Appaloosa Quotes

Henry figured that the reason the Cheyenne had always ridden Appaloosas into battle was because by the time the men got there, they were so angry with the horses they were ready to kill everything.

Paul's last words to Linda: "You're up on your beautiful Appaloosa stallion. It's a fine spring day. We're riding through the woods. The bluebells are all out, and the sky is clear-blue".

None of us offered to shake hands. There was no advantage to letting somebody get hold of you.

I headed straight into the setting sun, and rode west at an easy pace. It was going to be a long ride, and there was no reason to hurry.

There were clouds at the mountains, and the snow pack reflected the sour-lemon sun into one of the most beautiful and perverse sunsets I had ever seen. The clouds were dappled like the hindquarters of an Appaloosa colt, and the beauty kicked just as hard.

Colt makes a heavy firearm." - Virgil Cole

The beauty ideal is always a youthful one. This is partly simple realism. The young are beautiful. The whole lot of ’em. The older I get, the more clearly I see that and enjoy it. But it gets harder and harder to enjoy facing the mirror. Who is that old lady? Where is her waist? I got resigned, sort of, to losing my dark hair and getting all this limp grey stuff instead, but now am I going to lose even that and end up all pink scalp? I mean, enough already. Is that another mole or am I turning into an Appaloosa? How large can a knuckle get before it becomes a kneejoint? I don’t want to see, I don’t want to know. And yet I look at men and women my age and older, and their scalps and knuckles and spots and bulges, though various and interesting, don’t affect what I think of them. Some of these people I consider to be very beautiful, and others I don’t. For old people, beauty doesn’t come free with the hormones, the way it does for the young. It has to do with bones. It has to do with who the person is. More and more clearly it has to do with what shines through those gnarly faces and bodies.

I fill my lungs with the scent of lightning-born ozone, and cool air pushing out the heat, and the earth, opening up, releasing everything that's been baked into it by the searing sun. Dirt. Life. Country. Summer.

I looked a coyote right in the face On the road to Baljennie near my old home town He went running thru the whisker wheat Chasing some prize down And a hawk was playing with him Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes He had those same eyes just like yours Under your dark glasses Privately probing the public rooms And peeking thru keyholes in numbered doors Where the players lick their wounds And take their temporary lovers And their pills and powders to get them thru this passion play No regrets Coyote I just get off up aways You just picked up a hitcher A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway Coyote's in the coffee shop He's staring a hole in his scrambled eggs He picks up my scent on his fingers While he's watching the waitresses' legs He's too far from the Bay of Fundy From appaloosas and eagles and tides And the air conditioned cubicles And the carbon ribbon rides Are spelling it out so clear Either he's going to have to stand and fight Or take off out of here I tried to run away myself To run away and wrestle with my ego And with this flame You put here in this Eskimo In this hitcher In this prisoner Of the fine white lines Of the white lines on the free freeway

The Ho Chi Minh Trail was not as most folk imagined it to be for the use of the term “trail” conjures in the mind a winding at times narrow path something like the Appaloosa Trail, whereas the “Ho Trail “covered 10,000 miles and was in fact a network made up of roads, paths, and at times rivers. Thousands of “pioneers” that made up the North’s Group 559 maintained it. To us it was the “Ho trail”; but to the VC and the North’s Communists it was “Hanoi’s Road to Victory”. Sergeant Walker, author of Southlands Snuffys.

She was a horse lover and she and Whitey kept a mean old paint, a fancy quarter horse/Arabian mix, a roan Appaloosa with one ghost eye named Spook, and a pony. So along with the whiskey and perfume and smoke, she often exuded faint undertones of hay, dust, and the fragrance of horse, which once you smell it you always miss it. Humans were meant to live with the horse.

Betsy picks up on the second ring. “South Shore B&B!” The carefree happiness in her voice catches

coconut sunblock, a five-year-old showing you the spot where his front tooth used to be, a home-cooked meal, when your love kisses that exact spot on your neck, a grandmother’s handwriting, a job well done, the kindness of strangers, the human spirit, an Appaloosa horse, the ritual of your faith, laughing until you pee your pants a little, holiday dessert tables, first birthday parties, a perfect cup of coffee with a view. What’s good will always be good, and one of the most awful, beautiful things about the hard seasons is that unless we experience hardship, we’ll never truly appreciate and remember the good that was always good.

