"Ethereal Dream" was one of the poems I wrote in the 70's that was published internationally by the official publication for the U.S. equestrian team, The Chronicle of the Horse.
"Ethereal Dream"
Storybook horse, fantasy dream
Are you ethereal as you seem?
Mane, part of the whispering wind,
Floating about you, hair unpinned.
You couldn't be part of this world,
Ghostly beauty and speed unfurled.
Tomorrow let's gallop into the mist,
Where rosy dawn bears the sun's kiss.
Real it will be, but make-believe it will seem,
As if we're riding from life to our dream."
I wrote this poem about Sahla Ibn Siham, aka "Victor the Wonder Horse" a pumpkin bay polish Arabian colt that I got as a yearling, raised and trained. He did it all, dressage, jumping, working cattle, trails, liberty performances by vocal commands and hand signals for local adult ed groups. Soulmate spirit horse.
He was a character and half. Spirit, intelligence, playing games, mischief maker.
One morning I arrived at the stable, finding Victor loose, having breakfast on alfalfa over by the tack room. Smiled at me. Yes, he had a smile like you wouldn't believe, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. A wise guy Houdini horse.
He had reached over the top of the dutch door on his stall. Undid the latch that was on the outside of it with his teeth.
Eventually we had a whole series of latches on top of latches on his stall's dutch door. He delighted in solving these puzzles.
I was going to get him a rubic's cube but never got around to it.
Showing posts with label life storytelling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life storytelling. Show all posts
Friday, March 12, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Native American Storyteller Little Hawk Shares Wisdom
The heartfelt genuine quality of this storytelling by Little Hawk makes it so real, so wonderful. Enjoy.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Storytelling - "My Father and the Spell of the Blue Light" by Kristi Marie Gott
My father was able to invent a story at the drop of a hat. He told the stories to us in such a realistic way that as children we listened seriously, thinking he was telling us the truth. Then after the story was over we could tell by his facial expression that he had made it all up.
Some of these stories were obviously not true, but we enjoyed them so much that we wished to suspend our belief systems for awhile. and enter into the stories fully.
Once my parents brought home a beautiful antique light made of blue etched glass and hung it from the ceiling. It cast a blue glow over the antique pine dining table.
When we all sat in the dark living room, viewing the blue light in the dining room with awe, I noticed my father's green eyes narrow. He raised his eyebrows at the same time, a sign that he was about to say something interesting.
Thus began his story of "The Spell of the Blue Light." It was like sitting by the campfire listening to stories, except we were home. I was in the third grade or somewhere near that age.
In the semi-dark living room, with the blue light washing over us, my father explained in a soft voice, "I didn't tell you right away, kids, but this blue light casts a spell. When you turn the light on the ghosts of the family who first owned the light, over 100 years ago, come back and sit under the light. If you look closely you can see something now. You can feel that someone is there."
We really did look closely, just in case someone or something was there. It did seem that in the blue glow there might be something different in the air, like shadows, under the light around the dining table. We looked at my father, hypnotized.
His quiet, sing song voice went on, describing the people and what they were doing. When he said, "and that's the story of the spell of the blue light" we were sorry the tale was already over.
I never went through the dining room again without looking at the blue light and
seeing if I "felt" anyone was there.
Having a father who was a storyteller made everything so much more fun. The real spell was the one cast by my father with his storytelling. It was like a magic spell that made ordinary things seem more interesting.
Some of these stories were obviously not true, but we enjoyed them so much that we wished to suspend our belief systems for awhile. and enter into the stories fully.
Once my parents brought home a beautiful antique light made of blue etched glass and hung it from the ceiling. It cast a blue glow over the antique pine dining table.
When we all sat in the dark living room, viewing the blue light in the dining room with awe, I noticed my father's green eyes narrow. He raised his eyebrows at the same time, a sign that he was about to say something interesting.
Thus began his story of "The Spell of the Blue Light." It was like sitting by the campfire listening to stories, except we were home. I was in the third grade or somewhere near that age.
In the semi-dark living room, with the blue light washing over us, my father explained in a soft voice, "I didn't tell you right away, kids, but this blue light casts a spell. When you turn the light on the ghosts of the family who first owned the light, over 100 years ago, come back and sit under the light. If you look closely you can see something now. You can feel that someone is there."
We really did look closely, just in case someone or something was there. It did seem that in the blue glow there might be something different in the air, like shadows, under the light around the dining table. We looked at my father, hypnotized.
His quiet, sing song voice went on, describing the people and what they were doing. When he said, "and that's the story of the spell of the blue light" we were sorry the tale was already over.
I never went through the dining room again without looking at the blue light and
seeing if I "felt" anyone was there.
Having a father who was a storyteller made everything so much more fun. The real spell was the one cast by my father with his storytelling. It was like a magic spell that made ordinary things seem more interesting.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Antiques Awaken Early Memories for Life Storytelling
A visit to the local antigue mall awakened childhood memories of a house filled with antigues. At the mall I saw a Primitive Early American "dry sink." The sink was a metal pan sitting in a recessed area on the wood counter. The roughly made drawers wobbled when you used them and the cabinet doors fit with gaps. It took me back to the house in the country full of antiques where I grew up.
Our antiques were mostly from colonial times, Early American, and were more primitive than the elegant antiques found in the later times.
Over the pot scorched pine dining table hung an antique light fixture. Etched blue glass cast a light that was almost like a spell when it was turned on at night. Sitting at the table, next to the rough hewn pine sideboard it was easy to feel like a time traveler going back.
We had a family legend that when the blue antique light was turned on time went back to colonial days, and an early American family appeared, sitting around the table in their colonial clothes. My father, a green-eyed Irishman, was a natural storyteller. He would spin yarn after yarn about the "spell of the blue light."
To this day I prefer antiques for home furniture because they tell a story. All you need is your imagination.
Today, my house has an antique spinning wheel, a pine table from the 1800's, and some early 1900's pressback chairs. Living surrounded by antiques and their stories is a way of life. History and nostalgia are always part of the surroundings.
Our antiques were mostly from colonial times, Early American, and were more primitive than the elegant antiques found in the later times.
Over the pot scorched pine dining table hung an antique light fixture. Etched blue glass cast a light that was almost like a spell when it was turned on at night. Sitting at the table, next to the rough hewn pine sideboard it was easy to feel like a time traveler going back.
We had a family legend that when the blue antique light was turned on time went back to colonial days, and an early American family appeared, sitting around the table in their colonial clothes. My father, a green-eyed Irishman, was a natural storyteller. He would spin yarn after yarn about the "spell of the blue light."
To this day I prefer antiques for home furniture because they tell a story. All you need is your imagination.
Today, my house has an antique spinning wheel, a pine table from the 1800's, and some early 1900's pressback chairs. Living surrounded by antiques and their stories is a way of life. History and nostalgia are always part of the surroundings.
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