Pushkin 1, Birthday Tale Poem by Linda Hepner

Pushkin Birthday Tale

There is no other man on earth
Or even under it I think
Who fills my days with words of mirth
Or makes me weep great streams of ink.
I was forewarned, I must admit:
They told me ‘Grasp that horse’s bit
And hold tight as he gallops wild
But keep your mind and senses mild.
If you hang on and gallop he
Will come to love his rider who,
Without his realizing, steers true
So he will never want to flee’.
I tried it till we reached the camp
Where night mares reared their heads to stamp.

One mare named Whinny chomped and chewed
And boasted of her untrod path
Where Eve was weaving, Adam hewed,
And loved hard in the aftermath.
I’d read it all: they told me if
Not only was I much too stiff
But seeming loose, I’d dropp the reins
And he’d go trotting over plains
To see himself if Whinny told
The truth, that gold is woven straw
and if not, if there be some flaw,
the virtual straw is counted gold
and can be bartered at the bank
of campus cohorts’ quick think-tank.

I was about to write this verse-
Lite, brushing down my steed who ran
The fastest and made clouds disperse
Across our global campus span.
But Whinnie whinnied and he stopped.
Her whinny had my poem topped;
I spilt the shampoo on the ground
And threw the sugar on the mound.
Yet carelessly he munched it, then
He galloped up to me and nuzzled
As if to say, do not be puzzled,
You’ll be my rider once again.
So till our next ride, I will wait
This race out, for my horse, my mate.

LRH 5.3.09 Happy Birthday