"palomino" poems
it was suggested
that there be no nexus
between texas and your pal-
omino - tagging the alamo, **
en el barrio, yo(u)-
and your gringa homecoming
queen in tight-assed jeans
-running with ms-13?
-playing twister with your hipster
sisters misters smith & wesson
oiled up and and ready to go
- new mexico?
i found you in tres piedras
at a place called ortega's
eating huevos rancheros
- shooting jose cuervo?
-muthafucka mara salvatruchas
in a red camaro and two bruthas
on a burro with bow and arrows
-stole your palomino?
*-they shoot horses
don't they?*
riding the black el camino
-on the blue mesa.
r ~ 9/30/14
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
a golden mare
strength and power
inspiration and imagination
flowing in rhythm or rhyme
thoughts in words I share
passion moving forward in time
roads of emotions; feelings I stride
paths of decisions; thoughts I ride
experiencing; distance and abilities
within my mind galloping the margins
of my quenching desire written
running wild and free
a golden horse
the perfect palomino of poetry
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
A cowboy in love with his horse
was convinced they should marry, of course.
They’d spent quality time roping cattle
And he was happiest when in the saddle.
“Love is Love, the high court has opined,
So why should folks deny me mine!”
The neighborhood blondes he found silly,
So he went for long rides with the fillies.
While he flirted with Pintos and Roans,
the Palomino he loved as his own.
Such idylls they spend in the bower
That he threw her a nice bridle shower.
He rented a barn as the hall
and invited his friends one and all.
While Mendelssohn is favored by most
He chose the “Call to the Post”
For their first dance he hoped they could play
“The Run for the Roses” that day.
All his plans came to naught, sad to say
When the love of his life answered” Neigh”
If an animal is your “one and only”
Better make it a sheep, not a pony!
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
Six:
standing for prayer
the corner of the school desk
thrice daily finds me
flatness and hardness,
and the fluorescent lighting
heavenly verses
it’s tuesday morning
forgive us our trespasses
and I’m told to chant
Nine:
*horseback riding is
a wonderful thing for girls
it builds self-esteem*
trail rides through the scrub
learning skills in the outdoors
Palomino flanks,
hard leather saddle
rolling, dazed, back and forth and
sweating in the heat
Twelve:
vaseline vignettes
of slick and dewy couples
raw, tanned romance, all
in rapid Spanish
the love in Latin Lover
is jacuzzi steam
all we can do is
laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
and laugh, and watch them
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
One day, if I could open my eyes
and watch you walk through
the sweet blue rain, and
wash those tears away.
If I could open up my eyes, and
watch you wear those same
cotton blue jeans with that
cute white blouse, and
tell those cotton candy clouds
to splash sweet blue rain,
into your heart
The fresh scent
of sweet blue rain
bring April showers, and
flowers sell in the marketplace.
Well, a funny thing happened this Sunday,
on our walk through Palomino Park;
I noticed some things that you do
with your sweet blue smile.
Loving you may take some time.
Let’s take a walk again
and fill an empty heart,
with sweet blue rain.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
You can only see half your face
when you press it against a glass reflection,
wondering where the other half goes.
Like evergreen ferns
wrongly named, in the end
they too will parch and crack
like the smiles and various shoes
that surround me as I lay
on the cold, stone tiles thinking
of all the names I have never known.
You can dial my phone, with guitar calluses
but the ring will just be an empty echo
of all the unanswered calls that left us
half-knitted sweaters and woolen scarves.
The ones that only kept us warm long enough
to blaze that last cigarette, lighting
our way into the darkness. You can fade
my coat and bleach my mane
but I will never be a palomino
in a dark jacket. So marry me and I swear,
I’ll scream until every vinyl skips
to repeat and that same song plays
copying notes in your head.
Watch my needles fall you’ll need them
for the bonfires in the summer
when you burn me away and roast
the other skewered pigs on display, fruits
of well thought deception and the thrill
of the chase. Put me out
with jazz music and your hollowed
tree-trunk-promises so that only
the smoldering is left. Shot’s fired.
Here’s your twenty-one gun salute.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:04 PM UTC
Eris
The press of
some boy’s
Levi rivets
on my hips
and liking it.
School girl poppets,
******* scraps
thrown in our faces.
A policeman
asking Eris
the colour of the
wanking man’s pants.
Fleshy pink she laughs.
Mysteries at 14.
Eris knows men
with fast cars.
Fast hands.
We fast forward
to forget most bits.
Never question
why we are taken,
we never
speak of it.
Why bother,
my mother’s drunk
with the man
whose daughter
Eris is.
Mysteries at 14.
I’m told
no alcohol.
There’s nothing
worse
than teenage girls
disgracing themselves.
Stay nice.
My father’s charcoal
drawing
on our wall
of the woman
with the
pointy *******
She is Eris’s mother.
Double standard
mysteries at 14.
Eris is taller than me,
blocks my way
with her back
as I try to leave.
Stay she says.
Scent of lemon
on her blonde hair,
caught up in a ponytail.
I flinch
as she flicks
it to one side,
like a stamping palomino.
Strands caught
by the butterflies
pinning
the gold studs
to her ears.
Blonde in my mouth,
lemon on my tongue,
best friend,
girlfriend crush.
She turns,
dissolute and desolate.
Eris says we’re enjoying it,
all the mysteries at 14
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 5:49 AM UTC
That isn't just dirt in the creases of his hands. It's dry earth he pushed through with a rusty plow behind two mules to prepare his land. It's slivers from the handles he gripped strongly and worked against. It's sweat he wiped from his brow as the sun scorned him. It's hair and **** and slobber from the horses and cows and pigs he tended. It's hard work. But mostly, it's love.
Love filled up every part of his hands, made them look ***** Love filled up a tiny valley as he stroked the long muscular neck hidden beneath the knotted mane of his favorite palomino. Love took its place in his hands as they planted each seed in a predestined hole in the ground. Love soaked the skin when sweat broke free to naturally cool him. Each time he caressed the velvet cheek of his bride with the vulnerable palm of his hand, love was there to leave her a tender tingle. Love acted as a pillow when she pressed her hand into his for comfort; it told her he was by her side and would be there when she needed. It was the fight his touch put into his wife just as she was becoming a mother. Love was the cradle as his baby girl was placed in his hands. Love was the peace his hands told his wife as she slipped away. Love was in his hands as he held his daughter's. Love was in his hands as they walked to the grave, and laid the flowers on it, and walked away.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
I’m ready to be Geronimo in this day.
To ride horse of intentions
and move under cloudless sky.
If thunder strikes, I with war paint infused with love
will gallop and conquer enemies of fear.
Birds in song whistle urging me on.
Flowers permeate nostrils
as winds hugs.
I am ready to take bow and shoot in poetic fields
and aim for many to fall at my poems.
Ready to transmute all judgements into heart
as I balance and wear Apache sash to celebrate self.
Ready willing and able
with breath deep to align with power
as warrior of love.
The day is young,
and I will ride Palomino steps gracefully.
Ride into the sunset blessed.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 1:04 PM UTC