"foals" poems
— for the American Mustang
Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby **** surfaced
for the first time. Last year,
135,000 horses died —
rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.
In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”
In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —
2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
exhausted mare foals
scenting oats hay leather wood
from hay loft girl spys
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
Blithe dreams arise to greet us,
And life feels clean and new,
For the old love comes to meet us
In the dawning and the dew.
O'erblown with sunny shadows,
O'ersped with winds at play,
The woodlands and the meadows
Are keeping holiday.
Wild foals are scampering, neighing,
Brave merles their hautboys blow:
Come! let us go a-maying
As in the Long-Ago.
Here we but peak and dwindle:
The clank of chain and crane,
The whir of crank and spindle
Bewilder heart and brain;
The ends of our endeavour
Are merely wealth and fame,
Yet in the still Forever
We're one and all the same;
Delaying, still delaying,
We watch the fading west:
Come! let us go a-maying,
Nor fear to take the best.
Yet beautiful and spacious
The wise, old world appears.
Yet frank and fair and gracious
Outlaugh the jocund years.
Our arguments disputing,
The universal Pan
Still wanders fluting--fluting--
Fluting to maid and man.
Our weary well-a-waying
His music cannot still:
Come! let us go a-maying,
And pipe with him our fill.
When wanton winds are flowing
Among the gladdening glass;
Where hawthorn brakes are blowing,
And meadow perfumes pass;
Where morning's grace is greenest,
And fullest noon's of pride;
Where sunset spreads serenest,
And sacred night's most wide;
Where nests are swaying, swaying,
And spring's fresh voices call,
Come! let us go a-maying,
And bless the God of all!
1.7k
The granular spittle that remains in my throat
A long day between winter and spring
My state known only by friends few of them
My Love felt by every creature
The ******** that sprinkles with their hatred
And those that converts their names and faith
This suffocating visible plurality of creatures and bizarre manifestations
My spiritual nervation has strengthened
Soul cells are dancing the muttered nation’s dance called Love
Those who make *** in the air as flies’ foals hatred babies
Can you **** babies is our question
We the invisible plurality of divine creatures and manifestations
We the perpetual Theophany coruscate in pure hearts
As Sun in the dews of mornings full of vetyver, ambergris, limonene, fragrance and a slight skunk of civet, moschus and the sweat men by labor exhausted
We speak we sing we paint
With the act without exhaling a syllable from our holly mouths
We sprinkle with the aureate dust
Straight we look at Saturn ring color eyes and the color of peacock tale feather
We built a cube temple and play chess in cube
We love the terrain where the guests of Moses and Lot before him had passed through
We sing with Seraph of high realms we sing in sync
Here we bring joy in hearts of those who encroached in procession through emerald macadam
Where you seldom pass
We know by heart the Al Jaffr and ten Sefirots and we read the Liber Razielis
We accompanied Adam Kadmon in his solitude prior to separation and embodiment in terrain that will be bloodied by human through centuries
We have said to John to go in the river Jordan baptize the Christ and lead him on
For those who knows a little
We said to Waraka to prepare Muhammad to become the leader of those who seek the truth
We said to Bahaullah to explain men to take after women and the mother Earth
Otherwise in upcoming millennium the solely food of them shall be kernels and water
We said to Gibran commence the Theurgy for upcoming millennium being as solely artistic repose for creative men
We said to Fahredin write as much as possible and hush as a canyon stone
Until he finds his echo point
We…
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
Red water, thick fluid
It's all the same
The blood running through us
No matter the life. No matter the name.
