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“AFTER THE RIDE”.

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  • Bernard d
    AFTER THE RIDE . He stood now downcast , stance unsteady, the performance, was so far below his best His body is shaking now from the exertions, the heart,
    Message 1 of 4 , Oct 25, 2012
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      "AFTER THE RIDE".

      He stood now downcast , stance unsteady,
      the performance, was so far below his best
      His body is shaking now from the exertions,
      the heart, pounding, deep inside the breast.
      Dust and blood covers a gaping head wound,
      his hat is laying, midst the dirt of centre ring.
      He is waiting, for the mind's eye to recover,
      so his memory, some lucid thought may bring.

      One hand, skin raw, from the rope and resin,
      feels a numbness giving way to burning pain.
      Bruised muscles, throughout limbs and body,
      aching, with his senses returned once again.
      Now all those fleeting images once disjointed,
      are shuffled to more logical patterns in recall.
      The crashing, as the crush gates flew open,
      then a twisting jolting, all followed by the fall.

      The pick up rider, aboard his surefooted pony,
      the painted clowns, dashing in, tempting fate.
      Wild hooves and horns all seeking vengeance,
      to pound flesh, against earth as hard as slate.
      The beast, lured away from the fallen victim,
      standing, its eyes ablaze in foam laced head.
      An enraged mammoth, primed with blood lust,
      a furious vengeful being all to fear and dread.

      Thanks called now, to both clowns and rider,
      grateful words, expressed debt spoken aloud.
      Then a laboured saunter, belying all his pain,
      and a waved hand salute given to the crowd.
      A journey then into solitude and grim reflection,
      although surrounded by others and his friends.
      A time of self assessment and critical analysis,
      is this but a setback…or where this hard life ends.

      ©.Copyright: Bernard de Silva.
    • Wings081
      Bernie old friend. Whilst in the USofA in the 40s I was invited to a Wild West Rodeo. Your post After the Ride brought it all back to me. It s a wonder those
      Message 2 of 4 , Oct 29, 2012
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        Bernie old friend.
        Whilst in the USofA in the 40s I was invited to a Wild West Rodeo.
        Your post "After the Ride" brought it all back to me.
        It's a wonder those bronco busters can walk after falling beneath
        the weight of half a ton of threshing beef.
        However, I enjoyed the suspense of the rescue attempts of the limping cowhand, but I don't think I would ever visit a Spanish bullring, knowing the poor animal is fighting for a life which will inevitably be extinguished after being weakened by steel shafts thrust into its nerve centres until it can barely walk.
        Perhaps I'm getting soft as I age.
        Thanks for the memory Bernie
        As always
        Wings.


        --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Bernard d" <rede2rollbaby@...> wrote:
        >
        > "AFTER THE RIDE".
        >
        > He stood now downcast , stance unsteady,
        > the performance, was so far below his best
        > His body is shaking now from the exertions,
        > the heart, pounding, deep inside the breast.
        > Dust and blood covers a gaping head wound,
        > his hat is laying, midst the dirt of centre ring.
        > He is waiting, for the mind's eye to recover,
        > so his memory, some lucid thought may bring.
        >
        > One hand, skin raw, from the rope and resin,
        > feels a numbness giving way to burning pain.
        > Bruised muscles, throughout limbs and body,
        > aching, with his senses returned once again.
        > Now all those fleeting images once disjointed,
        > are shuffled to more logical patterns in recall.
        > The crashing, as the crush gates flew open,
        > then a twisting jolting, all followed by the fall.
        >
        > The pick up rider, aboard his surefooted pony,
        > the painted clowns, dashing in, tempting fate.
        > Wild hooves and horns all seeking vengeance,
        > to pound flesh, against earth as hard as slate.
        > The beast, lured away from the fallen victim,
        > standing, its eyes ablaze in foam laced head.
        > An enraged mammoth, primed with blood lust,
        > a furious vengeful being all to fear and dread.
        >
        > Thanks called now, to both clowns and rider,
        > grateful words, expressed debt spoken aloud.
        > Then a laboured saunter, belying all his pain,
        > and a waved hand salute given to the crowd.
        > A journey then into solitude and grim reflection,
        > although surrounded by others and his friends.
        > A time of self assessment and critical analysis,
        > is this but a setback…or where this hard life ends.
        >
        > ©.Copyright: Bernard de Silva.
        >
      • Jay Doggett
        Bernie, Sandy is bangin around outside and we ve been asked politely to stay indoors. Of course I didn t get the memo and drove an hour in pounding winds only
        Message 3 of 4 , Oct 29, 2012
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          Bernie,
           
              Sandy is bangin' around outside and we've been asked politely to stay indoors. Of course I didn't get the memo and drove an hour in pounding winds only to have to drive right straight back in it. Anyway, now I get to catch up on some reading and writing. This is very very good.
           
