A horse loved and cared for,
A horse with more than a few scratches,
A horse that loves you
A horse that will always be there.
The one who stands tall,
A pure gray stallion,
With eyes as black as the night,
A tail and mane as dark gray as an incoming storm.
He stands guard over your bedroom,
Won’t let harm enter,
Many stories you produce,
But he knows the correct one.
As you grow old,
You see him less and less,
Until one day,
As you are showing your children your old toys,
You come across an attic box,
One lost to time.
You set your hands on the box,
Knowing what will come,
But you can’t open it yet,
So you wait.
Twelve years later,
You are gone like the wind,
They clean out your house,
As your grandchildren cry,
And they come across the same box,
A box that they have the courage to open,
A box that holds wonders.
Inside the box stands a beat up old horse,
But not with bruises of hurt,
But of care.
Your mother points out how ugly it is,
But you know that he is magical,
And that when you want to keep him.
A mane replaced with twine,
A solid name reproduced one more,
She helped me believe I could fly. I was seven years old when we first both looked to the sky. She was pink. My favorite color was purple- thats okay though she had wings. Those wings looked like bunny ears and that's what I thought they were. So we never got to fly. A simple misunderstanding. One that stole the sky from her, from me.
Now we sit, grounded, unaware of what exactly we're missing, but missing it all the same.
She danced with me. I was a ballerina with pigeon toed feet. Physical therapy for me. I took a photograph with her and my tutu colored to match her. We smile together. She taught me how to smile and now we laugh together.
She once sang a song. I would play it on loop and we would sing together. She taught me how to sing and now she listens with her voice long gone, to me sing this song...
She was beautiful and I loved her. She taught me to be beautiful and to love me. I miss that love. I miss that fun. I miss her.
She sits on my dresser and soothes me to sleep, but I miss her still and the youth she came with. She's retired. I shouldn't know, but I can tell.
She was never my favorite. She was my only. And she still is.
I was a child of the '80's. You could call me one of those lucky gals who was blessed with a family of Cabbage Patch Kids - Golda, Dean, and Zelda just to name a few. But the best part of my collection was Shaz. He was my Cabbage Patch horse that came fully equipt with a saddle and bridle, ready for all to enjoy a ride about the house. My horse was white with light grey spots and I chose to name him Shaz after my own grey pony who I loved dearly. The stuffed Shaz sported cheerful facial expressions and braidable mane and tail, which is apparently every little girl's dream.
I am not ashamed to say I still have Shaz. The stuffed one that is. He is safely tucked away in a sealed tupperwear container in the basement, waiting to be pulled out and enjoyed once again. Having no children of my own, maybe someday when my niece is old enough, I will pass Shaz on to her where he can bring joy and smiles as they gallop around the house together.
On my birthday, a present,
A stick horse named Dusty.
He flew a like a pheasant,
He could be really fussy.
Outlaws and bad guys we chased,
The sun never set till we caught them all.
Danger and adventure we did face,
At day's end we stood proud and tall.
The imagination of a child soon ends,
As he grows to a man's dream in stride.
Trading stick horse in for a four-legged friend.
Dusty is his name, a dappled steed to ride.
Now we chase the wind and rain.
Searching to range for the cattle each year.
We hope to find them and relieve their pain,
But it is the adventure and danger near.
We must find them before the snow,
Watching for wolves and bears with dangerous features.
Dusty and I travel to aid them, you know.
Desiring no harm to any of these creatures.
The spring will come with the sweetness of rain.
We will escort them back to the mountains on high.
Riding Dusty as we make it each year is not in vain.
Life in God's country is better than money can buy.
There goes the LEGO horse,
Trampling toys without remorse,
Plastic hooves tapping at tiles,
Sending out threats in Morse.
Sticky hands lead the LEGO horse,
smashing brick towers with force,
Crossing time and space, endless miles,
A typhoon with no end and no source.
But then - an interruption, time to change course -
Dinner is ready, so kids ditch the horse.
He doesn't mind, he always smiles,
Happy to distract them from the divorce.
One day, at school, on the top shelf i saw him, and it just clicked
I reached up, on my tippy toes, and grabbed his head
Hot blood trickled down my finger where i grabbed him, but i paid no mind
He was “abused”, with a crack running from the middle of his face down his chest, and half of his face fell off, but I loved him from the start. He looked like a project to me, so I took him home. Stuffed in my lunch bag, he traveled with me, and when I got home, I made him a “medical bridle” to hold his face together, and started filling his cracks with Elmers glue. My dad found me, and showed me what I was really supposed to do to fix him.
Several years later: Stormy is in the steps of being repainted, he has a personal blanket, a prosthetic leg, and stands proudly on my shelf, showing me that I can overcome anything.