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A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
There lives a great white stallion
Within my stomping grounds;
And I would like to ride him
Through the hamlets and the towns.
But he cannot spend the night there
On a bed of hay and straw,
For there are no stalls left standing.
They are now against the law.
I remember when fresh bread and pies
Were delivered door to door,
All carted in a wagon,
And driven by a horse.
But now we’ve horseless carriages
Which make for better sales.
We’re careful what we step in,
But not what we inhale.
When the snow falls on the forest,
I set out to hear the quiet.
I trudge through snow so deep
That only hardy souls will try it.
But I find the stillness shattered
By the roar of snowmobiles.
And is it really wilderness
If accessible by wheels?
But these places are off limits
To stallions and to mares.
They are fenced in by barbed wire,
And they know it is not fair.
The stallion leaves his footprints,
And he dumps things on the ground,
So the stallion runs in circles.
I am grateful I’m not bound.
Bolton Landing, New York, 1975
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