The day of the derby had come round at last.
all mounts in fine fettle, not one was downcast.
each proud, broomstick stallion,
each mop handle mare.
their manes full of fury,
their tails all a flare.
the jockeys all confident
vict'ry'd be theirs
Aligned at the starting gates
filled with desire,
each one so determined
to first cross the wire
off they did charge,
all their sneaker hoofs, pounding,
off for the corner,
the cul-de-sac rounding.
Then all settled down to the victory ball,
with jiffy pop, cookies and Kool-Aid for all.
when all were refueled, to the stables they cantered,
their voices all giggles,
they joked and they bantered.
they watered their mounts
at the mud puddle, then,
they heeded the starters call,
set off again.
bright fall leaves a trailing
away they went sailing
away like the gale
no fear they might fail.
assured that this time,
they'd be first cross the line.









For a moment there, I was a kid again playing all those kid games and hoping I'd win next time. I cannot see anything I'd feel needs to be changed, including the picture being perfect for the gist of the poem.


21 old applause
