Sonnet XIX … Party Animal


Time passeth.

The muse, dormant ere these past few months, hath the lead pulled out and applied pencil to paper once again.


Those unfamiliar with the quirks of the equine may, perhaps, suppose us to be a humourless lot.

On the contrary, there is no limit to our mischievous nature.


Sonnet XIX 

In truth I mind my own in still of night,

With darkness as a shroud upon my wit.

Yet door left unsecured to my delight

Illuminates this horse to open it.

Free, at last, I wander down the aisle

To yonder hay pile first, confess I must,

To eat my fill whilst donning hooded smile:

One must not flaunt one’s luck ‘round those who lust.


Thus sated, amble I throughout the barn

Dispatching in my wake a cake or two,

And with a friend or few share I a yarn

As party animals are wont to do.

And then as morning breaks back to my stall

I’m lead to say “Good night!” to one and all.


Thanks for visiting.

See you anon at Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”


Copyright Aimwell CreativeWorks 2013

Sonnet XVIII … Temper’s Storm

Summer’s sultry heat hath fled, yet clouds of darkness remindeth me of steamy days punctuated by the bleak violence of Mother Nature’s stormy temper.

 Weathered, I, her fierce and erratic outbursts the only way I knew how … with my nose buried deeply in a pile of comforting hay.


Sonnet XVIII … Temper’s Storm

Tis summer’s heavy air that cloaks my back

And lifts aloft the biting critters fierce.

And in the distance sounds a mighty crack

As fork of lightning through the skies doth pierce.

The mounting storm with drama doth embroil

We gentle souls who cringe on Earth below.

Yet will I not my dinner let it spoil

And munch away while braving Nature’s show.


For while the skies may darken as the night

And birds upon a wing may flit and cry,

I must, perchance, contain my yen to flight

And bury nose in hay as tempers fly.

Thus, if a mighty wind my peace destroy

At least I will have died a happy boy.


See you anon at Poet’s Paddock …

Shakespeare “The Equine”


Copyright Aimwell CreativeWorks 2012

Sonnet XVII … Summer’s Relief

For many days summer hath her heated flash upon us bestowed. Love’s relief shall grace me with her presence soon. … A lucky boy, am I.

Sonnet XVII … Summer’s Relief

O’er through the muggy air my name I hear

As Love enters the barn, walks to my stall.

Deliverance is nigh from humid tears

And sweaty coat that sticks to body’s all.

To her I call as heart leaps high with joy.

From summer’s grim assault she’ll rescue me.

With treat in hand to soothe this testy boy;

Relief’s in sight from scorching weather’s spree.


A jet of water’s gale upon my back

Disperses Hades’ heat with spray divine,

My Love forthwith bestows on me no lack

Of tender ministrations purely mine.

And though to murky air again am led

I suffer not now I am cool instead.


See you anon at Poet’s Paddock.

Shakespeare “The Equine”


Copyright Aimwell CreativeWorks 2012

Sonnet XVI … Southern Wind

Tis been a hot, harsh summer in many parts, and Poet’s Paddock has not escaped heat’s wrath. Herewith some feelings on the matter.


Sonnet XVI … Southern Wind

The Southern Wind through paddock fair doth blast,

With scorching heat turns green both brown and dry,

When will it yield to Northern sister’s gasp

So I might graze in cool air by and by?

For grass not green is bitter to the taste

And crackle crunches ‘tween my searching lips.

As once lush shoots have simply gone to waste,

My mind confused with this must come to grips.


I love thee, Southern Wind, and warmth you bring

Yet wish you’d not outstay your welcome so.

Since when you parch the Earth it bears a sting —

A friend no more, I thus wish you would go.

For those who dare to mess with this Bard’s food

Can only be condemned as rank and rude.


See you anon in Poet’s Paddock.

Shakespeare “The Equine”


Copyright Aimwell CreativeWorks 2012

Sonnet XV … Fly, away!

To my endless amusement the Scribe (aka “mom” or “Love”) doth endeavour to shield me from nature’s lowliest winged pests.

She means well …

Sonnet XV … Fly, away!

On summer days when temperatures loom high

And wind hath ceased its blast of cooling swath,

Protect myself must I against the flies

Whose busy buzzing doth incur my wrath.

With tail swats wrest th’blighters from my skin

And kick mine belly oft to bid them leave.

Dismayed am I when they return to sin,

And thus engage a trick up equine sleeve.


