Spirit Horses of Periwinkel
By Diana Mead
Graphics by Bruce Mallon
© Mead/Mallon
Lookin for a horse laff?
Just see Sylvester grin
when he’s eatin’ dark molasses
all mixed in oats to win –
his feed bin is his worship
he savors every bite
his whiskers do the talkin’
he whuffles a g’nite
an’ sen’s us home to dreams
of his hoofbeats sound and clear
we pad through redwood forests
fear not dear Let him steer
an’ swish through misting meadows
‘for we wake to morning light
an’ rattle that ol’ bucket
to Sylvester’s sweet delight
in among the emeralds a jewel rides the tide calling out from fanning froth to share its glow inside
ever in its shelter the quartz protected it
but when man chipped away the gem
it only wondered “what?”
so the horse grazed in mat-meadows old
pondering grasses in valleys i’m told
he wandered in deserts
man found him in herds
then captured his flight
with ropes and with words his challenge met briskly he coweredinshame
the macho-match stallion acquired a name
first in the field then down the road he found himself standing in pot-luck abode
in stalls laced with straw in fenced pastureland and when in the cards with his buds he would band
a horse can be lonely more so than a man
he seeks his protection cannot stand rejection approaches dejection
when left there to scan horizons so deep with no time to sleep
as he pines for his kind pacing forth with no mind
think only on this if your mind has arrived
the horses are man-made and cannot be jived by sty-i-lish boots and tailor-tat coats
and top hats and silver care-carried in totes
they see only carrots and apples for treat
their friendship is lasting with you they will meet
but only on their grounds – ’er your grounds – what matter
his shares and his cares are served up on a platter
he’ll tell you his story he’ll spell it all out he’ll teach you his ways – ’er your ways – about
heading straight down the road at incredible speed
just right not too fast leaving nothing for creed
but a pat on his nose and his salty sweet air
and a wide eyed hellow
a warm heart is his lair
January was the first foal. He was born in the field,
much to my boss’ chagrin. Ya see, his momma was a fancy filly
from the high country and she’d been shipped to Grass Valley to be bred
to this highfalutin stallion and we’d laid in extra straw in the foaling barn.
We knew she’d be early.
images incited by in sight images
only people who have ever patted the nose of a horse
and watched the sunset can appreciate buffalo yarns of the elves at twilight
there was this girl who grew up in the wilds of Fairfax –
those who have taken the cascades will know along with this girl
whose mane flies too were these two mares – Bay and Blue –
with their own wild streak wilderness produces the birds
and lazy oaks as well as lugging hay up a narrow path to makeshift corrals
over in the meadow she would bring forth the bridle
and pretend to tie Blue to the tree Blue would test the rope
to make sure she wasn’t then would stand there peacefully
the leathers always tangled with Blue’s battingeyebeauty mane
that hung below her neck
then hit the trail for the race
gogogo careening through redwood lanes sending
the wunderbar squirrels squirrling to the rafters
this is Sue – Sue who took up flying to the tune of
where’s the plane? when do we take off? I’m soaring!
after years of flying over fields and through the creekbeds
she needed a better view from the cockpit window
she absorbed the angelhair hay fields stacked across horizons
hosting the grazing deer
vapor trails hung behind with remembrance of things past
meanwhile the budding marigold took to the plane
as tho it were her ol’ buds Blue and Bay
her instructor who of course fell silently in love
couldn’t really believe his ears as Sue spouted off on her first flight
oh this is just like riding a horse!
it was only a matter of time before she was carting
her flight schedule and studiously driving her little pickupdown the hiway
to her flying lessons –
as she weighted herself into the turns
she disembarks on location – a small outofthewayairfield
tucked into the Sonoma scape from there it’s up
getting to know the plane saying hi to the beastie
but this time anchored against the wind thing leads to another
and secure the hatch
up and over soaring stalling and catching her breath
in an airpocket
he’s just sitting there in aghast state of mouth open
but up ahead is the beach so heads up!
as we break over the palisades
So it is with horses
So it is with flying
So it is with Sue.
Duffle Bag believe it or not
had four legs and and an everlasting smile
he was a cavalry remount lost to the regiments
Duffle Bag bagged the bale
and threw it over his shoulder for the long march
he only wore his tattoo
and a bridle that reminded him
to mind his manners no matter what!
harass
the wild horses
and hallow
box canyons
por los caballeros
y los niños
con los ojos
el tiempo
de los tiempos
y otros
brought forth
the makings
of mane-aloft stallions
on puma peaks
Watch out for horses named Harmony and Justice. Both of them had the rare habit of rearing. They always said it was the most dangerous. Dangerous yes – once they learned it – well, that was it. I had never heard of a horse being one hundred per cent cured of rearing.
Harmony had scars on his chest. It was when a man approached him – he would stop in his tracks, even if he was galloping in an open field, and go up on his hind legs with the wildest look in his eye. A touch of the spur behind the girth would send him forward again – that was the only remedy I had learned. Harmony learned trust again.
In the meantime, Justice was just plain adolescent. When he was frightened in his earliest years, he would balk and stand like a statue. A nearby whinny with a little nonchalanting could coax the colt to step forward. Justice was a fraidy cat, but the last thing he was afraid of was me, as I discovered. Once I started riding Justice in the hills, I found myself dismounting to lead him past spooky grey boulders and ditches and even a flock of ravens huddled on top of a cow shed on a rainy day. I always wore my mud boots.
