Flicka

Flicka

Once upon a different time,

a story wrote in grit and grime,

this coffee pot Wyoming father percolated

expecting future days of pride.

Watches his marinating girl

for any flame or flicker,

but in the end, grabbed and burnt

his hard boiled Stetson in despair.

Katy - or was it Ken?

I can't be sure, it was way back when -

chipped away at the old block,

dashed his lifeboat on the rocks -

because that daughter’s pleased

to flop in her room at home and read.

 

Diverted, introvert, self-doubting,

set firm against his shouting,

averse to imprudent bossy encounters,

sure that any game-plan she devised

is bound to fail and flounder.

Until Flicka’s untamed spirit moved her

to cast cobbled fishing tackle out to sea,

net schools of life that set her free.

 

So, celebrate, good times, come on!

 

Here’s a showboat full of ponies

hoofing around a field in ceremony.

Unstable them, give them a bit and bridle,

let them loose against local rivals

or make it something international, why not?

 

Let them prance about the paddock

flicka, flicka, beaded, braided, bobcat bobtails,

tikka-takka, tappa-tappa, pale maned

in bushy, bushy, blondie painted nails.

Cheer on the whinnying and snickering,

shriek at the biting-back and bickering,

and whoa to any pony who sulks, complains,

or cramps on the field, clutching sprains.

 

Are the dreams of Katies being fueled,

by the tumbling and the hair-pulls,

or is The Emperor walking streets unclothed?

You've a sneaking suspicion that he's nude,

but risk cancellation for being rude,

and before you rush out to buy any stickers,

choose life, breathe in, relax, recline,

you might find there's a better time,

within the dusty pages of ‘My Friend Flicka’.