Equine Potpourri
Sayings and Poetry
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In The Mist
by Mariann Jones
It's a cold February morn,
I call, and out from
The mist--He comes.
With frost on the ground,
And a nip in
The air--He comes.
His nostrils flared, mane
Whipping in the
Wind--He comes.
The sounds I hear and
Beating hooves
Tell me--He comes.
I wait with anticipation
And feel such admiration
As--He comes.
He's given so much and
Run his best race and
Still--He comes.
Suddenly, It's quiet
No sound can be
Heard--Does he come?
My heart beat quickens
I tremble with
Fear--Please come?
I'm running to him and
Rush to His side to
Find--His time has come.
Sorrow surrounds me;
I stand in the mist,
I call, but He does not come.
by Mariann Jones
It's a cold February morn,
I call, and out from
The mist--He comes.
With frost on the ground,
And a nip in
The air--He comes.
His nostrils flared, mane
Whipping in the
Wind--He comes.
The sounds I hear and
Beating hooves
Tell me--He comes.
I wait with anticipation
And feel such admiration
As--He comes.
He's given so much and
Run his best race and
Still--He comes.
Suddenly, It's quiet
No sound can be
Heard--Does he come?
My heart beat quickens
I tremble with
Fear--Please come?
I'm running to him and
Rush to His side to
Find--His time has come.
Sorrow surrounds me;
I stand in the mist,
I call, but He does not come.
Christmas Spirit
by Mariann Jones
Twas the night before Christmas
and down by the tarn,
Ol' "Spirit" was up
and stirring in the barn.
She stood 15 hands and
was "painted" just right,
And the bulge of her belly
was truly a sight.
The bedding was deep
with fresh coastal hay;
Ol' "Spirit," she pawed and
neighed a soft neigh.
The moon up above was
white as the snow,
And the stars gave off
a glorious glow.
Cattle were lowing
in the fields nearby,
While "Spirit's" delivery
was soon drawing nigh.
Not long after midnight
with a long last push,
Entered a newborn foal--
with a swoosh...
This event so humble
in surroundings so low,
Reminds us of a birth
from a long time ago.
The baby of "old" was the
"Christ Child" by name,
And this foal of "Spirit's"
needs a name to proclaim.
His name should have meaning
and just the right fit,
I believe he should be
named--"Christmas Spirit."
This poem was published in a December
issue of Texas Horse Rider magazine.
by Mariann Jones
Twas the night before Christmas
and down by the tarn,
Ol' "Spirit" was up
and stirring in the barn.
She stood 15 hands and
was "painted" just right,
And the bulge of her belly
was truly a sight.
The bedding was deep
with fresh coastal hay;
Ol' "Spirit," she pawed and
neighed a soft neigh.
The moon up above was
white as the snow,
And the stars gave off
a glorious glow.
Cattle were lowing
in the fields nearby,
While "Spirit's" delivery
was soon drawing nigh.
Not long after midnight
with a long last push,
Entered a newborn foal--
with a swoosh...
This event so humble
in surroundings so low,
Reminds us of a birth
from a long time ago.
The baby of "old" was the
"Christ Child" by name,
And this foal of "Spirit's"
needs a name to proclaim.
His name should have meaning
and just the right fit,
I believe he should be
named--"Christmas Spirit."
This poem was published in a December
issue of Texas Horse Rider magazine.
The "Perfect Horse"
by Mariann Jones
Some call me a Quarter, Appy
or Paint, or even a
Flea-Bitten nag;
But whatever my breed or so
called name, my owner
is surly to brag.
For what makes me special
is not my color, conformation
nor pedigree;
It comes from within, it's
hard to explain; I'm
sure you will agree.
Some call it courage, spirit
or spunk, maybe fearless,
soul or heart;
But truly I'm just a
friend to you, a
confidant of sort.
But given my body, four
feet and head, pretty
mane and tail of course;
What you have is God's
own creation of just
the "Perfect Horse."
This poem was published in 1996 in
John Lyons' Perfect Horse magazine.
by Mariann Jones
Some call me a Quarter, Appy
or Paint, or even a
Flea-Bitten nag;
But whatever my breed or so
called name, my owner
is surly to brag.
For what makes me special
is not my color, conformation
nor pedigree;
It comes from within, it's
hard to explain; I'm
sure you will agree.
Some call it courage, spirit
or spunk, maybe fearless,
soul or heart;
But truly I'm just a
friend to you, a
confidant of sort.
But given my body, four
feet and head, pretty
mane and tail of course;
What you have is God's
own creation of just
the "Perfect Horse."
This poem was published in 1996 in
John Lyons' Perfect Horse magazine.