Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Pretty Snowflakes


Pretty snowflakes falling free,
Big and fluffy as can be,
White and icy crystals all,
Don’t you know it’s still the Fall?
Pretty snowflakes in the sky,
Soon in a blanket you will lie
Upon my paddock green no more
Will I find grass I can adore.
Pretty snowflakes everywhere
Floating like you have no care.
In my eyes and up my nose
And places you would not suppose.
Pretty snowflakes how we play
Though you have turned the skies to grey.
I buck and squeal; you silent chase.
Together winter we embrace.
Pretty snowflakes on the ground,
Everywhere I look you’re found. 
Surely you know when to quit.
It’s almost time for mom’s visit.
Pretty snowflakes that’s enough.
I've had it with all this white stuff.
I want to see my mom today
We've had our fun, now go away.


* * *

Who doesn't love the first snowfall? 

The gentle snowflakes wafting on a winter wind and cascading quietly to engage with an anxiously awaiting Earth are such a novelty. And to run; to chase; to play with Sam, my paddock buddy, across the fluffy mounds of white stuff ... boy, I feel like a foal again. Everything is such a delight! 

The snow is also the first invitation to hibernate; to chill. It's when mom pulls out my warm winter blankies and I can be toasty and warm in my cool stall at night, and protected against the inclement conditions outside during the day. Beautiful piles of plentiful hay are mine for the eating and winter tales are bandied about the barn at night as the herd and I all drift off to sleep. Yes, it is a cosy, romantic, time -- that first snowfall.

Then soon harsh reality sets in as I and the rest of the herd realize that the first snowfall leads to a second and a third and ... well, it's not romantic anymore, is it? I get tired of wearing blankets; of slipping on icy spots. Suddenly I notice when my ears are cold, or the water trough is frozen over, or there are snowballs  wedged in my shoes ... all things I ignore with the novelty of the first snowfall.

And then I am downright annoyed if the white fluffy stuff gets in the way of my mother's daily ministrations, which it does from time to time. This is just not done!

So, pretty snowflakes are lovely for a while, and then I wish they'd just go away. 

Only three and a half months until Spring ...

See you anon,

Shakespeare "The Equine"

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010





Friday, December 3, 2010

A Little Problem

In corner stall down yonder
There dwells a distant friend.
I know him just in passing
As he lives at the far end.
He’s got a little “problem.” 
And I don’t like to pry, but
Were I in his steel shoes
I know I’d want to cry.
It seems he is allergic
To any kind of treat.
His taste buds must be dreary
With nothing fun to eat.
He can’t have any carrots;
He can’t eat any hay;
Stud muffins are a no-no.
Why him? I often pray.
Somehow he is so stoic
About this nasty turn.
If I were him I’d have a fit,
My insides how they’d churn!
I’d offer him my sympathies
But he’s aloof as he can be.
I guess he’s found a way to cope
Which means there’s more for me!

* * *

It's true, believe it or not. There is a horse in the barn that's allergic to every treat I love!!! I don't know how he manages it. When the treat wrappers are rustling and people are hovered around the carrot bag I am almost crazy with anticipation. From where my stall is located I can see my entourage bustling in and out of the tack room fetching stud muffins, extruded apple chunks and best of all, on Muffin Mondays, Timmies cranberry blueberry bran muffins. And the carrot bag is barely 12 feet away from me!

No, if I were Jack Jack I'd have a BIG problem. In sympathy I always eat his share. I'm sure he appreciates it ...



Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Chicken Terror

Oh dear, they’re 
Back! How can it 
Be? They must be 
Here to torture 
Me! What did I do
To draw such 
Fate? Why aren’t 
Those chickens on a 
Plate instead of 
In the barn? 
Forsooth, with every 
Squawk I lose my 
Youth! Remove them 
Please, I cannot
Bear to think
That they are over 
There. Too close
For comfort, to be 
Sure, it’s terror 
I just won’t
Endure. I’m on alert,
My head is
High, my body
Quakes, what
If I die because
Some poultry
Got away? A
Lousy end to a
Lovely day.
So, I implore
Remove them
Hence before
I lose all
Common sense.

