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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