Horses
Tell me what power hits the ground,
heard a mile away, ear to mound?
Earth’s tympanic membrane resounds;
like kettle drums, the hoof beat pounds!
Or what, when they run together,
frightens every flight from feather?
Deer run sideways and leave their young;
minnows from shallow creeks are flung.
Wolves cease hunting; lithe lizards hide,
beetles find caves and crawl inside.
Mighty wind dust, kicked up by heels,
mimics thunder and lightening peels.
Muscles ripple, stallions cripple;
whinnies, neighing, snorting, triple.
Tell me how, when they’re wild and free,
they turn and run and come to me?
Then tame and lame and docile bow,
to man’s child. Can you tell me how?
Godsong
No music made by human hand
can match an orchestra this grand,
as I recline in forest glade
to hear the songs that God has made.
Brooks’ sweet babble alone can soothe;
background breezes so subtly smooth.
Species of songbirds on parade;
rattles of aspen leaves are made.
While silent clouds are tumbling by:
the piercing shriek of Flickers’ cry.
Woodpecker drums while Rufus hums,
and bees make love to chrysanthemums.
Squirrels titter, clunk nut litter.
Brown beaver chews to spread the news:
soon trout will rise to buzzing flies,
and frogs will croak on air they choke.
Rushes rub like scouring brushes;
the crickets sing to evening bring.
The sky gets dark; a hush below…
satisfied, I must sadly go.
Spirit of Iron, Heart of Gold
…to Erich A. Schmidt of Groundbirch, BC
He came out short, distorted
like a tree cleaving rocks.
He grew whiskered, and wind-shorn,
blistered, holes in his socks.
He came out of prairie winds,
crusted dust on his face,
rock-pockmarked and spit-pitted,
knowing all shall be erased.
He came out of sheet lightning
over flat and treeless land,
looking for a path to earth
thru a boy or hired hand.
He came from arctic outflow
and desiccating drought.
How sparse the parsimony;
how harsh! He still came out.
Not the first, but last baby
that tugs a mother’s womb,
he was the brooding Banty
that shadowed in his room.
He came out, drawers drooping
off of a broken belt.
He knew well with his first cry
no one cared how he felt.
Out of sibling rivalry,
surprises, sudden twisters,
seniority priorities,
hot air, bossy sisters,
he came off rusted tractors
treasures auctioned away.
He tumbled off a high horse
and learned to roll like hay.
God-fearing and rod-rearing,
patch turned and thatch burned red,
he was carved as he was starved,
all feral-fallow bred.
He came out, twisty barky,
shark-toothed from spiky spills,
fisty-feisty, snake-snarky
from them thar larky hills.
Ruth Hill was born and educated in upstate New York, and traveled North America extensively. She is a Certified Design Engineer, lifelong dedicated tutor, and enjoys spoken word. She has won 1st prizes in Gulf Coast Ethnic & Jazz Poetry, Heart Poetry, Lucidity, Poets for Human Rights, and Writers Rising Up. Over 250 of her poems have won awards or publication in the US, Canada, UK, and Israel. She welcomes email at [email protected].”
