Another pair of cowboy boots
beneath my bed
banishing dreams of
a permanent man
right out of my head
They call me a buckle-bunny
but that sets low the bar
for at the end of the night
I take home the rodeo star
He rides wild horses
and even wilder bulls
I lap him up by the mouthfuls
Lust curls in my belly
when I spy the champion buckle
his laughter is sweet as honeysuckle
An aging buckle-bunny is what I see
until the next cowboy smiles at me
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With years of practice writing Haiku, Renku (and prose) poetry, I feel as though I have acquired some skill. Because that is what it takes, practice. The more you do anything the better you become. This my first attempt, ever, at ‘rhyming poetry’. For two consecutive mornings I had lain in my bed, between that creative space of half-sleep and wakefulness. The poem swirling around and around until it distilled to this and I had to write it down. (for better or for worse.)
The biggest reason that “rhyming poetry” has fallen out of favor is that it is often forced and unnatural. … To the ear, it will sound more like internal rhyme (but to the eye it will appear as some form of end rhyme). In a good rhyming poem, the reader might not even realize it is rhyming poem (until later). (Unknown. From the Internet.) If I accomplished this, dear reader, it was by pure accident.
The title: A young country-western song writer made up this term and it caught my fancy. She meant it as a name for the groupies that follow the rodeo and its cowboys.
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BOOKS BY TRISHA SUGAREK
