In Five Syllables
Technicolor dreams
of winter sunsets
played in my slumber.
Horses stood hilltop
watching and steaming
in the cold after
their wild run. Regal,
they’d carried famous
men in their saddles.
First, Bucephalus -
black coat with white star -
stepped forward to talk
of Alexander,
the great conqueror
whom Aristotle
taught. “I let him ride
when I could not see
my shadow, the man
was smart in those ways.”
Comanche, battle-
scarred from Little Big
Horn, walked stiffly up.
“Arrows and bullets
flew thick, buzzing bees
that stung my hide but
killed all the other
horses and men who
dared invade that site.”
Cincinnati strode
to the herds forefront,
“U. S. Grant rode me
in the Civil War.
The death and carnage
he wrought made my hide
shiver as I bore
him through the battles.”
Others stood wanting
my ear, Marengo
galloped Bonaparte
fast from Waterloo,
Wanting me to know,
“Wounded eight times
carrying him from
battle to battle.”
Robert E. Lee rode
Traveller, father
of our country Old
George Washington rode
his favored Nelson.
Dream turned to nightmare
as they spoke as one,
“Your poetry makes
no mark as worthwhile
literature. Save
your efforts for some-
thing else!” Mister Ed –
where did he come from –
snickered a horse laugh,
“Your poems are horseshit,”
and then I awoke,
in panic, sweating.
