February 08, 2007

Aroma Therapy

When you start working with a young colt, there are usually a few surprises along the way. It is the rare colt that never tries yours and his limits as he figures out his place in this old world. Horses by nature are on the unpredictable side – some more than others – but one thing is certain. As you work with horses, you need to be alert. As prey animals, they are programmed to act first and ask questions later. Their reflexes are lightning fast – many times quicker than a human’s. They are obviously faster, bigger and stronger. So – when they get it into their heads – especially a young head still in development, to blow a cork, you better hang on or get piled. We’ll I hate to admit it (sort of) but I have hit the ground at running speed more times than I can count. It just goes that if you spend considerable time a horseback, you are going to loose your seat a time or two.

This whole bucking horse thing has given rise to some great cowboy poetry through the years. Some of my favorite poems of the bucking horse genre are: Pullin’ Leather by S. Omar Barker, Sence Slim Got “Piled” by E.A. Brininstool), Pullin’ Leather and When You’re Throwed by by Bruce Kiskaddon. You can read all of these poems on http://www.cowboypoetry.com/. When You’re Throwed bears an uncanny resemblance to my own composition A Trajectory Off Course, also on CowboyPoetry.com. – even though they were both written miles apart with no editorial bleed through.

My poem for this post is a light hearted piece called Aroma Therapy. This incident happened while I was breaking and training a two-year old colt named Target. He is now going on five and his bucking days are behind him. Hope you enjoy it. Take a listen to the audio file below.

Aroma Therapy
by Paul Kern

My boy and me we went for a ride,
A mid-summer eve through the countryside.
The mountain runoff was fast and deep,
Cuttin’ the banks and cuttin’ ‘em steep

K.C. on Rory and me on a colt,
As a cool evening zephyr slowly took holt.
Sure smelt good the scrub oak and the sage,
Enough to relax you regardless yer age.

Aroma therapy I think they call this,
It sets yer dome a jiggin’ in a state of bliss,
Folks pay big bucks for this respiration,
Seems they overpay for their recreation.

Just go to the forest and breathe it there,
Where it smells best, you know – the air.
It’ll cure whatever ails as good as a spa,
Without that old wallet quick-draw.

As my boy and I continued our ride,
The scent of the trail cast my worries aside,
Relaxed in enjoyment I gave him his head,
My colt that is, as he crossed a streambed.

He crossed right over as nice as you please,
The water was fast and cold up to his knees.
And as he was fixin’ to climb on out,
He stepped on a rock - a sharp one, no doubt.

Next thing I knew he bucked up a lick,
I flew out of the saddle barely missin’ the crick.
Landin’ in a heap in the pale evening light,
He bucked through the crick and on out of sight.

I took off my boots and then my socks,
Waded back over through the current and rocks,
Then went and found my trembling horse,
Climbed back on and resumed my course.

That ride’s been over for a week or two,
I look at my leg and it’s real black and blue.
My body’s bruised and I gimp through my days,
I can’t keep up with those twice my age.

My whole achin’ body is feelin’ right raw.
This hurtin’ of mine must be against the law.
I wonder if anyone’d care if nobody saw,
That just this once I went and found me a spa?

Aroma Therapy

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