The Poet

Thunder

behind me; my skin tingles

and I leap aside

to watch poetry written

by a horse.

Laughter

in his loud neigh, “Watch me!”

His hooves beat rythym

while he begs for my applause

with rolled eyes.

He writes

of freedom, the runner’s high

with his pen of black

glossy hide over muscles

of steel coils.

I taught

not him to write, but myself

to read his swift lines

so quickly gone and never

seen again.

I wish

I could write such magic, but

I only have eyes

to read his works and a voice

to shout praise.

Perhaps

God in His wisdom planned it

so; maybe half of

the verse is motion, and half

is sharing.

It seems

my poet thinks so, since he

creates his poems

when he knows I can read them

and applaud.

Peggy Perry

copyright 1989

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