Wounded
I have come to know the draft horse as a brother.
When we pull the plow we are fed and cared for.
The masters say kind words over us
As the yoke is put on our shoulders.
Our value is great because the plow we pull
Turns the earth, for food grown in the furrows we make.
We are combed, and watered, patted on the head.
Appreciation is earned, and labor is our currency.
Today I can no longer pull the plow.
I have destroyed the muscles they depended on,
And gave them reason to value me – and reason
For me to value myself – the proud beast of labor.
I cry out now to any who will hear this plea.
The body has failed, and worthlessness owns my soul.
It is too late to buy the lie I told so often of lifting my life.
This dark place is where work animals go to die.
They shoot horses you know.
A merciful act, performed when their time is through.
But no one is here to see me fail, and now
I am alone here to writhe in pain and wonder.
Will someone bring the bridle when the sun rises?
Or will I be forgotten and replaced without notice?
Am I truly wanted and needed and valued in any way?
Will they care enough to at least put a bullet in my head?
Steevo
Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 11/22/2008 11:51AM by Steevo.
As was said to the man with egg on his face, the yolk's on you !
I'm thinking you meant yoke
I like this....there's a song here, I may rework it with your permission
Yes I meant yoke. But it's no yoke. (reverse pun).
I just blew out my back for the third time -- and last time it took 2 years of recovery after surgery. The doctors joked (yoked) then that if I did it again they might have to nail a 2x4 to my spine. Somehow it isn't so funny any more.
At least this time I can write poems about it and save the money I would otherwise end up paying a therapist. The bullet in the head reference is not entirely metaphorical here.
Wow again. It's hard to come up with a different response because it's the one I keep getting when reading your poems, Steve. Very good read.
Mary
Mary:
Thank you, I think.
I am not particularly proud of this whining poem. I just wrote it to blow off some anger because I hate shoveling snow and I hate that I ruined my back doing it. But I'm glad you liked it.
We have about a foot of snow on the ground in Southern MI. What's it like in the North?
Aha, Steve. That may explain the shift in S3L2 that I started to mention, in what was going to be a little longer response, but changed my mind. Having worked in a nursing home, I was looking at the "out to pasture" spin more literally than you apparently intended with the poem. I had found the first two stanzas particularly strong, but enjoyed it in its entirety as well.
So you're a Michigander? I wouldn't have thunk it for some reason. Well, we only have a couple inches, but it's cold outside.
Mary
Will someone bring the bridle when the sun rises?
this line is where the poem ends for me- powerful stuff, steve.
dare i hope your back is better today?
A good read, Steve, I really like your latest posts.
Les
Mitts, Les.
I just got around to seeing your comments. Thanks for reading and commenting.
For some reason my back got better on its own. Go figure.