* * *

I do not tolerate chickens well. They are squawking, flapping, foul fowl with no consideration for others with whom they share the barn ... namely me. I like my peace and quiet. I like to stand over my hay and eat while contemplating my next poetic masterpiece without the constant cacophony of chicken gossip, like "My egg is bigger than your egg!" or "Oh my gosh, did you see the length of his feathers!!" 

Who cares? Go find a chicken coop somewhere!

Now normally I'm a pretty even-tempered fellow, but chickens just send me. I'm not proud of it, and I know my mother would rather I "get real," as she likes to put it.  But I, like everyone else, have my sensitive proclivities (Marvin doesn't like stud muffins; Jupiter doesn't like much, etc. ... names changed to protect the innocent ...), and chickens just happen to be something I don't like.

Fortunately it wasn't long before the human folk removed the evil squawkers to the other barn. Now I can stop looking over my shoulder and get back to the serious business of eating and quiet contemplation.

Chickens indeed!


Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010


Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Lead Me


Okay, dear mother, 
Now what do I do?
You know that I take 
All my signals from you.
The wind is a’gusting,
It’s rattling the walls.
The roof is a’quaking
From tempestuous squalls.
It’s bad in that corner.
Your tension is mine.
Just give me an aid
Everything will be fine.
A little bit spooky
I feel, it is true.
But I’d rather be happy
In motion with you.
So, lead me, dear mother,
In my moment abide.
And together we’ll have
A safe, happy ride. 


* * * 


Another missive influenced by the weather ... what can I say? It happens every day, the weather. Yesterday was particularly blustery, and the sense of this was particularly heightened while mother (aka the "Scribe") and I were flexing our collective muscles in the arena. As winds from the north west pummelled the walls it was easy to feel unnerved. Mother was not feeling 100% to begin with -- I know this because I can feel everything she's feeling as her body tries to direct my every move, even before she gets in the saddle. If she spooks, I spook; if I spook, she spooks. ("Let's call the whole thing off ...") 


For some reason she was particularly spooky yesterday and the gusting winds really played this up. She was so spooky, in fact, that before getting on me she gave me the run of the arena (an exercise commonly referred to as a "Yahoo!) to get the spooks out. But I really think it should have been her running around in there. Really I felt fine. I had simply been reacting to what was going on inside of her. Some how, though, I don't think she'd go for that.




Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010

Monday, November 22, 2010

Raining ... again!

I’m standing in the rain ... again.
Pitter pat … pitter pat … pitter pat
Upon my back it falls —
It galls my sensibilities
Once more to suffer the
Pits and pats of weather
Inclemency. Such a drain ...
The rain.

* * *

As you may have guessed I'm a bit obsessed with the weather. This is mostly because I have to stand in it all day.  And while I do not generally allow my moods to be dictated by what is, or isn't, falling from the sky, I do get tired of the rain, especially if there are several days of it in a row. Having said that, it does give me fodder for thought and hence you will see, from time to time, poetic offerings drowning in references to the rain or other such weather anomolies. As you can see, I do what I can to make the best out of a barometrically-challenged situation. 

Stay dry ...




Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010

Saturday, November 13, 2010

An update ...

I'm so lost for words
And that's just not like me.
But I'm too busy eating;
Winter's coming, you see.

I must, like the squirrel,
Put food in the store.
Or what's all this hay
In the darn paddock for?

So, you see, I am busy
Mincing words with my hay.
When I'm feeling inspired
You'll hear from me ... eh!

* * *

Honestly, I must be having writer's block, or something, or the scribe's simply not paying attention. In the meantime, I linger here in the paddock, enjoying the beautiful late fall sunshine with my buddy, Sam, and chowing down on the hay that's been provided for our eating pleasure. The muse must rest once in a while too, you know.



See you anon ...


Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Fall Fun

Winter's 'round the corner
It's in the breeze.
I feel it in the paddock;
Hear it in the trees.

The leaves are all but gone
The branches bare.
And showers soak the ground,
But I don't care.

The dirt pile beckons me
When I am wet.
I roll in muddy place
With no regret.

Then caked in mud I stand
And shake with glee.
The look on mother's face
Can't wait to see.

"Oh, Bear!" I hear her cry,
"What have you done?"
I shake my head and whinny
"I had fun!"


Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010


It's that time of year ... unpredictable weather; fuzzy winter coats and lovely mud. At least, I think it's lovely. ...