Testy Pony, a poem by Zachary Schomburg.

Post 659 - Zachary Schomburg was born in Omaha, Nebraska, spent his childhood in Iowa, and received his BA from College of the Ozarks. Currently, he's pursuing a doctorate in creative writing from the University of Nebraska. Schomburg edits Octopus Magazine and Octopus Books, and co-curates the Clean Part Reading Series in Lincoln, NE. His debut collection, The Man Suit, was published Black Ocean in 2007.

Testy Pony by Zachary Schomburg.

I am given a pony for my birthday, but it is the wrong
kind of pony. It is the kind of pony that won't listen.
It is testy. When I ask it to go left, it goes right.
When I ask it to run, it sleeps on its side in the tall
grass. So when I ask it to jump us over the river into
the field I have never before been, I have every
reason to believe it will fail, that we will be swept down
the river to our deaths. It is a fate for which I am
prepared. The blame of our death will rest with the
testy pony, and with that, I will be remembered with
reverence, and the pony will be remembered with
great anger. But with me on its back, the testy pony
rears and approaches the river with unfettered
bravery. Its leap is glorious. It clears the river with
ease, not even getting its pony hooves wet. And then
there we are on the other side of the river, the sun
going down, the pony circling, looking for something
to eat in the dirt. Real trust is to do so in the face of
clear doubt, and to trust is to love. This is my failure,
and for that I cannot be forgiven.

Are You Drinking? a poem by Charles Bukowski.

Post 658 - Are You Drinking? by Charles Bukowski.

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook

out again

I write from the bed

as I did last

year.

will see the doctor,

Monday.

"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-

aches and my back 

hurts."

"are you drinking?" he will ask.

"are you getting your
exercise, your

vitamins?"

I think that I am just ill 

with life, the same stale yet

fluctuating

factors.

even at the track

I watch the horses run by

and it seems

meaningless.

I leave early after buying tickets on the

remaining races.

"taking off?" asks the motel 

clerk.

"yes, it's boring,"

I tell him.

"If you think it's boring 

out there," he tells me, "you oughta be

back here."

so here I am

propped up against my pillows

again

just an old guy

just an old writer

with a yellow

notebook.

something is 

walking across the

floor

toward 

me.

oh, it's just 

my cat

this

time.