          Jay
           
           
          -----Original Message-----
          From: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com [mailto:ticket2write@yahoogroups.com]On Behalf Of Bernard d
          Sent: Thursday, October 25, 2012 9:21 PM
          To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
          Subject: [ticket2write] “AFTER THE RIDE”.

           

          "AFTER THE RIDE".

          He stood now downcast , stance unsteady,
          the performance, was so far below his best
          His body is shaking now from the exertions,
          the heart, pounding, deep inside the breast.
          Dust and blood covers a gaping head wound,
          his hat is laying, midst the dirt of centre ring.
          He is waiting, for the mind's eye to recover,
          so his memory, some lucid thought may bring.

          One hand, skin raw, from the rope and resin,
          feels a numbness giving way to burning pain.
          Bruised muscles, throughout limbs and body,
          aching, with his senses returned once again.
          Now all those fleeting images once disjointed,
          are shuffled to more logical patterns in recall.
          The crashing, as the crush gates flew open,
          then a twisting jolting, all followed by the fall.

          The pick up rider, aboard his surefooted pony,
          the painted clowns, dashing in, tempting fate.
          Wild hooves and horns all seeking vengeance,
          to pound flesh, against earth as hard as slate.
          The beast, lured away from the fallen victim,
          standing, its eyes ablaze in foam laced head.
          An enraged mammoth, primed with blood lust,
          a furious vengeful being all to fear and dread.

          Thanks called now, to both clowns and rider,
          grateful words, expressed debt spoken aloud.
          Then a laboured saunter, belying all his pain,
          and a waved hand salute given to the crowd.
          A journey then into solitude and grim reflection,
          although surrounded by others and his friends.
          A time of self assessment and critical analysis,
          is this but a setback…or where this hard life ends.

          ©.Copyright: Bernard de Silva.

        • Milton
          What I know about poetry as a craft could be contained in a thimble with enough room left over for what I know about everything else! However, when I read it,
          Message 4 of 4 , Oct 29, 2012
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            What I know about poetry as a craft could be contained in a thimble with enough room left over for what I know about everything else! However, when I read it, it either elicits some reation in me or it doesn't. That is a subject upon which I can speak. Your "After the Ride" brought strong imagery of the rodeo at a visceral level. It read smoothly and the words themselves created a smooth path to seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling and experiencing the events portrayed.

            It did one more thing. It evoked a comparison to life itself. The rodeo encapsulates in 8 seconds what it takes a person a lifetime to experience---the triumphs and/or tragedies. The falling down, the getting up. The anticipationand the reality only a few seconds later. Your choice of strong, descriptive words createrd that connection for me, even though you did not state it overtly.

            Write more. I'll read more of it!

            --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Bernard d" <rede2rollbaby@...> wrote:
            >
            > "AFTER THE RIDE".
            >
            > He stood now downcast , stance unsteady,
            > the performance, was so far below his best
            > His body is shaking now from the exertions,
            > the heart, pounding, deep inside the breast.
            > Dust and blood covers a gaping head wound,
            > his hat is laying, midst the dirt of centre ring.
            > He is waiting, for the mind's eye to recover,
            > so his memory, some lucid thought may bring.
            >
            > One hand, skin raw, from the rope and resin,
            > feels a numbness giving way to burning pain.
            > Bruised muscles, throughout limbs and body,
            > aching, with his senses returned once again.
            > Now all those fleeting images once disjointed,
            > are shuffled to more logical patterns in recall.
            > The crashing, as the crush gates flew open,
            > then a twisting jolting, all followed by the fall.
            >
            > The pick up rider, aboard his surefooted pony,
            > the painted clowns, dashing in, tempting fate.
            > Wild hooves and horns all seeking vengeance,
            > to pound flesh, against earth as hard as slate.
            > The beast, lured away from the fallen victim,
            > standing, its eyes ablaze in foam laced head.
            > An enraged mammoth, primed with blood lust,
            > a furious vengeful being all to fear and dread.
            >
            > Thanks called now, to both clowns and rider,
            > grateful words, expressed debt spoken aloud.
            > Then a laboured saunter, belying all his pain,
            > and a waved hand salute given to the crowd.
            > A journey then into solitude and grim reflection,
            > although surrounded by others and his friends.
            > A time of self assessment and critical analysis,
            > is this but a setback…or where this hard life ends.
            >
            > ©.Copyright: Bernard de Silva.
            >
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