom
“Ladies and gentlemen; if thou dost wish to avert from strife”
“Thou shalt stand and deliver your money or your life!”
With this behest a portly gent bounded from his seat
So rotund, even he was stunned he landed on his feet
“You villainous half brained haggard!” he cried, reaching for his gun
But before his words had pierced the night this poor old fool was done
Federico rolled him over and rummaged for his purse
Whilst the women started whimpering and men began to curse
“Now thou wilt relinquish all thy silver and part with all thy gold”
“Or find yourselves upon the road, bodies growing cold!”
With much unrest, concern at best, most fearing for their health
The shaken party accepted fate and parted with their wealth
Federico took his ***** and climbed upon his horse
Then through the darkened avenue he began to plot his course
Across the moors and rolling downs he galloped through the mist
To find his path to safety and to keep a lovers tryst
Assured that no one saw a thing, the night and mare both sable
He approached his homestead silently and left her in the stable
On tips of toes, whilst skipping rows he glided up the stair
To see his beau, with love that’s true of which could not compare
Creeping through the chamber door, to join his sleeping bride
To dream the dreams that lover’s dream he slipped in by her side
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 6:01 AM UTC
Through turnips
and year old hay
unnamed till then
I saw her yellow mane
flaming in the morning sun
and named her Golden.
There I saw the filly rise
into a spring song and wet her
nose in the pond
shake her head and bray
proud I was of her.
Who shall be mating?
My youthful filly, growing into
her maturity, Black shadow, or
Orion, or Majestic, the white Arab
long and tall.
Gallop to my fence, my sweet , take this candy.
Absorb the sun and all the oats you can eat.
Run, like my forefathers free
and innocent.
Golden.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
I got my horse her name is tilly,
what a rough rider my little filly,
when I give her lovin she tells me back with shovin,
when we start ridin I lead her to the side in,
Round bout the barrel swift like a carol,
when she starts racing I cant hear her pacing,
along with her feet i can feal the rythm and chase her to the beet
I'd never use a whip she lissons to my hip,
she can be craazy I gotta hold grip she can be lazy I gotta give her lip.
Fly over jumps streak through the creek,
Don't over run even when fun she'll feal weak and turn the other cheek.
Now were done I say she's number one,
end of our session we both learn a lesson,
head to the barn to untack give her grain her favorite snack.
and brush her main cause I'm her master Take her back out to the pasture ,
with other horses
there all at play It's dinner time I'll get your hay.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
I am in love with this young woman.
She dances through my dreams
like a filly foal, frisky, full of fun.
She knows she is a beauty,
but wants to share with me each iota
of her new-found feminity.
She prances into my my heart
with no timidity and makes her home
there to share her love with me
unfettered, unafraid. She wraps
her braided golden hair around
my chest so I can sleep not nor rest.
The rest is ecstasy that has no end,
except a new beginning of the same.
Tame she is not. She is Eros come aflame.
Shame? Why should she be?
In some cosmic way, she has always known
that fluids she ********** are but tears
of pure passion, joy, to be savored
by her and me. Night becomes day,
but there is no end to this melody
of moans and murmurs. I hold her
in my arms forever,
this young woman whom I love.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
May 30, 2021
May 30, 2021 at 11:31 AM UTC
please,
draw this week-old
filly for me.
tug out sweeping charcoal
lines onto the paper.
with soft willow draw
each curving, yielding detail:
the fringy mane, lamb’s tale,
sloppily knotted joints.
she’s an inquisitive
rascal.
catch that in her eyes as she
edges towards me.
draw her stiff-legged
joyful
bound away,
draw her curved neck in
one soft stroke.
she’s locked into the
matching curve of her mother’s
flank
and as
curve echoes curve
milk comes, peace holds,
and she shows me
glory.
draw it if you can,
this naked little filly,
my body is not
so bare
and innocent as hers.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
To be in your childs memories tomorrow
be in their life today
Put aside adult worry and sorrow
just sit down and play
they’ll like material stuff
but much prefer love
money won’t buy a hug
lay down on the rug
that meeting you didn’t miss
she was waiting with a kiss
take the time to be silly
before your foal becomes a filly
To be in your childs memories tomorrow
be in their life today
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
Miss Billings was chatting
to one of the customers
leaning on the black
counter top
with her elbows
her chin placed
between open palms
her blonde hair
and spectacled eyes
gave her the poor man’s
Monroe look
you stood behind her
leaning your back
against the wall
hands in the pockets
of your white overalls
and what’s going to win
the 3.30?
she asked
the horse in front
the guy said
she just stared
does a horse with *****
run slower
than a horse without?
she asked
never given it
much thought
he said
she raised an eyebrow
all I know is
I like a young filly
he said
giving her a gaze
you would
she said
I guess you’d like a mare?
he said
she stood up
and stretched
her arms in the air
I’d rather ride my motorbike
than a horse any day
she said
you studied her
standing there
her blonde tied back hair
her red stockings
and white ankle boots
her curves and ***
the bulge against
her red knitted top
of her big *******
and she rides it good
you said
to the guy opposite
I bet she does
he said laughing
he knows ****
she said
giving you her stare
I ride as I’ve always ridden
hard and fast
the best way
he said
you wondered if she would
ever give you a break
and smile or say
something nice
but she had the ability
to freeze you out
like a block of ice
even though
you dreamed of her
at night
**** naked in your bed
playing games
inside your head.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
My Thracian filly,
Why do you stare at me askance?
Casting such a scornful glance,
When I only seek to fix the bridle and the bit?
And thereby win with winged words,
Whom auspicious gods above gave chance.
That I may do so is no such crime,
Merely only now give way,
To him who rolls the dice now cast,
And wishing only a wicked kiss.
Be tender, be soft – hold not fast,
For here, forlorn, I do but stand,
And extend but only a weakening hand.
So now with steady hands,
Let me unhook the belt which holds you so chaste,
And if not, return to wretched lands,
Where this bittersweet memory may be erased.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:17 AM UTC