Poem: Writers, Cowboys All

Trying out a new poem, to see if I can still do it.

Writers, Cowboys All

I saddle up my morning cup of coffee
and slip off on that horse I call Solitude
Out and on toward the broad horizon
that laps the edge of blue-green mountains
There are horses there, wild and free,
at their ease, heads down and relaxed from being
left the hell alone, grazing, content
with the endless possibilities of being a horse

And I slip in among them, reins hanging slack,
easy in the saddle, watching and not watching
Intoxicated with all that latent and explosive energy

Some days one will raise his head, suddenly intent on
who knows what, snorting, ears pricked, nostrils flared
It’s then I pay attention, gather in my reins,
sit a bit taller in the saddle and urge Solitude
in the direction of that attention I’m compelled to pay

I may ease closer, hand relaxed and easy on the lariat
that lies, loosely draped across the horn,
slipping my rope around the neck of this beast,
the fascinating one who called out to me

Pay attention he seems to say

We ride back together, he snorts again, easier this time,
looks back at the herd, stops, stamps his foot
and either we’ll drift off as friends or he’ll break free
Not blaming me, but returning to his open-skied herd

If that wild horse is poetry, he’ll break free and his snort
will have been enough for both of us and all there is
If prose, he’ll spend days and nights in my corral,
calming, reaching out to me while we gentle one another
But still he looks always west to those skies, remembering,
knowing, as horses know, one day I’ll set him free
when the work’s complete and both our jobs are done

Because I will, we’re friends, connected for a while,
but only a while and time runs quickly across open land
Then, depending on the drift of the wind, the smells,
the color of the sky and if or not storm clouds are building
He’ll be gone, bucking, careening back where he calls home
Solitude and I return to the work at hand that day,
measuring if its labors are writing words or pitching hay
Poetry Collection: Broken Pieces
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman's
poetry collection
available here in print
or as an e-Book
in your favorite formats.