1.

they weave
through thorn scrub
hoof-dust rising
for the wind’s sport

he isn’t thinking
of maria
or his dead father
or the distant lake
scooped by pelicans
but of a hawk
in a sandstorm

cicadas in the trees
wait for evening

the horse near-white
speckled with grey
born
in a year of locusts

the man arrived
in a time
of the fourth
plague

2

the horse
has ceased
cropping grass
by the water

some drifting
pelicans

man
hat tilted
sprawled
in the thin shade
of a willow

a mountain
up-ended
a hawk
swimming
beak up
in circles

a fish leaps

eats the hawk
shivers
the mountain

not a leaf
falls

silence
of time
between times

3.

the horse
has lost
the race
to catch
his shadow

head lower
hooves
dragging

the man
a sack
round shouldered

lead
steals the sun
and shadows

air
has gained weight

man
and horse
are gathered
by night

4.

maria
has baked
tamales

there are corn stalks
in the stable

Yes, like this.

"scooped by pelicans"
"hawk in a sandstorm"
"in a year of locusts"

all very good images.

I am not sure about the last stanza though.
The man and horse (for me) need to turn
a corner (not quite sure how to say this),
they need a vista before them
without the "you" being brought into it.

Anyway enjoyed it


e

It shone for me until the last line. The 'you' was a jolt.

A good jolt at that.

the distant lake
scooped by pelicans

is excellent.

Was curious to see how this ending would go down. So far, it looks like the jury is undecided. It came about because this morning, being short of an idea, I conjured these two from the dust. Having given them some life, and a setting, I was then uncertain as to where they were going (and the rest). So I thought 'why not leave it to the reader?' I did.

I'm wondering why the poem gives me, as reader, so much power.  If I get to determine how the journey continues, then this guy isn't a separate entity, but a figment of mine, pointed out by the poet the way Jung pointed out the Animus, anima, and shadow.  But I'm not immediately saying ""Yeah!  That guy is just like some part of me!"  I'm feeling very on the outside of the narrative.

stretchin' full out fine
cleanest Appaloosa
on the plain

runs all day on half
a quart of grain

she's free range equine
a filly lasso'ed wild

this perfect spotted child
now all mine


hugs,
michael

ps----this one hit home----thanks for the dance!

Sorry you don't get to ride in this company, Rick. You've made me think further on the early verses, and/or whether there should be more, or no. Time will happen. Ta.

Great you went riding off, Michael, and at least it makes mine have some virtue, in the spawning of a fine poem. Thanks

Cheers

milner

This is wonderful.

Thanks, Jess, appreciated

milner

Really re-worked this poem, and with a very different ending. It's now really another poem, and would like to see it judged as such. In the process I've lost the original, so can't offer a comparison.

Cheers

milner

the fourth plague was flies and wild animals, capable of harming people and livestock[wiki], so the man rode while in the survival mode of his time----interesting, it sounds like an intro to a narrative poem...all business, like our American West was in its beginning...it left me curious for more...

michael

I think you're right, Michael, in that I don't find this rounded.  Now I'm going to think in terms of it being the start of something - let's see what happens, in due course. Mustn't rush at it, it needs to ferment.

milner

I like this a lot, milner; of course, am intrigued and curious as to where and what you already have will take you -- but I like this end, and the penultimate, and the whole poem.  It's like pieces, just the right pieces, set into a sparse foundation so that the pieces, like stones, shine with a brilliance. 

Thanks a lot, Lynn. Now I've peace of mind. It'll be sitting round somewhere in that confusion, aka my brain, and I need fret no further. If it stirs, it will stir - we'll see. If not, it wasn't all in vain.

Bless

milner