Welcome to Day Twenty of Laura Shovan‘s challenge consisting of found objects. I am thrilled to be hosting today and will check back in the early afternoon.
About my photo. This was taken in a section of Portland, OR called Sellwood. It’s in front of a favorite restaurant, Papa Haydn. If you want a great dessert, this is the place.
So apparently, Portland being Portland, leaving these little horse statues is a thing. You have to look closely to see that the horse is tied to a horse ring. In fact, one can find them throughout the city. It’s also know as the Portland Horse Project. The horse rings also have quite the history.
keeps Portland weird
in the rain
© 2016 Jone Rush MacCulloch all rights reserved
Looking forward to what Saturday poems show up here.
Donna Smith shares her horse crazy love:
I breathe life into
My smokey gray
He’s a prancer,
I ride, my hand
On his back,
And we fly like
To the edge
Of the sidewalk
Until we reach the river.
He drinks the cool water;
I give him some oats.
I eat beans
From a tin plate
By the blazing campfire
Until the coyotes howl;
And I know it is time
To go inside.
I tuck my horse
into my pocket.
©2016, Donna JT Smith, all rights reserved
Margaret Simon said this photo inspired her to write a verse for her verse novel she’s writing. The MC collects these horses:
The Game of Horses
She names all her horses after food–
Butter, Cocoa, Muffin.
She says, I don’t know how
to tell you my pain.
I pick up the grey stallion
with the fluffy white mane,
the one she calls Cupcake,
dance him across the hills
of her legs, trying to hear
some lilt in her voice,
to deliver her away
from pain she knows well
to the children we both were
when playing “Horses”
was a serious game.
Linda Baie commented that they have cows all over Denver not little horses. I love that each city has something unique:
First-a little help to ride
with Momma standing by her side.
Then it was an easy hop,
And rocking, rocking wouldn’t stop.
The next years found me by myself,
books replaced me on her shelf.
A room re-do, forced to the rear
of a closet corner, a lost career.
Today, I’m standing here forlorn,
Waiting, ready to be re-born.
Toddler twos will be my friend
to rock ‘n ride till another end.
Linda Baie ©All Rights Reserved
Over at Laura Shovan’s blog, Jessica Bigi left this story poem. I love the connection of the coin to the past and the carousel horses.:
Here’s Charles Waters poem,
THE GALLOPING GHOST
Galloping on straw colored blades of tufted grass,
bone and sinew flexing their power,
horse hair swaying in staccato breeze,
racing toward the welcoming tangerine sun,
freer than Martin Luther King on the Mountaintop.
These images: “staccato breeze, tangerine sun, and freer than Martin Luther King on the Mountaintop.”
I was giddy with this poem from Carol
Tiny, old-fashioned ponies
tethered to a ring
grace the streets of Portland
as a usual thing.
Bemused by horsey antics
on the streets of town
I thought of childhood memories
and carousels renowned.