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

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

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

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