Saddletramp
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- Joined
- Feb 10, 2005
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Hey Jinglebob! Glad your back from Lousseeanna. How's that grandchild? Did you think to bring me back any Cajun music? Here's the poem you keep pestering me about. Now it's your turn Handsome, so rear your shaggy head and post one.
JINGLING THE HORSES
by Marty Blocker © 2005
When you ride out in the early and the morning's cold and dark.
While the moon's still shining full over the phantom coyote's bark.
The quiet rings in your ears broken by your saddle's squeak.
The silence seems so holy it's sacrilegious to even speak.
Bridle crickets, jinglebobs along with rein chains a-swinging.
Is the music of the morning that the new day is a- bringing.
Your jingle horse is wise and sure, his stride shows plenty savvy.
His head goes down and he smells the ground searching out the cavvy.
The darkness heightens your senses, the old pony seems to float.
You're shrouded by the chill as you drift along like smoke.
The pony's head comes up, he perks his ears, he stops hard in his tracks.
His whistle shrills across the hills; he holds his breath for an answer back.
The old mount veers off towards a sound human ears can't seem to hear.
In a while from the morning's gloom horses suddenly appear.
They throw up their heads with a snort…spook like rabbits before the fox.
They jump out of their stand still like corrienties out the box.
Your old pony gets around them as they kick up, fuss and nip.
You spill off the hill like water and hope the old horse doesn't trip.
They thunder across the flats as if they're defying death.
The old horse keeps up 'cross the gopher holes where angels hold their breath.
A few break off down a wash, sprinting hard across the sand.
The old horse cuts 'em off while mothers in Heaven wring their hands.
They finally line out for the pens as the sky is getting gray.
The sorrels, blues and paints, the buckskins, roans and bays.
White marks on high withers, scars from wire and saddle sores.
They wear their badges proudly as trophies from many wars.
At last they swirl into the corral, they jostle and joust for space.
You're the last one thru the gate but you're the one who won the race.
Dust fogs up out of the poles as they churn and mill and spin.
You turn to swing shut the gate and start to catch your wind.
The old horse has got his blood up and thru your veins adrenaline runs.
Once more when you jingle the horses, you and the old horse feel young.
JINGLING THE HORSES
by Marty Blocker © 2005
When you ride out in the early and the morning's cold and dark.
While the moon's still shining full over the phantom coyote's bark.
The quiet rings in your ears broken by your saddle's squeak.
The silence seems so holy it's sacrilegious to even speak.
Bridle crickets, jinglebobs along with rein chains a-swinging.
Is the music of the morning that the new day is a- bringing.
Your jingle horse is wise and sure, his stride shows plenty savvy.
His head goes down and he smells the ground searching out the cavvy.
The darkness heightens your senses, the old pony seems to float.
You're shrouded by the chill as you drift along like smoke.
The pony's head comes up, he perks his ears, he stops hard in his tracks.
His whistle shrills across the hills; he holds his breath for an answer back.
The old mount veers off towards a sound human ears can't seem to hear.
In a while from the morning's gloom horses suddenly appear.
They throw up their heads with a snort…spook like rabbits before the fox.
They jump out of their stand still like corrienties out the box.
Your old pony gets around them as they kick up, fuss and nip.
You spill off the hill like water and hope the old horse doesn't trip.
They thunder across the flats as if they're defying death.
The old horse keeps up 'cross the gopher holes where angels hold their breath.
A few break off down a wash, sprinting hard across the sand.
The old horse cuts 'em off while mothers in Heaven wring their hands.
They finally line out for the pens as the sky is getting gray.
The sorrels, blues and paints, the buckskins, roans and bays.
White marks on high withers, scars from wire and saddle sores.
They wear their badges proudly as trophies from many wars.
At last they swirl into the corral, they jostle and joust for space.
You're the last one thru the gate but you're the one who won the race.
Dust fogs up out of the poles as they churn and mill and spin.
You turn to swing shut the gate and start to catch your wind.
The old horse has got his blood up and thru your veins adrenaline runs.
Once more when you jingle the horses, you and the old horse feel young.
