I also got out submissions to around eight different journals today. I'm still worried I sent the wrong poems to the right magazines, or vice versa, but what the hell. At least I'm trying.
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No Title As Yet (Calamity's Trail Song?)
Mandible shake in the saucy weather
Hooftail shank out from Abilene
O dogies, ki-yotes can scream
But you'll take no danger,
Slipshod trailing out from Abilene.
These plains are a sorrow to
Women and children
They'll drive men to drink
Pick a father's bones clean
Sometimes it seems that
The vultures are angels
Riding the wind out from Abilene.
But my papa is tough
As an indian pony
The sound of his voice
Could make scorpions scream
He's white as the moonlight
And welcome as money
At the end of the trail out from Abilene
His spurs are the fangs
Of a blinded sidewinder
His teeth, like the dipper
All sparkle and gleam
He'll meet me, he promised
At the ford of the river
Next time I'm riding out from Abilene
Men seldom befriend him,
Most women despise him
Though he can be graceful
As George Balanchine
Still, come sooner or later,
All will embrace him
Out on the trail from old Abilene
So, if out on the trail
You should see a pale rider
Just chalk yourself up
as someone who's seen
The lean cowpoke who squires
Calamity, riding
Out on the trail from old Abilene.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