He ambled towards the abyss again, Acquiescing to the adroit turns of his Abtenauer, his Altai horse, his Appaloosa, His Ardennais, and his Australian Brumby….. Agilely each equine adumbrates the aesthetics Of aestivating, much like aficionados of nature And much like ailurophiles, too…… Ambrosial aromas attract his attention to the Assemblage of amaranth foliage growing At the abyss’s edge. “Anglophile!” “Antediluvian!” “Aplomb!” “Apocryphal!” “Apophenia!” “Apothecary!” Each petal calls out to him as he captures their vision in his Aqueous humor. Now an arabesque they display, Then some archipelago formation, as they (those purple perennials) Give in to the Wind’s whimsy. “What’s in my arsenal?” He asks himself. “Do I have Authenticity, like Astrophysics and Astronomy?” “Am I at last in my Autumn, torn asunder by Avarice? Shall I now step toward Winter to wither and waste away, without rebirth?” The Summer’s azure skies call him back, reminding him of his herd. Homeward he must turn. The pony pushes him back to the plain. And, as he trudges away from the abyss, the warriors of darkness— His old battle buddies who left him behind as they raced toward Providence— Rattle in his mind with their Paleolithic war toys, on the war path, chanting: “The greatest battles we face are in the silent chambers of our own souls…..” -----from the poem 'Summer Battle' in the book HOT STUFF: CELEBRATING SUMMER'S SIMMER AND SIZZLE, by Mariecor Ruediger

Sam did think Appaloosas were the best. They were perfectly conformed, their markings beautiful. Most of them were short bodied and stocky, built for bursts of speed, which made them the ultimate buffalo runners.

What worries me is that common sense seems to be dwindling to the point of extinction. The minds of men whom our contemporaries consider educated are regressing to the level of the most ignorant peasant on a Mediaeval manor. There is something terrifying in the spectacle of men who hold degrees in the genuine sciences and assemble vast arrays of elaborate scientific equipment to “prove” the authenticity of a “Holy Shroud,” and thus make it necessary to assemble more equipment and conduct long and painstaking research to prove what any half-way educated and rational man would have known from the very first. And the same sotie is performed whenever some prestidigitator claims that he can bend spoons by thinking about them. Is there any limit to the gullibility of “highly qualified scientists”? I sometimes have a vision of scores of great scientists and tons of elaborate and very expensive laboratory equipment assembled about a pond into which they drop horsehairs to determine whether the percentage that turn into tadpoles is significant by the binomial formula. If hairs from Standard-breeds don’t work, get some from Appaloosas. Then try Percherons and Arabians: their hairs may make tadpoles better. And no one can say that the hairs of horses do not turn into tadpoles until you have made exhaustive scientific tests of hairs from every known breed of horses – and then someone will turn up to prove that the negative results are all wrong, because tadpoles come from the hairs of horses who eat the variety of four-leaved clover that grows in a hidden valley in Afghanistan, so the assembled scientists and their equipment will start all over.

Unlike Millstein, the teams from Oaktree and Appaloosa believed there were higher stakes at play. Private equity firms, they believed—best exemplified by Apollo—had become far too abusive of creditors, wielding legal documents and hardball negotiating tactics as swords to take value from loan and bondholders that simply did not belong to them. To Oaktree and Appaloosa, nothing less than the sanctity of the US capital markets was at stake in this room. The

ADD US ON TELEGRAM : PETSHOME1 For beginners ,they does good with traffic, 4-wheelers, lawnmowers and other animals. They also drives. In the pasture she will greet you at the gate, picks up all her feet, stands to be saddled/harnessed/brushed,  ADD US ON TELEGRAM : PETSHOME1

ADD US ON TELEGRAM : PETSHOME1 For beginners ,they does good with traffic, 4-wheelers, lawnmowers and other animals. They also drives. In the pasture she will greet you at the gate, picks up all her feet, stands to be saddled/harnessed/brushed,  ADD US ON TELEGRAM : PETSHOME1

ADD US ON TELEGRAM : PETSHOME1 For beginners ,they does good with traffic, 4-wheelers, lawnmowers and other animals. They also drives. In the pasture she will greet you at the gate, picks up all her feet, stands to be saddled/harnessed/brushed,  ADD US ON TELEGRAM : PETSHOME1

was tall, and the hat made him look taller.

The sound of flapping wings made Star turn his head as a brilliant silver Appaloosa with dark blue and gray feathers landed a winglength away. His thick neck was arched and proud as he trotted toward the black foal. “They call you Star?” he asked.

