Poèmes sur le thème : horse

Poèmes sur le thème « horse » sur Poets.by.

JoyeuxDave Bonta

Feast day

I put six spoons of silver in my pocket and looked for dinner in the garden and on my plate till a great butter-woman filled our bellies with horses and with dirt.
ContemplatifDave Bonta

Horse whisperer

A horse in a bad mood is a hard horse, a high horse— simple fury without much mind. I sat with him a good while, talking home and bed.
RêveurDave Bonta

Man with a Bag

Night came at noon in a bag that I took home with me— late night, but the horses could not carry us farther than a light ink.
TristeDave Bonta

Hard Ride

A horse with the king’s guitar. A lost horse to carry me to the tomb. I kiss a late rose, having laid out my walking garb, weary and hot.
JoyeuxDave Bonta

Birthday of Desire

The birthday of desire. My wife offered me a true horse and I had great pleasure in riding: a house built high with two sticks, a bonfire of guns. We go off for the same joy and return for trouble.
JoyeuxDave Bonta

Old Harry

Red herrings to breakfast: boot-heel hole as big as a horse through the forest, one path as if through a red regiment. Old Harry went out to buy a hat and met the Greyhound, where I found him vexed about breaking the Lord’s lock.
JoyeuxDave Bonta

The strong, silent type

words love quiet as the office a clock or horses the evening we ride easily through the streets feet cramped by new hard boots
En colèreDave Bonta

Horse sense

a horse head in a tree showed me the whole mystery of abuse we understand backward dying more of envy than true love kill other persons but let the rules be
JoyeuxDave Bonta

Proverbial (13)

Sun on the water shall never thirst. An excellent cook took the sacrament on his knees. A captain forced to walk ordered ships to carry horse.
ContemplatifDave Bonta

Cowboy haiku

noon field— I find nobody and a horse after foolish talk the discourse of rain I keep a great distance in my truck
AnxieuxDave Bonta

Stewardship

Before the mouth, who owned me? We set fire to the marsh and to the swallow, full of false Latin. Our anchor is a salt-cellar. At evening in the harbor, horses run to the sea.
JoyeuxDave Bonta

Funeral instructions

Call up a merry rump to carry to the grave. Dine below the buttery church of money. Dine at a secluded grave on the horse of the house.