As Justice turned four, he grew beyond seventeen hands, and I tired of getting off and leading him. I kept reminding myself that I should be riding. One day I made up my mind to stay aboard, no matter what. That day Justice reared for the first time, and he learned it well. As weeks went by, he took to steep hills and ravines, and I, doing everything in my power to change his mind, sat there wondering.
Yet I never felt unsafe from the saddle. Justice had an uncanny sense of self-preservation – more than I could say for myself.
The only time I actually fell off Justice was a sunny day when we were clipping along a curvy trail and a blue heron, penciled against the hill suddenly took flight with a soaring wing span of six feet. Justice halted just as suddenly, and I kept going, kerplopp. Justice stood there looking at me, even more startled – too startled to realize that he could have hightailed it home, leaving me there to walk a good two miles. At least, I thanked myself, Justice had learned his first lesson – to stand quietly while I, all of five feet, clamored into the saddle.
Of course, I was off course riding this horse in the first place. Yet there I was and what to do?
Fortunately, I met Tommy and Mark – excellent horsemen who understood the macho of the situation. I pushed myself to my outer limit and caught a glimpse of macho – at least enough to master Justice, so to speak.
That day I dismounted him for the last time. Justice was done.
been spinnin’ in labyrinth
and found this horse standing knee deep in mud
and keeping his distance from the barbs
of rusting yesteryear
despite my coaxing
he only noticed me in passing
unlike Maude who would race to the white board
Relive relief relive relief
and rejoice in remembrance of rangy wild horses
that ate from your hand when you stood barely breathing
into the deserted night, the new moon enough to reflect
your weak whispering on the crispy air
Only the horses were alive that night
Only the horses heard you
and warmed you from the cold
And they will receive their due
And so will their masters
Scatterall lay quietly in the field as others milled around seeking out my smells and sensitivity – horses that had never been touched by human hands. Scatterall was smaller than the rest. “She’s three,” the old man told me. He had raised her and the others in his mountain meadow and he introduced me to her sire and her dam – stately, still elderly Thoroughbreds that “ran the mile in good time,” he said. He creaked, his weathered face and soft smile of a horseman.
Scatterall was the last foal. She came out small and wobbly and would live up to her name, even at the sound of a feed bucket “and that was something.”
I silently waited for her to accept my presence, though I stood a good distance from her and touched my tongue to the roof of my mouth in the softest animal sound I know. She recognized me and watched me melt in her eyes.
I left her that summer only to dream for a whole year for her and then returned to find her not much bigger, but with less fear of me than before. On the spot I bought her. There, the tragedy began, though how was I to know the love was lost with that dollar?
Though no human had ever touched her, I did with the old man’s help, and in three days she walked into a trailer to ride one thousand miles to my home.
Within the month I was riding her, finding that her narrow frame required more of my perfect balance than any forerunners. She knew my voice – walk, trot, canter, ho, good girl and the soft clucking. Yet often, when I was riding her, she would just plain stop in her tracks and look around at me and say “Wait just a minute! What did you say?” especially when I asked her very politely to canter. Going from the walk was the only way she could manage, for trot – as I had been told – was awkward and not a gait for easy transitions. Left canter came easiest. Still, she took two weeks to carry me without her funny hesitation. Right canter took longer.
Within a few months – three I think it was – only that I remember her first jump on the first day of the fourth month of our visitation – Scatterall showed true promise as a lady’s mount, and I ecstatically look forward to every day with her.
She was bought to be sold. After all, I, a so-called professional horsewoman, could not hold to sentiment. I cringed. Besides, I had ridden hundreds of horses over the years and had claimed them all as they carried me forward. Who cares who holds the papers! Horses never care who hold their papers.
So, I went about to sell her, for she was trained to start and had won her first blue ribbon and could not sit around and eat the hay that was waiting for other horses seeking my attention.
The sale was simple. Yet long before the money spoke, Scatterall was no longer mine. That moment came early when her new owner mounted her for the first time.
I said good bye and wished her well and closed my ears to future stories for Scatterall went back to living up to her name.
My mistake.
When one sits down to write one’s first fairy tale
after spinning many a yarn ammmonnng the elvvvess
one begins to imagine what will happen
when the perfectly turned out huntsman
arrives with the pack and salutes the tower
as he prepares the Tally Ho
The elve sitting beneath the door stoop of the castle
eavesdropping said to his stalwart companion
“They’re kidding, of course”
“Not according to Hoyle” he answered as tactfully as he could
He had difficulty muffling his outrageous laugh
Instead of bursting out and spoiling the atmosphere
he took a proud pose and wrinkled his nose to to to sneeze
Aaaaacchhhooooooooooo
The horse standing nearby on the ancient turf
woven with williwaws oh yes, the horse
sidestepped as he felt the ebeneezer sneeze tickle his fetlock
and settled again under his hefty rider
Suddenly the Sound of the Horn
the Cry of the Hounds
and the Pomp of the Hunt
is lost to Hoofbeats
“Here’s mud in yer eye!”
Steaming pots of tea await you
so you can spend your days on eucalyptus trails
and return at your own rate
from your trip to never neverland
remember the spot where you stop for lunch
– in the black forest if I recall
where the horses hop over poles fallen
in years of winter winds
when you get to the big tree
stop for a feathery moment
and watch for the squirrel – you know
the one who always greets you with a grin and a nut
no matter the horses will graze long enough
for you to consult the stellar jays
then lickety split to the bend in the road
where the horses fuss into walk
and look forward to home
