Friday, December 13, 2019

Back in the Saddle Again: A New Poem

Sometimes things come to me when I'm swimming laps.  (I guess I'm not the only one; I love this poem by Alison Luterman. )

Often, I am reviewing poems, especially if we're coming up on a salon or a Rumi's Caravan.  But once in a while, some other words spring up in my mind.  This poem was that.  It surprised me.  It's not like other poems I've written.  It's strange, even to me - a little funny, a little sad.  I wasn't convinced I should send it out into the world, even on this little blog.  But, for some, reason, it's complaining about sitting on my desktop.  And maybe it's appropriate for Friday the 13th.  So, here goes.


Well.
Back in the saddle again.
What saddle?
Which horse?
The black one.
The black one.
Going down
that lonesome valley.
Not off into the sunset.
No.
Way past sunset.
Full dark.

I let the horse lead.
Why pretend I know
where I’m going,
or even that I can see
through the murk?
The old horse is familiar
with my weight.
The old saddle has molded
to my girth.

We’re mostly quiet together,
the dark old horse and me.
Only the muffled sound
of his hooves on the trail.
If it is a trail.
Maybe we are making
our own trail.
But sometimes I sing.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
Yeah.
Back in the saddle again.





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