In truth my Love despairs at this device

As to the paddock she hath led me clean.

But driven mad with flies wherefore look nice

If silky, shiny coat just leaves me mean?

To bathe in dirt’s sweet salve brings pure relief

While sadly ‘pon Love’s face a look of grief.


See you anon at Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copypright Aimwell Enterprises 2012

Spring is Here

Particularly fond, am I, of spring … And while we are rather past the winter/spring transition to which this flight of fancy refers, I thought it prudent to share.  After all, one must not waste words …

Spring is Here

Spring is here;

Brings with it change.

My life and habits



With paddocks closed

Alas, to dry,

Amuse myself in

Stall, must I


With dreams of fresh

Green grass to eat.

I count the days with

Stomping feet.


On warmer days

Bid rugs farewell

And feel sun on

My back a spell.


With joy I revel

In its beams,

As through the window

Pane it streams


Upon my shiny

New spring coat.

Handsome and dark,

But I won’t gloat.


And birds, they sing

Their song so sweet.

“Tweet! Tweet! Tweet! Chirp!

Tweet! Chirp! Tweet! Tweet!”


While buds appear

And set to bloom,

Adorning our great

Garden room.


Yes, I love spring

A time of joy.

Reminds me I’m

A lucky boy.


See you anon at Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012

Sonnet XIV … Beauty

Herewith, in all modesty, a sonnet to (my) beauty.

That is all …


Sonnet XIV … Beauty

A handsome horse am I, there is no doubt,

As mares proclaim their glee as I pass by

With whinnies shrill proclaiming in a shout —

Was that a beam that twinkled in Star’s eye?

My Love reminds me thus most every day,

As to my brow her hand doth gently press,

Of how my beauty takes her breath away.

Tis a good thing, I am inclined to guess.


While beauty lies within the eyes that see

And no two eyes shall ever see the same

Believe, I must, her eyes were meant for me,

While others’ eyes their own beauty proclaim.

For handsome though I be to all who care

It matters most to she who calls me Bear.


See you anon at Poet’s Paddock …

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012

The Game

Spring hath its unfettered charms unleashed upon us, and Sam, my paddock mate, and I enjoy a rambunctious romp and play in Poet’s Paddock every day.

With much lamenting the Scribe ministers to my battle wounds (note three indicated in adjoining image … click on image to enlarge) … salves and ointments to allay the discomfort and induce healing are applied. She does her best.

Perchance Sam and I have been somewhat hard on each other this spring … our energies high and competition for alpha in our little herd oft times fierce.

I always win.


The Game

Out in Poet’s Paddock

Lush with the newly sprung

Sweetness of the season,

Sam and I graze …

But not for long …


“Tag! You’re it!” … I

Squeal and then run.

He catches me quickly,

Nips hard at my bum.

“Tag! You’re it!” I

Hear him exclaim,

Then he turns on his heels

As I reach for his mane.

He strikes with his hoof

But I twirl and am gone,

And he follows me fleet …

The game is now on!

I stop and I challenge

He stands his ground firm,

I let out a snort and

In answer he squirms.

And then past me he flies

Leaving me in his dust,

I follow him fleet

As I know I must.

Then he stops of a sudden

Bows his head in defeat.

I follow his lead,

Our game is complete.

See you anon in Poet’s Paddock …
Shakespeare “The Equine”
Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012
(Silly formatting!!)


Tis raining.

Adjoining image is mud, plain and simple, from Poet’s Paddock. Tis beneath my dignity to be portrayed soaking wet.



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.


See you anon in Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012

A Fowl Poem

... A more fowl creature I have yet to meet ...

While tis prudent to live one’s life sensibly, it can also be a snore. One must leave room for moments of lunacy lest sanity run afoul with boredom.

Herewith a flight of fancy regarding one such moment and my seemingly irrational fear (or so I’ve been told) of poultry.

It was penned during a most unfortunate period when the feathered squawkers temporarily co-habited my barn while their poultry palace was thus under construction.

Of a certainty this is a fair representation of foul fowl poetry — a rare and dangerous application of the English language, indeed.


A Fowl Poem

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

For 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

Held high, my

Body quakes,

What if I

Die because

Some poultry

Got away? I’m

Wont to faint

Upon my hay.

So, I implore

Remove them

Hence before

I lose all

Common sense.


Clearly it had already flown the coop …

See you anon in Poet’s Paddock … it remaineth my sincere hope …

Unflappably yours,

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012