Valerie in shades of sepia tones,
how she would ride that horse she called Ugly.
A four legged muddy brown bucket of bones 
that she owned outright and fit so snugly.

No bit nor bridle did Valerie use,
just a frayed yellow braided rope halter.
Ugly would race, with no hint of sly ruse,
over hills and through fields without falter.

I was saddled with a jughead black mare;
whose handle I can not rightly recall.
My borrowed nag had a jangled nerves stare
with fitful jogs shifting back down to stall.

Oh Valerie! You have never grown old.
In my memory; you’re vibrantly bold.


I’m picking my way down the gravel slope
and the black mare wants an easy escape.
Her spine shudders as her hooves fail to grope
sure feet and she slides to planted ass shape.

Pitched back and forth, I get punched by the horn,
wondering why trail rides can’t be a treat.
Close to regretting I’d ever been born,
the river looms large: it’s not looking sweet.

Valerie and Ugly rocket on by;
leaving me lurched and choked up by the dust.
A crazy-horse leap proves Ugly can fly.
With wild war-whoops, she’s spellbound in her trust.

Oh Valerie!  My tanned tawny-eyed friend:
you’re born to ride ever more without end.

Penelope Allen