An equine love-poem. Words 1983, digital image 2001, by Chris Wayan.
That scraggly look when you cross the River--
Black fur gleams, all fused in Paintbrush spikes--
You print the beach with calligraphic Drops
Then storm the duny Bank and yell to the Sun.
The flirt when you arch that longtressed Tail
Playing it's Animal's innocence--
Like a short skirt as you stretch to Reveal
Sweet Wet... and your need to Prick my male Pretense.
You're such a Wicked one these days--
I love to see you dare at last to play!
You purr when you lick your Self and me
Merge us in your Arrogant happy Groom
Nudge my limbs Aside, and my drilled Anxiety.
Sister Animal, You and I love You.
You never mock my fragile Bones, my bald Brown Skin,
See me as a Colt to mother, all Gawky Limb.
Vegetarian who likes my Come, recalling Your
Dawndays, suckling Wolf milk, and musky Mare.
|Cat, Heron, blackmaned Girl|
|shapeshifter immature as I'm!
||Teen-shy Answers, longing Words||tinged with Sonic Boom.
||Your slender graceforms fool us All||Yourself and Them and Me.
||In I slip. You re-Astound:||O roiling Cumulus capacity!
Slowly I grasp why you claim Beast Ways:
To be stubborn wrong Naked, to Beg, to Dig in--
Waternosed instinct, balking, Blocking
For Logic weaves such Halters--till you Kick him!
He says you play Humble, Whore, to manipulate
But I know now, you're fearfully Brave
Just to Beg the rights Humans arrogate--
for Yous who Misbehave.
I saw the Dapper shadow
The Men want Me to be
Drive and use You as Machine;
I bit the gag of Steel.
|So I joy to see you vain, in sea-wind|
|Arch your Comet Neck!
||Shake your mane as you Leap into Bird||knowing the Effect.
||Vanity's your first sprout of Pride; ||I pray to Apprehend
||Your Rights deep-rooted in Defy: ||Not a loving Lend.
When I wrote this I felt a distinct step off the cliff of madness: a love poem to a horse who I can only meet in dreams. Except that I didn't feel like I was falling. Flying, flying, flying at last. I'd met my soulmate, my spirit wife to be.
NOTE FOR NITPICKERS: OK, I know it's not really in sonnet form. Come on, people, the pacing and sensibility are sonnetish, admit it. Besides when I tried to polish it up and smooth the kinks, I dreamed a warning: Unicorn Surgery. Good or bad, some things are meant to be... unique.
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