Some of these poems march proudly along,

Big and grand with the gait

Clydesdales that pull the Budweiser wagon in parades

But it is still only beer that they carry,

No matter how great and grand the march

I seek the poem that runs across the dry yellow lands,

A poem like four wild horses that run in the shadows

Cast by the mesa,

Between the sunsets is light and dark,

So the horses look like their hides are blue:

Dylan Thomas on the back of a blue horse,
Weaves so madly, waves the bottle over his head,
Shouts out, Green, give me green as I gallop into this gentle
Evening blue, green to match this amber bottled tune!

Pablo Neruda loose on the back of a horse turned blue

His beret has slipped to the back of his head

The look of glory on his face says, I finally do

What I want to do in a place where the horses are blue

Tom McGrath lags behind,

Leans down from the back of his own blue horse

To cut off the heads of waving grass with the sweeping brim

Of the old straw hat that he wore from Skyros to Lisbon

Black Elk races the fourth horse ahead, far in the lead,
Shades his eyes as the sun streaks over the flat mesa tops
He sees the smoke from the campfires rise
As the people prepare the buffalo for the feast

And the four blue horses gallop and drink the champagne of
Red prairie air, through their wide-flared snorting nostrils

This June Sunday Morning

The rain comes on in

On clouds that roll and flap like blue sheets

Hung out the line in a hard-cracking northwest wind

Rain slaps and slides on the big picture window

Like a brush stroke on a jazz man's drum

Hear the tempo? A Glen Miller tune,

And then we get a true Serenade in Blue

I'm ready world; Begin the Beguine again

Tune to bring the time in line

The second bridge
Above the second ridge
Bless us all; we'll all squeeze by
The tight spots in this world;

Make this long road to sweet by and sky.
We live this life beside our boys and girls