War and History Poetry posted October 22, 2024


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A word that has become a malleable chameleon and each appear

My Name is Mustang.

by Gerard F Keogh

First, I was a horse-
proud, fierce, untamed.
Testing the texture of a continent:
competing with the winds and tornadoes
to achieve the ultimate grandular vortex;
defining the manhood of the Cheyenne;
twisting the blistering ropes of the Sioux;
defying the white man with bared scornful teeth
and a rusty raging cloud of contempt.
Rearing up disdainful hooves at his challenge
of a lumbering smoking iron donkey,
trapped on it's molded rattling rails.
 
Then, I was a plane-
lithe, lightweight, definitive,
with a body da Vinci once dreamed of
and a clear canopy
of tense eyes and sweaty twitching fingers
on the throttle.
Soaring high over another continent,
beaten down by black boots.
The elegant rich humming of Rolls Royce,
the searing steel death of Browning,
clamping together to mete out
justice and liberty.
I flew higher and faster 
than any swastika propeller.
 
Soon, I was a car-
with clean lines and a pure promise, 
born of optimism and innovation,
first brought forth
beside a steel sphere of the world.
My lean youthful frame
and eager energy
beckoned to the untamed young.
Bringing forth the whoops of warriors, 
who slip easily
into my low slung leather saddle
and pick out their soundtrack.
Turbo charged with four on the floor
as my tan canvas mane folds back
under a sweet lemon sun.
Their nubile females,
in splendid mating colors,
settle in snugly,
their ponytails wagging their avid assent.
My hooves are silver rims,
squealing with pristine abandon,
commencing my assault 
across their narrow challenges
of striped tar
towards the next horizon.
 
 
I have thundered over the parched plains
to be captured only by men like Remington.
I have sailed across exploding black skies
and landed farm boys back to their future.
I have raced through hot muggy nights,
blaring out my rebellion to a rock and roll beat.
 
 
I am freedom in mane and hooves
and wings and guns,
and mag wheels and racing stripes.
I am what the final product should be:
malleable in motion,
in a multitude of forms,
resolutely racing
against the turning of the earth.
Always moving, Always free.
Always free to be ME.
 
 
 
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Free Form Poetry Contest contest entry


There is more than a dose of history in this. I found it a pleasure to write.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.


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