Your brother is very cute,” she said against his lips. “I’m going to take him home and beat the shit out of him.” It made her giggle to hear that. “Would you two like to go for a ride tomorrow?” she asked. “We have another good riding horse. A beautiful Appaloosa named Shasta. All spotty and gentle.” “I don’t want him to go anywhere with us.” “Luke,” she scolded. “Seriously. I want him out of here. I have things to do with you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Riding and beers and dinner and…stuff.” “You better be patient,” she said. “How patient?” he asked. She gave him a peck on the lips. “How long will Sean be here?” “Seriously, I’m going to kill him and hide the body.” “How long?” she demanded, though she smiled. “He says a few days. But he doesn’t know about his impending murder.” “How about tomorrow morning? After it warms up a little bit. Come to my house and we’ll ride along the river.” “Is that what you really want?” “I think it would be very neighborly of me.” He sighed. “All right. But don’t laugh at his jokes. It makes me crazy.

That's two Appaloosas, two quarter horses and one mule, plus tack. They were ordered by a man called himself Theodore Roosevelt. No chance that would be the president, is there?

I’m offering you a deal that will save your life,” Rockwing said. Star opened his eyes. “What?” Rockwing continued. “The over-stallions of Anok are afraid of you. I’m not.” Star looked the silver Appaloosa in the face. Rockwing’s belligerent eyes were shiny and black, like the hard shells of beetles.

second ring. “South Shore B&B!” The carefree happiness

Least you got a nice, strong reason,” I said. “Don’t like him,” Virgil said. 16 PONY HAD BREAKFAST with us at Café Paris on Friday. The Chinaman who ran the café had some chickens, and they had been laying recently. So, with our beans and salt pork and biscuits, we each had an egg. “Sick of cooking for me and Kha-to-nay,” Pony said. “How is life out on the prairie,” I said. Pony shrugged. “Quiet,” he said. “But Kha-to-nay wants to go back to war with white-eyes.” “Ain’t gonna win that,” I said. “I know,” Pony said. “Try to keep him alive long as I can. Balloon go up here on Sunday?” Virgil shook his head. “No?” I said. Virgil shook his head again. “He backed off the shooting,” Virgil said. “Soon’s we brought it up.” “Scared?” Pony said. Virgil shook his head. “Ambitious,” he said. “Afraid it would spoil his plan to be governor?” I said. “Yep.” “He did shift the tone of the conversation,” I said. “He tell you go,” Pony said. “He tell you, you not go he kill you.” “True,” Virgil said. “But he won’t.” “Think I come in town, anyway,” Pony said. “Stay with you Sunday.” “ ’Preciate it,” Virgil said. “But I ain’t wrong ’bout this.” “Wants to be known as the man who cleaned up Appaloosa,

I glanced at the Bear, who shook his head. “As much as it pains me to say, you are the better horseman.” I shook my head. “It’s an Appaloosa. Isn’t that the horse the Cheyenne traditionally rode into battle?” “It was, because by the time you ride an Appaloosa some distance, you are ready to kill anything.

There was nothing that horse couldn’t do.

The heart wants what it wants.

we’re

Jared: "Meg?" Meg: "Yes?" Jared: "What are you thinking?" Meg: "I'm thinking I could stay like this for a while." Jared: "Well, I could stay like this until the rain stops." *MEG LEANS ON HIM* Meg: "Oh yeah? I could stay like this all afternoon." *JARED PUTS HIS CHIN ON MEG'S HEAD* Jared: "Well, i never want to walk away.

Poem (I Can’t Speak for the Wind) I don’t know about the cold. I am sad without hands. I can’t speak for the wind Which chips away at me. When pulling a potato, I see only the blue haze. When riding an escalator, I expect something orthopedic to happen. Sinking in quicksand, I’m a wild appaloosa. I fly into a rage at the sight of a double-decker bus, I want to eat my way through the Congo, I’m a double agent who tortures himself and still will not speak. I don’t know about the cold, But I know what I like I like tropical madness, I like to shake the coconuts And fingerprint the pythons,- fevers which make the children dance. I am sad without hands, I’m very sad without sleeves or pockets. Winter is coming to this city, I can’t speak for the wind which chips away at me.

What I must do concerns me, not what people think.’ 

Is that so? What are you going to do with

Both men buttoned up their pants. It’s easier to be dangerous with your breeding equipment stowed.

But in the secondary America we’ve been through, of back roads, and Chinaman’s ditches, and Appaloosa horses, and sweeping mountain ranges, and meditative thoughts, and kids with pinecones and bumblebees and open sky above us mile after mile after mile, all through that, what was real, what was around us dominated. And so there wasn’t much feeling of loneliness.