Not My Kind of Town

I spent Monday and Tuesday at a meeting in Las Vegas. To say that the city is in direct conflict with my word for this year, (authentic), would be an understatement. Monday night, after dinner in a casino restaurant with my team from work, I left the table and walked back to my room at the earliest opportunity. While I savored the peace and quiet there, I looked out my window at the lights of the strip and thought about the people I saw on my walk back to the room. It seems to me that there is a lot of glitz in Vegas, a lot of sparkle and shine, but not much happiness. I scribbled my feelings on the scratch pad sitting by the phone.

Me, in my well worn jeans,
surrounded by spiky heels
and black spandex skirts
skimming hips,
and hugging thighs;
Shivering goosebump exposed
shoulders
in the taxi line;
bleached bright smiles over
ochre lined eyes,
-- oh honey,
who are you? buried
beneath the black
shattered night.

Give me your Heart

The worst part about being fifty-two is that my body takes it's sweet time healing.  My brain still thinks in teenager time frames so I am annoyed.  In my head, I think my toe should be healed, happy and ready to ride but the reality is that I'm sitting on the couch waiting, waiting, waiting. 

Poor Brett, he had to get up at 4:00 this morning to do the chores before leaving for work.  I felt guilty staying in bed until 6:30 and then doing nothing more strenuous than closing the windows in the house and turning on the espresso machine.

Record heat and monsoon afternoons continue.  Highs have been bumping against the 100F mark with humidity above 50%.  Around 2:00 storm clouds blow in from the desert and we hear thunder.  Saturday we even had some light rain which brought the temperature down to 85F.  I sat outside on the porch and drank in the wet garden smells and the sound of the raindrops spattering on the parched plants. 

I've been writing a lot of poetry as I sit idle on the couch.  I'm sure this would be easier if I were a TV or movie person, but I'm not.  Here's a short piece I wrote about Starman and Auke.  The title is a reference to the form of the poem, not the content.  This form, the sevenling, requires that there be no formal title.  rules, rules.

Sevenling (Starman)

Starman had short stumpy legs,

arthritis in his hooves, and a frizzy red mane.

My Friesian had long black legs,

a flowing mane, and flashing hooves.

Starman gave me his heart;  I sold the Friesian.

For You OTTB Followers

Over on my poetry site (link at the bottom of my blog page), I often write from prompts.  Its fun and a good way for me to try new forms, focus and words.  One of the prompts I follow regularly is called the Sunday Wordle.  The blog posts 12 words and then you write a poem using all the words.  You post your poems on a linky so you can see what everyone else did with the words.  I have a lot of fun with this.  This week, I looked at the words and an OTTB showed up.  If you are interested in what others did with the words, here is the link.

The words this week were: scrap, trapped, ample, domain, window, jasmine, montage, sunset, flawed, granite, demons, and whistle.

Re-Purposed

Her name was Jasmine
but her mouth
was hard as granite.

She grabbed the bit
and ran like demons
were on her tail.

Her domain was the racetrack
until she was tossed aside,
a flawed, unwanted scrap of horse.

I taught her to waltz
to a music montage;
to swing with Shubert and Chopin.

She hated feeling trapped
so I left a window open
in the release of the reins.

When I whistle across glowing grass
and clover, she gallops to me;
the sunset shining in her mane.

My very first horse, that was mine and not borrowed or rented, was an OTTB.  Sadly, we were not a good fit but he went on to be a nice jumper for someone else.  Dressage was not his thing.  At all.  And I was far too inexperienced at that time to deal with his race track fears.  I read quite a few blogs with owners who have done wonderful things with their OTTBs.  Some do dressage, some jumping, some eventing, some a mix.  I am constantly impressed by the work, confidence and patience required and given by these women.  My hat's off to you!  And this poem was meant to celebrate what you do.  I love rescued animals the best; be they horses, donkeys or dogs.  

Just for Fun

Jail Break

In the grey light of almost-dawn
we found the fence break.
I jumped the rail cleanly;
Flash followed, pushing
the rail to the ground.
Jackson studied the situation
before carefully stepping over.

We could hear the howl of coyotes
as Flash led us
down the deserted road.
He flicked his ear at us in warning
when we crowded his broad rump
for security.

At the pond
our hooves sank in the thick muck;
we waded out
belly deep
and drank.
The mallards took flight.
Back on shore we rolled;
mud turning Jackson’s silver to brown.

Spring’s green grass was gone
and a sinister buzz
came from the dried weeds.
I lowered my long nose
to investigate.
Flash pushed me aside
with his stocky shoulders
and something gold and brown
–like a thick lead rope –
slithered past.
I manured.

Jackson’s head was bobbing;
he went lame on us.  Again.
So we took him home.
Flash marched along,
steady and strong,
a glint of laughter
in his blue eyes.
I danced behind
on my lanky legs;
ready to run wild.

No, this isn't factual.  It did give Brett a bit of a heart attack, though.  He read it on my poetry blog while he was at work the other day and thought the horses were out wandering the ranch.  Heh heh heh.  

 

Rainy Day in Rancho Capistrano

It is raining cats and dogs here today -- or, in our case, it's raining rabbits and squirrels.  I have corned beef in the crock pot and a fire going in the wood stove.  We may venture over to the community clubhouse for a St. Patrick's Day potluck this evening.  At some point, the rain is supposed to change to snow and if that happens before dinner, I imagine we will stay home.  We're such party animals (not).