We all reek of selfishness
with the aroma of sin
We find hatred as pure bliss
Allowing demons to sink in
Letting them take over our intellect
Poisoning our flowers which sprout out of our veins
Our harmony is wrecked
The collectors of our guilt keep them locked in chains
We meditate on the thought of letting go
We raise our wings towards the sun
The sunflowers in your palms begin to grow
Once again we are one
Breaking through the barriers of doubt
We assassinate the demons we own
Our body will no longer fear droughts
We sing along to the melody the wind blown
The drums beat to our valuable souls
We nod our head and grin an incredible grin
Running free and wild with the foals
With a deep breath we feel the sun against our skin
We have escaped
This is our only chance
Without hesitation when the sky is draped
We lift our hands in perfect harmony and begin the sundance.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Little fireflies flowing through the wind,
Twirling, swirling all the way in,
Through seep settled fog,
And a brief counter bog,
They shine a temporary light,
That makes the night seem bright;
Little butterflies flowing through the wind,
Up and down, and up and down they go flying in,
Bringing nectar to flowers and a show for others,
They go on and never bring bothers,
Instead they give the gift of colors,
To show the world the true making of their collars;
Little birdies flowing through the wind,
Twisting and turning through the passage of the bend,
They do not pay mind to the watching souls,
They rather bring joy to the newborn foals,
This proves their life has power,
Never do they have to show their cower;
Little gifts of life flowing through the wind,
Plowing through the sunny sky out of their whim,
Providing their bodies as a source of show,
Continuing their flights for the peoples bow,
Filling themselves with joyful laughter,
That we shall not bring to shatter.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
From proud stallions to foals, the white horses ride the rolls,
Heavy hooves crash, break and thunder over rocks and stones
and grind this land to sand and dust.
Wind-whipped snow-white manes trail as their speed leads them on,
Over the blue-grey foam-flecked fields, to smoother calmer pastures.
But not to be so.
As the strength of their lives surprises, they are but short lived,
and as quickly as they come; they go.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
To brand new horizons, across the vast wide sea,
The God to whom I'm praying, believes so much in me.
He says that I'm not barren, I'm the fruit of His own vine.
But sometimes I feel badly, for I fall so many times.
Into this great abyss, of lies and twists and turns,
so sadly was I walking
down the road that made me burn.
To bright and new beginnings, my candle shows the way,
I follow in the footsteps, where saints and angels play.
Surely we're not lonely, though it seems we need so much!
I will try to tell you strongly, my dear, that desire is not a crutch.
But don't think that desire, that want that's always there,
can be satisfied with worldly things,
those things that can ensnare.
To lovers who are joyfully invited in the truth,
who wait for true love's fulfillment, in a castle weatherproof.
They know the bounds of where they walk, they know they way is hard,
But having faith in things unseen, can often help at large.
For whom but Him can he be for she? Or him for her we wish?
That’s just they way the world goes ‘round,
Like a beautifully swimming fish.
To romping around with new curtails a-flying,
our heels kicking up in the breeze.
Little foals on the inside, we neigh out some horsie-pride
With laughs floating up high, giving breath to the summer trees.
Let your hair down and out, dance like tomorrow’s the end-
because everyday is a gift.
I know not the time, but if it’s this mountain we climb,
why don’t we strive to reach the top?
Together, He said, so I felt safe in my head
knowing that I would never He drop.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
The Beast of Burden
These last words of this collection
Is salutation to mules, donkeys and horses?
They have disappeared from city life, yet without them
No city would have been built
From the landscape to they have gone without a lament
Without them, no field would have been ploughed
We owe them our way of life.
They were sacrificed in our senseless wars.
We remember them not and that sadness me
There is a hole, in landscape a white dot beside an oak
Where the mare of many foals stood
I miss the sturdy beauty of donkeys and mules,
And the aroma of their work is gone, and we are poorer
For the vision, we shall not see again
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 5:05 AM UTC
If matador is both macho and adorer, mask and mother,
Where are we in this chapter?
If peace is both picador and saviour...
Stepping stone and tablet...
Why can’t we capture?...
I know we were meant to meet us
These fragmented foals, sweet strangers...
So why can’t we seal us?
When we know the things that make us
open, closed and patient – omni-dimensional...
You’re calm yet persistent, I’m a bloom that has its own blood
And we’ve learnt to take it here, on the edge of premise...
