ROSE ANN HOLOMON
Rocky Mount, Louisiana
About Rose Ann Holomon
I had a beautiful colt, Brandy's Skippa Skip,
That I placed so much confidence in.
He was broad and beautiful, and tall at the hip; I
I gave him his own special pen.
He had a hammer-shaped stripe that was crooked at best.
His muzzle and ears were small.
He had lots of bone, and a big wide chest;
As a yearling, he was already tall.
I loved to watch him as around he would go;
He would spin at the drop of a hat,
When he changed from a colt that traveled too slow,
To a horse that could move like a cat.
I rode him, and called him "in training" for years,
But he had something I just couldn't use.
He was easy to look at, but when he faced fears,
He exploded - he needed a fuse!
There was no one riding a prettier mount,
No matter where I went,
But looking good's not all that counts, --
Without brains, pretty's not worth a cent.
Now, passer-bys, as cowboys know,
Are the ones you just don't like.
They're kinda wild, or kinda slow,
So you send them down the pike.
It was hard to give up on that horse I called Skip,
With so much potential and size,
But I finally decided to give him the trip
To a place for the "passer-bys."
© 2005, Rose Ann Holomon
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Rose Ann told us, I competed in Quarter Horse, Paint, and Appaloosa horse shows, raised and sold at least a hundred colts, and saved the best for myself. Usually, my choices worked out well, but once in a while my expectations exceeded the end results. One of these choices was the horse, Brandys Skippa Skip. I bought him as a
weanling, and kept him separate from the other colts. I guess his good looks, size, and ability to move got in my eye. He acted lazy and easy-going most of the time, but occasionally he would spook, snort, and spin so quickly that it was frightening. I did manage to ride him though. I even qualified him for the NBHA (barrel horse) finals, but no matter how good he did, there was always the threat that he would come unglued, not to mention the fact that I always knew that because of this, I would never be able to "use" all of his abilities. It was like they were always there, but you just couldn't get to them. You always had to respect his great size and quickness. Then one day I received a phone call asking about him. At that time I hadn't planned on selling him, but they insisted on coming. That evening a man and woman showed up pulling a trailer. I caught ol' Skip, then 10 years old, and saddled him up. I rode him a little, but mostly we just stood there and talked. Finally, they asked what I would take for him. I could tell that they weren't going to take "I don't want to sell him" for an answer, so I decided to price him just a little too high. As soon as I did, they said "Done", and put him in the trailer. They never even got on his back. I worried about the transaction for awhile, but decided that he had been mine long enough. In 2002, while recovering from brain tumor surgery I began to write poems. The one about Skip just rolled onto the keyboard. As far as I know, he is still alive and kicking, and so am I!
About Rose Ann Holomon:
I live in a little place called Rocky Mount, Louisiana, (one of the highest points in Louisiana). My place is 12 acres of land where I live with 5 horses, a dog, and three cats.
My whole life I have loved the horses. I started riding at the age of five. My mother thought that it was a phase, and would eventually fade away, but here I am, 58 years old, and they are still here. In years past, I showed horses for myself and others, and of course I always ran barrels. But most of all, I enjoyed training them. I was a high school art teacher for 30 years, so the summers were free for all sorts of horse related activities.
I competed in Quarter Horse, Paint, and Appaloosa horse shows, raised and sold at least a hundred colts, and saved the best for myself. Usually, my choices worked out well, but once in a while my expectations exceeded the end results. One of these choices was the horse, Brandys Skippa Skip [see The Place for the Passer-bys above].
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