When we went down to the barn to feed this morning, Brett found the pasture gate wide open and Flash grazing on the slope.  The donkeys, thankfully, were in their stalls where it was dry.  When they get out, it is a pain in the neck convincing them that they need to go back to the pasture.  Leading donkeys?  Not an easy task.  Even the miniature ones.  They are opinionated little beasties.  Winston and Jackson were in the barn watching, with envy, while Flash grazed outside.  Brett must not have fully latched the gate yesterday evening when he got home from a group trail ride. 

That's the extent of the excitement here on a windy rainy day. 

Yesterday, I spent some time in the greenhouse sitting in my red chair.  I was trying to write a poem.  I follow a poetry professor that I greatly admire and love the challenges, or prompts, she gives us.  Sometimes the prompts involve a poetry form (sonnet, haiku) or a subject or a method of building the poem.  The most recent one was to take Carl Sandburg's poem Chicago and write our own poem, using his form, about a place we know well.  I wrote about our community -- most of the other followers wrote about big cities: Philidelphia, Las Vegas, New York.  But I've never lived in a big city although I did work in LA for a few years.  I can't say I know one intimately enough to write about it.  She encouraged me to go for it anyway.  And, voila! - here it is.  (I don't normally share my poetry on this blog, but it is about Aspen Meadows and its a rainy day so I thought I'd make an exception).

Copy-Change A City: Rancho Capistrano

Mexican Land grant,
      Ancient Indian settlement, rural, remote
      Home to ranchers, gardeners and retirees.
      Rabbits, squirrels, raccoons.
     Community of Workers
They tell me you are wild and I believe them, for I
     have seen your bobcats and coyotes walking the roads;
     your rattlesnakes golden brown gliding in the grass.
And they tell me you are strong and I say: Yes, with
     the strength of ancient oaks rooted deep in the dry earth
     and mesquite bent by the wind.
And they tell me you are eccentric and my reply is: I have seen
     the residents fight like cats against conformity.  I have seen
     teepees and a Statue of Liberty.
And having lived on a dirt road, recently paved, I say
     keep your suburbs and neatly manicured lawns.
Come and show me another place with desert heat, coastal fog and mountain frost
     that scrapes out beauty and fights against boundaries.
Joining forces to clear the brush and fight the
     wildfires; here are people braced together
     against the Santa Anas blowing fierce in the fall.
Scrappy as the sage clinging to the hills, thirsty
     as the dry arroyos waiting for rain.
          Sunburned
          Calloused
          Sweaty
          Building, clearing, mending.
Under the sapphire sky, dirt in his jeans, working with
     horses,
Under the blazing sun working as a rancher
     works,
Working even as wild oat grass reclaims
     the empty lots,
Sweating and working that under his shirt is the heart,
     and under his hat the determination  of the people,
                    Working!
Working the cottonwood studded land, carving a home
     for ranchers, gardeners and retirees
     in the rural, remote ancient Indian settlement.

Winston Gets a Poem

I don't often link between my two blogs, but today I posted a poem using Winston as a symbol.  The challenge was to come up with a theme and then use non-traditional symbols to convey that feeling.  I chose to write about confidence and I used Winston as one of my symbols.  Does it work?  Hoofprints in My Garden

I was asked for the recipe for my lime cilantro salad dressing.  Unfortunately, I just threw it together - no recipe - but the ingredients were: juice of lime, apple cider vinegar, chopped cilantro, extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper.

And, lastly I need to thank Gotta Love the Farm for the Liebster award I received last week.  I had a total brain fail and couldn't remember the blog who awarded me.  Thank you!  She has goats and horses -- and a three year old.  Busy!!

Where I'm From

I got the idea for this post from Michaele at Sprout 'n' Wings Farm.  I really liked her poem - click on over to read it.  Mine is quite different - same era, different State.  Give it a shot -- it was fun to do.  I was one of those kids who couldn't wait to grow up and leave home (and get my very own horse) so it was interesting to see how many wonderful memories are tied up in my childhood.  Guidelines for writing this poem are at this site.

I am from tree lined streets, Black Jack gum 

and icy cold coke bottles stacked in a vending machine.

I am from a tidy house with grey trim, the smell of green grass warm in the sun, 

from abundant fruit picked from backyard trees; plums, figs, avocados and loquats.

I am from the mountain foothills rugged, steep and shrouded in smog; 

from rattlesnakes in the gutter and coyotes trotting the streets at dawn.

I am from summer beaches, tanning oil and transistor radios.  

I am from lemon fights in abandoned orchards, forts built in fields and running in sprinklers. 

I am from Wassel and Albers, emotional fighters and reserved farmers; 

I am from a professor father who taught me to be honest 

and a homemaker mother who sewed all my clothes.

From a stamp collector and a lover of books.

I am from The Black Stallion and Little Women.  

I am from books smuggled into class.   

I am from the smell of horses on my skin and chlorine in my hair.

I’m a California native from Hungarian and German stock, hurka, cobass, sauerkraut and dill.  

I’m from avocado on toast and fresh bakery bread smeared with butter; 

From dirt and sand and sun.

Savage

Sedona didn't come

  when I called.

The puppy and I found her

  beside a hillside squirrel hole

    she had destroyed.

Her brown eyes were

  bright with victory and

   a half eaten squirrel was

     held between her paws.

She grinned at me.

Now it is late.

She slowly waves her tail

  while limping her old bones

    to bed.

I notice crimson streaks

  on her paws.

Mud

The dogs raucously race
leaving wet muddy pawprints
all over the place.

The horses rolled and then dried
In the pasture that
has become a slip-n-slide.

Wet hay they trample and crush
leaving behind
heavy green goopy mush.

Our muck boots are mucky;
Our jeans are all wet.
More rain tomorrow
if we are lucky.