Chasing and charging us...
Until one day we’ll free us. Like hail weather – pressure conscious.
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 6:52 PM UTC
Pale green blossoms rise up out of the rich moist dirt, reaching for sunlight
Rivers rage from melting icecapes, racing towards defrosting lakes below
Humming and chirping fills through warming air, nature has music again
Fawns and foals on their new wobbly legs, nibble grasses that have grown green and crisp
Me with my camera, capture life at its peak, the becoming of spring life's began
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
In Autumn, when the velvet petals grow
Upon the roses, in their earthy bed
And burning sunsets blaze a fiery glow,
Enveloping the world in crimson red
In Winter, when the clouds unleash their snow
And cover o'er the land in silken hue;
When mountains shiver, midst the icy blow,
Of winds that billow violets, brightly blue
In Spring, when life emerges from the throe,
With new born foals, unsteady on their feet;
When farmers harvest sugar with the plough,
With buzzing bees, in search of something sweet
In Summer, when the hazy days pass slow,
And flowers glisten in the morning dew;
Through all the years, as seasons ebb and flow,
My days, my love, are filled with thoughts of you
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
the world
(who shall by nothing easily break)
will eat the seed, my body
and of it forest make
where shall girls
in little nothing
wander
lithely
(a tiger amongst
)
and foals will
burst their mother's womb
and life will breath
from even dark-set tombs
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
the not body of Spring feels like
girlhood stroked fur purring
wet between April and May
slicked rain of coming flowers:
Not easy
Not hard
nor needing
for kneadfuly clutch of loosed steam
who makes tearfully joy by within
forests loops of the curling stuff
her own not body
by warmth
by wet
decay of young
foals white petals parting showers of chaste rain and the
tight
tight
tight
emulsion of pushing through
the supple cloud of morning:
SUN,
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
I have another little house in back
A kinda smallish, white brick place
On a smallish flat hill with front facing
A small, greenish, kinda deep pond
Where I hang all the time in thought
Big piece of my kinda smallish heart
Built first for our loved sweet Mamau
Before us leaving her ashes in winds
In the small pasture, across the way
Surrounding, and beyond green pond
Bucks, does, mares, squirrels, foals
Scamper away, a big part of each day
None live there in long roots, you see
Coming, going, only by arrangement
I keep the place up, ***** and span
Decorating so as she would much like
Lots of lace in doilies, edges, or such
Victorian era mostly, in all very much
People, families, kids all come and go
But when none are staying night over
Then I'll often sit the porch awhile
Watching dragonflies fly and such
Then when the evening sun turns late
I'll stiffly rise to ring the front doorbell
Knowing she would, but can't answer
And I'll go on past threshold, till then
Hollering out, in loud, to ring the clear
"Ma, I'm home, again"
To eat some good gnocchi or such
And take a bit of rest, from the wife
Sorry, I meant of course, a rest
From this rough, tumbling, hard life
© 2017 Jim Davis
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 8:37 AM UTC
Here we are
a page to settle in on
our once silent thoughts
finally put into these special arrangement of letters
into these meager words that we hope will adequately describe
everything.
From the feelings;
such as the greatest joy of becoming a father
as he holds his little girl in his arms for the very first time
when he so wanted a boy, he could care less now
without reason, or rhyme.
He swells with a pride that none could ever take from him now
as the tears well up in his eye.
Yes this one special moment
he would not let anyone deny.
To the places;
There she sat atop of the largest hill
the only hill around, in fact
that would over look the valley of rolling knolls
as she watched over her flock of sheep
she watched the galloping mares
and listened to the whinnying of foals.
She felt the breeze as it slipped between the tips of the tall grass surround
she thanks the Lord of Hosts everyday
for this spot she's found.
For on top this sturdy rock, on this high, high hill
she sees her peaceful village down below
and takes the breath she's been holding
knowing for just moment
she can finally be still.
