Should I to the bookies go, and put cash
On this prospect rash?
I doubt the horse can win the race (though the crowd
In his support are loud
And grope
For hope
In empty pools
Where fools
Drown).
Do I want him to win?
I grin
And keep my own counsel, for the wise
Do not prate
Or rise
To the bait.
They cultivate
A zen-like state
And patiently wait …
Horses feet
Beat
In time with his heart.
An interlude (not for a prude),
Then hooves depart.
Beware
The coquettish mare
With lustrous maine,
For two riders bestride her,
Joy and pain.
The stallion getting old
Feels the cold,
But When he runs with the mares
His cares
Seem far away.
He doth play
At romance
But cannot prance
As once was the case.
Another pretty face
Becomes as one
With lovers long since gone.
There are always mares
With which to pair,
To keep him warm
As the dawn grey
Slinks over the horizon
Ushering in yet another day.
Her leather jacket.
Can she hack it?
Pack it
in
that leads to sin.
A riding crop.
Will he stop?
The horse
May run his course.
Force of circumstance
Or chance
Sees matters advance.
Her mount strides
but who rides
whom
as they canter through the gloom?
Snorting, their hoofs pounding, horses vast and black chase, pursue, hunt me down. Dark creatures unleashed at night to gallop through my head.
In day light the black mares are stabled where none dare go, in the dark depths of the brain. Hidden, padlocked behind steel doors they wait, patiently for darkness. Night cometh, like ghosts they glide through locked doors. No, need to wake go away, thrashing trying to escape, baring down, snorting. All the years, childhood fears, death, vengeance, nightmares, must awake.
K Morris - Poet 