My childhood heroes were full of horses,
Tonka Toy horses, not Barbie dolls or action figures.
I was crazy about horses,
especially Secretariat and Seabiscuit.
I grew up with a lithograph
of the Irish horse, Arkle, on the wall.
When my grandmother wasn’t looking,
I’d trace around the edges of his nostrils
with a red pencil, as if to breathe life into his portrait.
He glowed like the fairy horses of the Otherworld.
with a red pencil, as if to breathe life into his portrait.
He glowed like the fairy horses of the Otherworld.
My grandmother noticed, but never said a thing.
I could recite a litany of pedigrees,
bloodlines, jockeys, and stables. Willie Shoemaker.
Whose lineage traced back to Native Dancer,
War Admiral, Three Bars, Man O War—
I could recite a litany of pedigrees,
bloodlines, jockeys, and stables. Willie Shoemaker.
Whose lineage traced back to Native Dancer,
War Admiral, Three Bars, Man O War—
right on back to the founding sires,
those hot-blooded desert horses with English names,
the Godolphin, the Darley, the Byerley Turk.
But I couldn’t keep up in school, always the last to finish,
with heart pounding as if it were about to burst.
That moveable feast, the finish line, was ever out of reach.
I was unbelievably fast, a sprinter, no one could catch me,
I was Of the Cloak, that foundation mare of the desert winds,
running from fear, running from life, until there was nowhere left to go.
But I couldn’t keep up in school, always the last to finish,
with heart pounding as if it were about to burst.
That moveable feast, the finish line, was ever out of reach.
I was unbelievably fast, a sprinter, no one could catch me,
I was Of the Cloak, that foundation mare of the desert winds,
running from fear, running from life, until there was nowhere left to go.
But I was given a plug mare who taught me perseverance,
when she died, I was given a red Three Bars mare, a sprinter,
the fastest horse in the valley. It was like riding a barrel
on a stormy sea when she leapt into the void.
Those horses were my teachers. When the gates opened,
I found I could stay the distance, eight furlongs,
head to head, then twelve, neck to neck.
the fastest horse in the valley. It was like riding a barrel
on a stormy sea when she leapt into the void.
Those horses were my teachers. When the gates opened,
I found I could stay the distance, eight furlongs,
head to head, then twelve, neck to neck.
The invisible crowd cheering as I crossed the finish line.
And then there were roses bleeding on the ground.
7/12/19
in a Petaluma parking lot
while the wildfires ravaged the sky
until it was the color of imprisoned amber.
The sun was an angry baleful eye
and we sipped the air carefully through masks
wondering if the world would end in ashes.
Where are you these days, John? Geoffrey Davis mentions you from time to time. (I have no idea who I was writing to. Not Rambling Jack Elliott. Probably to John Watts, whose thoroughbred racehorse, Ceres, I used to sometimes ride—with his sister, Joan. With whom he isn't speaking.)
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