And the people, oh the silly, beautiful people;
There they were
this merry band of friends.
They have been there despite their dubious beginnings
their rough starts
and all sorts of wrong footing.
Stronger than steel
and closer than kin
years of friendships has shown to them
that kind of love will always win.
So here you are dear reader
with a voice in your head
reading every line that there is
I think the lesson is quite clear.
You belong
right here.
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
in zee olden days of
a ****** megastore
on oxford st.,
just beside
the Tottenham Court Rd.
tube station...
Mecca...
for all those who loved
music...
even the classical
music section, sealed,
behind glass doors...
and those music stations
where you could
listen to an album
before buying it...
i'm pretty sure i bought
*dry **** logic*'s
the darker side of nonsense...
based on?
the song asphalt...
and godhead's
album 2000 years of human
error...
decent times,
there was actually a point
to go to a major high street,
and forage,
while the girls were buying
clothes and shoes and
make-up...
books?
it was always amazon.com,
from the 3rd party sellers,
always on the discount,
thomas mann's
doctor faustus?
had to be
bought second hand...
HMV? it's still there,
on oxford st.,
but ****** had class...
a rare experience...
esp. the listening stations,
you'd forage for an album,
ask the technician to put it on,
listening to it...
and boom!
into your pocket...
i still remember Sony's mini-discs...
i still remember making
cassette compilations...
and that strange form of labor
of having to rewind,
a sound as unique
as the static of pre-digital television...
the noise from the vacuum
of the universe -
apparently considered to
be the sound, a remnant of
the big bang...
so... youtube -
now?
**** they take the music
shops away...
i guess youtube was always
about listening to music
before buying an physical compact
disc copy...
ah... this one
incident bothers me...
at the still (don't ask me how)
existing Romford HMV...
i actually had
a copy of foals
album holy fire in my hand...
but... **** i didn't buy it!
no listening station...
only after having watched
dr. foster (a BBC drama)
did i hear foals' song
my number...
and this is a quasi-nostalgia:
with a drag-along effect -
given that...
certain aspects of the 2000s
had to be, re-improvised.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
A lesson in denial
This insanity blanket cover,
(()) mind in constant spiral
Ignoring (()) recover
Y.
Swallowing water,
((deepthroating it rather))
(()) drowning in fishes,
They wither, they splatter,
((They try to climb ladders))
((Dumb fish))
.
Relativity doesn't
Mean to much to (())
Sinister things
And sinister (())
.
(()) swallow coal and ash
And foals and moles,
Vore (()) and gore (())
No placety of safet
Y.
No sleep no eat
No (()) no sea,
Have a seat or two or three
Welcome to insanit
Y.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 1:52 AM UTC
Could we dance in the moonlight
Drunken loons high off of life
Wouldn't that be nice
To let go of inhibitions
To let those connections we thought were dead
To let those evil little ghosts out if my head
Can we simply be one
Love, one person one unified front
Pursuing the same goals
We were divided like sheep, and mares and foals
Being as one should be humanities relationship goals.
So could we stop letting everything but the kitchen sink divide us
Can we please stop trying so hard only
to let life deride us
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
A mastodon of grieving age filled the spectacle of times past. A rover of red in a jacket of green, to forward a foreword, the four-letter word; to endow the knight stars in velvet jades. Deeds and tumbleweeds and beetles and trenches; seize the days gone by to build a fortress of hangars. Bogotas and Bugattis creak doors wide shut, halfway there through the thoroughfare. Absolute is obsolete, bear in, child, dear and mild, and a clock goes tick tock. A hissing sore, to kiss and roar, the wild boar steps out the door. Rhythm and rhymes; the ancient mimes of windpipe chimes; whom seek dimes and memorable times. The jades bleak of charades and stepping stone parades, contemplating foals and shoals and riverbed holds. The Moonlight sonata jumps and soars to come back down the upstair, through internal voids of night; whom take home the earnings and yearnings of early morning wars.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC