Best Bison Poems | Poetry
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by Welch, David
The Spirits Of The Bison
by Pekrul, David
by Ngoma, Thabang
Bison The canal boat
by Seal, Alexander
by Newman, Michael
Lords Of The Prairies - An Epitaph : A Tribute To The Bison
by beharry, john
by Moreno, Raul
The Hunter Painted the Bison.
by pavlich, Mariana
View all new Bison Poems
The Best Bison Poems
My nostrils sniff the air seeking,
the various scents tantalising.
Then I smell the bison and throwing
back my head I howl to my pack.
The bison start to panic and flee
as we follow hot on their tails.
Distant between us shortening at
each stride I pick a young bull.
Going in for the kill my mate joins
me and together we bring him down.
Helped by the pack his death is quick
tonight we all eat and I will have milk.
Returning to my lair I settle down to
nurse my six hungry cubs. Knowing only
too well that tomorrow it will all
happen again if we are to live.
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2018
Whether poets, showmen or philosophers,
Or mere cowboys who follow herds—
They all want to leave behind a lasting mark—
More than frail paper etched with words.
But the cold, hard truth still lies in the doing
And all but a blessed few will fail—
But on we go like bison over the cliff—
Hoping our wings sprout and we sail.
And like restless sleepwalkers we do wander
From one thing and then to the next—
Till we find what it is that will then save us
To put life in proper context.
So on we scribble and strive for the right phrase—
Catch meaning and life in birds—
Put emotions and feelings we briefly hold
On this frail paper etched with words.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2008
Bend your eyes and ears around
the sights and sounds of a
world at peace.
A squadron of oak trees on
a hill, laughing and playing acorns
with unsuspecting travelers below.
A phalanx of bison, wind whipping
tired eyes, conquer prairie after
prairie, victory assured.
Dozens of purple martins, dive
bombing this way and that,
enjoy a dinner flight.
A herd of underwater manatees,
precisely pinging echo-location,
submarine in unison, towards
their night grove.
Shooting stars, without targets,
celebrate our celestial
© All Rights Reserved
Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2013
The paint recalls, layered and petulant, groans
mindless in its ground, it decomposes.
Granules of hematite, pale traceries of gypsum,
the crevasses of cave wall are soot soothed.
Layered and petulant the palm of man appears
charcoal dusted, amongst the antelope and bison.
Do you hear the drum’s call, the hollow
wail of bone flute, the slap of bare feet,
the drone of chant?
Red-lead or orange crystalline roars atop
the gummy white in Pharaoh’s tombs.
See the deathly desert and the blood of power
as it paves the way; ochre, gypsum,
copper blue, groan mindless in its ground.
Do you hear the drums call, the hollow
wail of wooden flutes, the rattle of the tambourine
the clink of bell, as bare feet dance entranced?
Decomposed, composed, each grain
calls to mind pale traceries of the ages left behind.
Soot-soothed, charred coal outlines the faces
of God and man upon the walls of time.
First Published by Mused 2013
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
What would I give for a book and a nook
I'd forfeit some cash from my pocketbook
Surrender my coat to a hanging wall hook
Then give it a look , as long as it took
I'd roll back the stone, crawl into a cave
Find Ol' Tom Sawyer, take some close shaves
Look for Boy Wonder, help free some slaves
Hunt for lost gold, discover old graves
Go room to room, look high and low
Ride on a broom, escape through a hole
Go with the wind, fly over rainbows
Ride chariots of fire where ever they go
Search lost horizons with great expectations
Go hunting for bison in Indian Nations
Swim with Poseidon and gather crustaceans
The suspense would heighten my imagination
A book and a nook, a perfect day
Rain or shine, take me away
To read every line on every page
Spend all my time, that's what I'd pay
an original poem by Daniel Turner
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016
I blow here in the prairie wind,
A grass that seems to have no end.
A pheasant asked me yesterday,
"How long you been here would you say?"
I scratched my blades and said, "Who knows?
Ten thousand years or more, I s'pose."
An' then the bird said,"If you please-
When were you really most at ease?"
I laughed at that, the way grass does,
That sounds somewhat like bees abuzz.
Then said,"That's easy friend, why shucks,
Between fences and pickup trucks!
The fences stopped the thunderin' herd,
An' no trucks were yet to be heard.
It was so peaceful, full of hope,
I was knee deep to antelope."
All that thinkin' got me upset -
I told that bird the trials we'd met!
"The Humans talk with grief an' scorn
Of long gone Bison and Longhorn -
Listen, pheasant, and I will tell,
The Buffalo can burn in Hell!
An' Longhorn meat will surely make
A big fat piece of butcher's steak!"
Well, I was through and I calmed down -
The Pheasant, nervous, looked around.
Said," I been eatin' a little seed."
I laughed, said,"Friend, take all you need!"
April 29, 2016
Copyright © Larry Bradfield | Year Posted 2016
Anteater's with their incredible 2 foot tongue
Bison their hides, one time under the gun
Cheetah's my, can they run
Dolphins bringing so much fun.
Elephants, Indian and African by the size of their ears
Fin Whales hunted, we share their fears
Giraffes so elegant long necked and tall
Hummingbirds hover, and never fall.
Insects, so varied in size and shape
Jackals howl as they relate to their mates
Kodiak, the island bears
Lobsters, caught, creeled and snared.
Mammoth, the awesome beast from the past
Nymph, insect larva's showing species may last
Octopus, tentacled dude of the sea
Plankton, the only food that is free.
Queen Bee, on the throne with her drones
Rhino with their keratin horns
Salmon living, return to spawn and die
Thrush, singing songs in tune as they fly.
Uakari, the Amazon new world monkey
Vulture's make the ground carrion free
Whippets a joy, as you watch them race
Xerus, the squirrel - the grounds his place.
Yak, the bovine of Himalayan heights
Zebra, white equids with their black stripes.
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009
North of sixty, you see the cold.
Big skies, and short days told.
Forests shrink, past big river.
Listen closely, hear them shiver.
Bison wild, roam free here.
Timber wolf run, moon light clear.
North of sixty, black raven flies.
Wise old bird, wing spread skies.
Mountains roll, to horizons edge.
Older than, our souls can pledge.
Great silence here, all is still.
Refresh ones spirits, reviving will.
North of sixty, last place on earth.
Pristine halls, of Mother Earth.
Before we sit, and watch her cry.
Mankind must, unite and try.
To find a way, to keep her clean.
Before we see, Mother Earth turn mean.
North of sixty, I know we can.
Teach ourselves, revive our plan.
Stewards’ oath, to keep this land.
Safe for life long, eternal plan.
Great Spirit too, we shall be true. Big skies, forever keep them blue.
Copyright © Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Year Posted 2013
...poet in da house...
Now have a listen, for I’ll be a kissing…I’m on a mission
And you’ll be a pissing your hemolysin…a smelly emission
My words glisten worth the admission…full of ammunition
You’re under submission a life in prison…meet the mortician
Like a magician I’ll take over your vision…call your optician
You’ll be wishing you had a cosmetician…here’s my aesthetician
Like Mohamed Ali sting you like a bee…crush you like a flea
You’ll sing like a banshee on a screaming spree…cause I’m beastly
Like Mike Tyson run you like a bison…your blood I’ll syphon
Can’t handle my slicing with every word I ripen…I’m the word titan
Like Frank Sinatra and his mafia from Italia…will give you insomnia
In my euphoria and with your apaxia…you’ll be living with anoxia
You’re an agitator I’m a decorator…a word builder an innovator
I’m a verse creator a rebuilder renovator…a word generator
I have ambition you need a beautician…an ugly position
In my coalition you need permission…luck with the audition
I’m not a hater just much greater…a smooth operator
Like a Terminator I’ll see you later…your exterminator
I’LL BE BACH!!!
I'm not really a rapper...just having fun lol
8 Mile Style Poetry
Sponsored by: Nick Trim
Copyright © Winged Warrior | Year Posted 2018
wind wanders through
invisible bison graze
raise dust devils that flirt with larks
buzzing insects in the air
swirl dip rise into the sun
swishes almost whispers
play around ears
not quite within range for words
ghosts less than clear
more than shadows, skydance
green blades reach
between the bones of children
grandmothers, mothers, wise men
sweet red blood fed the roots
a time ago
Copyright © PATRICIA CRESSWELL | Year Posted 2017
Jamestown was the source of this
Movement that swept across the continent
At first the ships were left behind
And people used what they could find
A mule, an ox, a Percheron
Whatever they could sit upon
They loaded up and west they went
Some went north and some went south
They filled the land e're which they went
The Louisiana Purchase was the big event
That sealed America’s destiny
Soon the country was spilling westward
To be the first to make a print
Where no one else ever went
They hoped for happiness as their destiny
The Donners never did find any
There were others rushed by gold
With hopes of riches they would hold
But mostly what the immigrants found
Was this great nation which was bound
To fill her borders sea to sea
With citizens like you and me
We owe thanks to Conestoga and Civil War
Beaver hats and railroad cars
Pulled behind the great iron horse
Of muskets bore and **** skin caps
Horses and cattle and leather chaps
Cowboys, six guns and barbed wire fences
Rangers, Marshals and bar maid glimpses
Pony Express and long coach rides
Wagon loads of buffalo hides
And the Indians who gave their homes
Of mountains and prairies where bison roamed
To live among us brave and bold
Absorbed by the manifest destiny told
Of the American Osmosis
Copyright © Ray Dillard | Year Posted 2010
Before ten thousand moons passed by
reigned Mother Earth and Sacred Sky.
Their spirits whispered on the breeze,
from mountain streams to deepest seas.
Nomadic souls rode ne’er to die
before ten thousand moons passed by
hunting bison, both proud and strong,
with lips chanting ancestral songs.
Each blessing rained from clouds of truth
of spirits taught in gleaming youth.
Before ten thousand moons passed by,
in native tongue, soared elder’s cry.
Across the plains, they chased a dream,
like wild horses in warm sun beams.
Their restless souls praised earth and sky
before ten thousand moons passed by.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2017
He is the row locker that holds the bridge
He is the Bison that carries the load from the deck
A wall that resists oppositions, guards them in check
It’s been build to shield the back four
And plastered to cover up loopholes
He is hard and strong, José’s goal
This is the wall reinforced by José
His work-rate is breathtaking like wild horses
His presence is haunting to opposing forces
The fulcrum upon which the system revolves
Anchored at either end of the bridge
Is a wall that stabilizes a moving ridge
He takes up knocks and blows
Yet, never crumble to the ground
This is the wall that essentially runs around
He is a Mourinian, the rediscovered wall
Opposing forces hit the wall and bounced off
Ooops! “He hit my wall”, José scoff
Copyright © Gideon Foli | Year Posted 2015
Red Mesa Dreamscapes
The sun spreads its red light on the mesas,
Those ancient sentinels, those fractured bones of the Earth
Scattered outposts that rise as lonely islands
Through the vast dry sea
That fills the heart of this continent;
Its heart beats in notes slow, deep and sonorous
Buried somewhere deep in its weathered flesh
Of canyon, mountains, desert -
All cast adrift upon this sea of hollow, howling spaces.
The mesas thrust themselves up, pointing at the sky
Like great bony fingers cut short at their last joints,
Reaching into the merciless deepblue immensity
Falling down on all sides, enfolding the distant horizons,
Where the light of the nearby yellow star
Goes shifting to red as this side of the Earth turns its face slowly away,
Burning in soft rose light
Caressing the cooling arms of the night in the brown flesh of the land,
So like the flesh of its people.
Dawnings and sunsets, ages and ages, the red light washes the mesas
Turns of the world beyond counting as the people gazed mute in wonder
Standing in the purity of the red light
Bathed in its clean magnificence, purified by its brutal beauty,
As alive in their way, these bones of a planet
Alive as the strong brown flesh of the people
Who gazed on them in sanctified silence
The ancient people who took this land for their home
Long ago, when Man was new and still fearfully reverent;
These ancient ones were meant to live and die
Beneath this endless paradise of blue,
And to love this land at times in ways too deep
For any civilized mind to comprehend.
The brown ones loved this land,
And the land accepted their love in bountiful return to them
In the fullness of the life and glory they once knew here,
Singing to them in the eagle's screams that cut the still air
Drumming in the brown waves of bison herds
Speaking to their souls in Winter winds and coyote howls,
Rumbling in the dark voice of Summer thunderings
Carrying down to the ears of men the mystic troubles of their gods.l
They passed together a long, still time
The people and the land.
The balance smooth between them,
Until the coming of the Others.
From across the Great Waters the Others came,
Beings white in both appearance and deed.
They walked and talked like other men.
But their ways were new and strange.
They came and they came,
More with every shift of the seasons
Filling the land
Like the snow fills the forests in Winter.
They came, taming all that they touched,
The world to them a thing to be conquered and changed,
For this was their way; this their lives' purpose,
And the spirits of the land allowed it -
Neglecting their invasions, accepting the smallness of their thoughts,
Aloof and above in distant toleration.
Without the Spirits' help the people lost their fight for the land,
Falling ever back against the Others' strange magics.
More clever than strong they were,
But in the end, it's cleverness that wins.
They drew their strength from the magic words
Gifted to them by their god,
With which they would call on him for the powers of conquest,
And they were: Manifest Destiny.
Manifest Destiny granted them terrible powers,
The powers to build a new thing,
A thing which propelled itself in a way that none could stop,
And this thing's name was Progress.
Progress, right hand of Manifest Destiny,
Made everything change,
And change above all, as an end in itself,
Is what the Others loved the best.
The brown ones could not comprehend it,
And so they lost all before they fully new it was happening.
How to fight those armed with an oath from their god?
Through his will they held their power,
Never doubting the right of it.
For their love their god returned them power,
The magic of the metal tubes that boomed a hard burning death,
Weapons no magic could stop,
And more than this, numbers,
Numbers to drown the land.
Against all resistance they claimed the land for their own.
The survivors they sent away
To wait out their time in being forgotten,
Casualties of Fate.
So now, the red light spreads across the mesas
Changed parts of a changed land that goes by another name
Part of a new nation vast of size and strength
And terrible in sleeping might,
Kindhearted giant, great and noble in its way,
Though forgetful of its native sons.
Where now hangs the eagle's scream?
- Lost, blown apart upon the wind.
Where do the great gods of Old hide their faces?
- They sleep, infusing the Earth with their dreams.
Where walks the demon named Progress?
Only look, his marks is everywhere.
Now we live in the long forgetting-time,
When the wrinkled elders sit in their ramshackle homes
The driftwood of some primeval sea's recession,
They dream, in a fog blurred with the alcohol poison,
Of the stories of fathers and grandfathers,
Tasting memories again and again,
The salt lick of remembered moments aging like strange wine.
They dream of the ending-time,
Of the last stand made
In the face of the endless advance
When Progress buried the world in its relentless avalanche,
The dream of the wearied few,
Worn and shaken in disaster's wake,
Gathered one last time on the heartless plains.
They take a long straight look into the land of the Dead,
The shadowland out of sight beside our own,
Where the gone-before walk and watch in silence
The steady procession of the living,
Existing as memories until the time of reunion.
Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2015
Self reliancy stimulates political independence,
pragmatic critical thinking spurs revocation of spurious Partisan information,
vigilanteism guards against the Juntas,
systematic interdiction of peoples' ability to to procure food, self educate,
self medicate, and to self defense is a vital instrument in disabling citizens' morale,
it is true that several Companies provide 'civil rights' that are subject to repeal,
but these liberties must conform to security & production for the State,
the more detached we become from the land the more immense our collective ignorance,
Will to struggle recedes like red from the dying rose, spirit is sterile,
sciences are employed to subvert the passion of men, to mire the maternity of women,
to emasculate the youth, to assault the temperance of ladies,
as the bison were decimated so to fascilitate the conquest of the feral Indian,
the Anglo-Saxon farmer & tradesman were displaced by manipulated Markets,
corporations rabid with greed, fawning to increase world trade
and to blowt stock exchanges, enlarging theaters of war & dictating foriegn policies,
an arsenal & circus of judges, lawyers, politicians, academics, entertainers,
elastic options such as Inflation, minting money, loans, and criminal dockets,
Abraham Lincolon & John Kennedy desired to reestablish democratic banking
and were both slain as dangerous heros,
cartel suzerainity always wins,
an agrian ethos is too intractable an opponent for oligarchial commerce,
as laws are ineffectual to dissuade a starving man, leaves don't stop the rains,
there is no need for insatiable government when one can grow crops, build homes & and micro manufacturies, where trade is honest& equitable, no swindles,
division of labor for maximum productivity at the expense of individual health,
eradication of heritage to ease trade, passivity in exchange for integrity,
can libertarianism be retrieved from the vice of the mold maker,
will we deliver this odious model into the depths of the galaxy,
will there always be captivity,
regulated life is controlled life, and that is enslaved living,
words ' make the world go round ',
we are subjects of international law codes,
Freedom dwindles -
J.A.B. Copyright 2012
This Composition Is Entered For Skat's " Democrat Vs. Republican " Contest -
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2012
The true story of the American west
Is one of killing field slaughters and
The bison killers worked day and night
They were all busier than a kennel full
of dogs in heat
The bison had never seen anything
And therefore knew nothing of how to
Their bodies piled up on prairies by the
While human beings continued their
Humans had no thought about an animal's
Mention of such would have laughed them
into a slop bowl
This all points out a basic flaw in the nature
The evidence was there since man's time on
Animals to Man are just mechanized bodies
of meat and fur
Causing no lapse of conscience for killings
But human beings think to improve Mother
What they forget is this mother suffers no fools
When Man becomes comfortable in his unnatural
Then mother will send earthquakes and floods to
level Man flat
Copyright © Elizabeth Smith | Year Posted 2015
I painstakingly take down reading list.
(I thought that our dear teacher surely gist.)
“Of Bison Men”, antiquity : out o’ print;
and “Batcher in the Fry”, a concrete stint.
“Odious Night in Gail”, seen fit to ban –
Perhaps by an old “RAD at Sky March” fan.
And “Cellphone flowers of yellow and green”,
From “Loose'y in the Sky with Diamonds”, seen.
“You Lie, Sees” on top of list of sorcerers –
Our Homers being the main baseball scorers.
“Vinnie, VD, Vichy~”: Dude ate too much
I do not understand the rash and rush…
A cross all incontinence, without much flare,
there grammar mistakes is to much too bare.
1. Bison: Prehistoric animal, now extinct. Also, Bison Men Street Fighter = movie;
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
2. The Catcher in the Rye is a 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger
3. Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
4. Radetsky March by Johann Strauss Sr.
5. RAD – abbreviation of many interpretations; also, slang for “great”
6. The actual line from “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” is: “Cellophane… “
7. "Loose'y" is slang for cigarettes sold singularly
8. Ulysses is derived from Ulixes, the Latin name for Odysseus, a character in ancient Greek literature. Odysseus also known by the Roman name Ulysses was a legendary Greek king of Ithaca and a hero of the blind poet, Homer's epic poem, the Odyssey.
9. Julius Caesar said this when described how/what he did on his campaign. (veni (I came), vidi (I saw), vici (I conquered). Colloquially used by teenagers as an expression for conquests of the opposite sex. "Vichy" as in vichysoisse, a cold potato soup
10. In the final couplet I vent my frustration with the incorrect usage and spelling which I often encounter in script; spelling and grammar which change the intended meaning of the text.
11. Written in: A quatorzain (from French quatorze, fourteen) is a poem of fourteen lines. Historically the term has often been used interchangeably with the term 'sonnet'. Various writers have tried to draw distinctions between 'true' sonnets, and quatorzains. Nowadays the term is seldom used, and when it is, it usually is used to distinguish fourteen line poems that do not follow the various rules that describe the sonnet. I followed the Shakespeare sonnet style with the volta at the COUPLET:"In Shakespeare's sonnets, however, the volta usually comes in the couplet, and usually summarizes the theme of the poem or introduces a fresh new look at the theme." ~ Wikipedia
6 July 2013
Sponsor Roy Jerden
Contest Name Malapropisms and Mondegreens
Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013
chinese food dripping sauce
spicy beef and noodles
steaming vegetable rice
eggrolls and plum dip
spareribs and garlic
oh so delicious- most of us have all the food
we want but wait I do not have to go far away
within canada in my proud country
there is starvation poverty and death
now this will never be taught in schools but not a secret
that our first prime minister sir john a macdonald
starved aboriginal people into submission deliberately
to clear a path for the canadian pacific railway
his national dream . . .
it was not enough that fur trades brought diseases
but they hunted the bison almost to extinction
leaving the aboriginals starving and desperate
the government withheld food
until the first nation people agreed
to live on reservations
designated areas trapped and humiliated
unable to leave they could not farm not hunt
dependent on the government for food
and if they complained
the substandard food rations were cut food
contaminated withheld children died many died
sir john boasted of the indigenous people
"on the verge of actual starvation" some hero
and even today 2015 there is widespread poverty
starvation on first nation reserves in canada
access to drinking water(laced with e coli)
high price food (brought by air)
living on welfare (with no way out)
oh no I do not have to go far to see starvation
slum conditions overcrowding sewage backups
garbage and broken houses and extreme poverty
it is a national disgrace
oh yes there are some sanitized reservations
there are some really pretty places but still
there are many not so nice
it is a horrible situation the hopelessness agonizing
and what is the answer the circle that goes on
and on since sir john a macdonald stole
their land their way of life
the government of canada should be ashamed
to allow this in this day and age
in my proud country it is breaking my heart
July 2, 2015
Epulaeryu and Free Verse
For the contest, Food Can't Live With, Can't Live Without It
Sponsor, Debbie Guzzi
Copyright © Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
Nautdah, they called you,
In your real life they named you,
When you knew yourself,
When you lived out on the unforgiving plains.
As Nautdah, Comanche captive,
You Became Comanche;
Leaving behind the girl
Who was Cynthia Parker
Sloughed off like an ill-fitted skin.
You gave to birth
Their greatest leader, Quanah
In a field of wildflowers on the Texas plain;
Forsook your language and embraced
That century of blood and pain
For the sake of a people who's way was dying
Even as you butchered bison on the endless sea of grass.
They recaptured you and made of you a monument to what their wildness
Had made of you:
A woman of the Elements, a woman who would not be cowed
By the conventions of her time;
A woman who would never cease
Trying to return to the people to whom she really belonged,
To the people who belonged to the Sky, the Earth, the Wild Horses.
And before Quanah died, having lived with his feet in both Worlds,
He arranged to have your bones interred near his,
Where the two of you could lie together
And dream of wildflowers, and Freedom.
Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2014
Dressed in my shaggy brown coat
I stand nearly six feet
at my shoulders
and weigh almost a ton
My brethren and I
once roamed the prairies
in herds of millions
grazing on its grass
which fed and nourished us
for tens of thousands of years
Running at speeds of
over thirty five miles per hour
across the prairies
in herds that stretched
as far as the eye could see
our hooves created
a thunderous sound
that shook the earth
causing it to tremble
like an earthquake
When packs of wolves attacked us
we surrounded our calves
kept our heads down
flashed our horns
and charged them
to fight them off
At times though
we were not able
to save our young
our old and ill brethren
when they were separated
from the protection
of the herd
The redskins were
the only human beings
we knew at that time
Though they hunted us
with bows and arrows
to feed themselves
and to satisfy their desire
for shelter and other needs
they did not waste
any part of our bodies
They respected us
and we respected them
We lived in harmony
for thousands of years
It was the advent
of the whiteskins
that initiated our decimation
They brought in large
that could keep up with
and even outrun us
The redskins realized this
tamed those creatures
sat on their backs
and hunted us
using their bows and arrows
like they did before
They killed more of us
but again they took only
as much as they needed
and did not waste
any part of our bodies
so we continued to
co-exist in harmony
It was that long mysterious stick
that the whiteskins brought in
that triggered our demise
From a great distance
it made a loud noise
and something hit us
that we could not see
but it inflicted severe
pain and agony
Some of us fell to the ground
and died quickly
while others struggled
but were injured so badly
that they died soon after
We were helpless against
this long mysterious stick
We were slaughtered
in our millions
They left our dead bodies
to rot and decay
where we fell
Sometimes they took away our coats
Other times they cut out
our tongues only
and left the rest
of our dead bodies
to putrefy and decay
on the prairie grasslands
that we had trod on proudly
for thousands of years
This is my epitaph
for I just saw the glint
of the sunlight
on the long mysterious stick
heard its thunder
and felt something
go deep into my insides
as I fall to the ground
I am on way to meet
my proud ancestors
who once roamed
these lands in freedom as
Lords Of The Prairies
Copyright © john beharry | Year Posted 2013
dawn time leaves
steamy breath on the window ~
a bison snorting
Copyright © Michael Newman | Year Posted 2014
You know when I think about it now and what I have to do,
a lot of you folk out there would have a bit of envy too;
you see I'm a 'lacky' for a vet, well a nurse I s'pose is true,
and sometimes I get to help out, down at a private zoo.
For some in my position it's a treat from sheep and horses,
or just the common cat and dog when giving out their courses
of tablets in the bottles, for hydatid, worms and fleas,
and writing out receipts when owners pay their fees.
So I loved to go down to the zoo and grab a tiger by the tail,
or even box a kangaroo, or put a bison in the bale.
I loved to feel the ermine fur or check the throat of a giraffe,
but me favourite's always been, the monkeys for a laugh.
But there can be some 'trip falls’; of this I have no doubt.
Well I had to have me stomach and me lungs pumped out
from working with an elephant, that's feeling pretty crook,
and I was left to nurse him after the vet had had a look.
I listened for his diagnosis when he checked the 'pachy' out,
and after prodding here and poking there, he said "Without a doubt,
this poor old fellas in the wars" then looked at me and stated
"I'll give you instructions what to do - he's only constipated!"
"Now" the vet reminded me "Here's what I want you to do,
I want you to fill an order form and book it to the zoo
for a hundred pounds of prunes, and two hundred pound of figs,
plus a hundred pound of artichokes, and berries, leaves and twigs."
"That's the natural helping hand to get some movement at the rear,
but we can move it quicker if we use unnatural gear,
so put laxettes on the order form, and a hundred packs I'd say.
That ought to be enough I think to have some movement on the way."
I spoke softly to the elephant and gave his trunk a pat,
while the vet continued on about where this old 'pachy's' at;
"You'll have to feed him slowly; this could take a week or two,
and make sure you listen or the onus could end up on you."
"Every hour on the hour give two pound of prunes and figs,
then just one pack of laxettes and some berries, leaves and twigs,
and don't forget the artichokes, but only every now and then.
You'll have to walk him up and down the fence line in his pen."
Now I'd heard the vet’s instructions and his words "Now don't forget!"
But for some reason I believed I knew more than the vet,
and I knew the elephant that suffered with its blocked up drain,
would rather have me clear it quick to ease his nagging pain.
So I said "Stuff the vet!" I'll have this 'pachy' cured by today;
I'll fill him up with figs and prunes and then have laxettes on the way.
"So come on 'pachy' boy" I said while shoving in an artichoke,
"Come on, more prunes and figs" I said as more and more I stoke.
The 'pachy's' sides were swelling out, and so too were his cheeks,
he'd taken in four hundred pounds that should have lasted weeks,
and still he stands there all-forlorn with no movement at the back,
and if there isn't any movement soon - how else can I attack!
He staggered left and then to right, but stayed upon his feet.
He must be ready to explode with all that stuff he had to eat.
I've got to think of something quick. Of course! Of course! Aha!
I'll go and get some olive oil - and give him an enema.
Old 'pachy' stood with drooping head and eyes both dull and sad,
while I walked around the back of him with this olive oil I had.
I took off the cap and gently pushed the bottle in then round and round,
and the 'pachy' started twitching - and then I heard a rumbling sound.
And before I took a backward step, there's a few plops then a flood
gushing out all over me, like a dump truck full of mud!
I tried to shout for someone's help, but that’s to no avail,
for I'm somewhere in the mountain that shot out beneath its tail.
I was burrowing like mad; me lungs were screaming out for air,
and I'm filling up with prunes and figs that rained upon me there.
I kept fighting through the laxettes and the artichokes as well.
Now I know just what they mean if someone mentions 'living hell!'
Thank God I thought when in me fight I felt the helping press
of hands from blokes in over-alls; all from the S.E.S.
with masks upon their faces to protect from methane gas,
and a block and tackle all set up to drag me from the mass.
Then I saw them drawing straws, for they thought that I was dead.
And the winner screamed, "No bloody way, I'd rather quit instead.
If he needs mouth to mouth then the bugger’s gunna die!"
Then I coughed up a couple of prunes and shot a fig into the sky.
I saw relief come on his face as now I coughed and spat out muck,
but I should have known to be alive is only half me luck,
for bits and pieces on those prunes caused more trouble to unfold ...
that's right, they hosed me down and then - the laxettes took a hold!
Of course the telly and the paper knew they got themselves a hit,
when someone's buried to their neck, in half a tonne of … ‘muck!’
Now my experimental diet's practiced by every vet and zoo,
when pachyderms pack up and they need a hand or two.
And I became an instant hit with what I'd say a huge profile,
but the vet got jealous with my fame and my inventive style,
so now when 'pachy's pack up, it's the vet who will entice,
and constipation jobs I get these days are all involving mice!
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2016
Well! How ya doin' ? Come on in,
the door ain't got no lock,
and let me help you sit right down
before you die of shock.
Yes, home for me is this Big Leaf Maple,
bijou but it's alright,
not increased in value but
it's sure increased in height.
Carved myself a second floor and
when the sap had hardened
hung wallpaper in vintage flock
I got from 'Home and Garden'.
Mossy carpet- not ideal,
it's just the roof keeps leaking
and no point in having windows, with
the way this place keeps creaking.
I see you like my shoe collection;
Valentino, Choo, Louboutin,
'fraid I haven't bought them, they're
from cabins I've been looting.
Impractical for this terrain, the heels snap
at the back,
so outdoors I wear furry UGGS, they leave
much better tracks.
My make-up table's basic, yeah,
I'm really no trailblazer
got just a tub of Bison dung, a flea comb
and a razor.
Diet? I'm an Omnivore, I hope that you approve,
berries, shoots and Hazelnuts, and
anything that moves.
Card table leaning on the wall, I use
which probably explains why you're sat on the only chair.
Don't socialize much, not at all,
it's due to all the hype
and guys with crossbows, guns and cameras
really aren't my type.
I've scanned lonely hearts classifieds
there's not one that I've missed
but if you read their profiles,well-
I'm not sure they exist.
Don't get me wrong, I've got some pals,
Ol' Nessie keeps in touch
but crossing the Atlantic's tough
she doesn't do it much.
Yeti is still thriving in the mountains of Tibet,
I saw him once on cable- no, I haven't met him yet.
We three through all controversy
and media storms we've weathered
content to dwell in hearts and minds
in legend, and forever.
So thanks for calling, loved our chat
and so I'll say goodnight,
and should somebody ask you, hey:
you haven't seen me. Right?
Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2015
“One can never consent to creep
When one feels an Impulse to soar”, once held by Helen.
When I desire to win Bharat Ratna, I don't want to accept failure without participating
But the politics, class discernment & dire domains won’t let me…..
I am Jayasurya a 62-year-old poet, a prodigy synthesized Limerick er
I have no pre-economic status
I am a humble, tranquil and diligent man who aspires with steam in breath
And esteem knowledge to become a poet.
I have meticulous madness over literature from the birth
And movement of misery since I landed on this earth
Seconds I’ve spent, minutes I’ve melted, years I’ve yawned without sleep
are as grim & challenging as staying still on a bicycle & being ill and can’t weep
When I was alone near the seashore, I left my emotions through Tears
When I was with my intimates, I’ve exhibited them through words
When I was in front of the crowd, I made them into a song
So finally I’ve decided to come up with an emotional elegy to my life.
Dear pillow, sorry for the Tears on behalf of my eyes
Dear brain, sorry for overloading you with ill gustoes
Dear heart, sorry for all the disheartening dire damages
Dear Globe, remorseful in advance as I will shrug and shiver you.
My dear rain I love walking with you
Because no one would know that I’m crying except you
My kind sun I love running under you
So my Tears would dry up soon.
As I corralled in my dairy earlier "A poet is a sapient of notions,
and a serpent to perform miracles.
They release poems as saccharine poison
and success in every session" isn’t true for me now.
My piety lord “Where to go in these malevolent ways?
What to really achieve before my death nays?
Where to live in this immoral place?
When would I die in these ill-advised days?”
Blanket of dreams on my way
Bottle of tears to accompany my stay
Blazers are burning and blistering over my heart
As bad as beasts and bison running to stab me with a desolated dart
My lacerate was coated up with lyrics of treble waves
My skin was synthesized with sizzling stanzas
Daylight and dimness, dusk and dawn made me sleepless,
By chance if I fall asleep poems appear in my dreams.
Even If the public is not interested to know
I want to say and make them obey that,
I don’t take what I get
Indeed I will only take that I need
My glory may rise and fall
A bad war at a bad place in the worst world
In this modern era, participating in hard times is like being in a war
I win or lose, I am the king.
Copyright © Bhanu Siva Krishna | Year Posted 2016
Long time ago in the old wild west
A hunter raised his gun, he was a
Round up cowboy, and shooting
Was his fun
He saw a fat wild turkey come
runnin out the scrub, he thought
of tasty vittals, and stomach full
The turkey turned towards him
and fixed him with its glare, its
proud red comb a hangin, before
its neck so fair
“Now mister I’ll admit, I am a tasty
Lunch, but if you keep on shootin,
You’ll prove my earnest hunch,”
That soon the scrub and prairies,
Where we so blithely roam, will
Quit of fur and feather, where
Buffalo did roam”
So thoughtfully the hunter, shocked
by what he’d seen, laid down his
hunting rifle, with turkey’s eye agleam
“Thank you Sir, you’ll not regret, the
stowing of your gun, there’s food and
grits aplenty, in store and salmon run.”
Remember how the bison, were slaughtered
For the train, and all them native Indian folk
Who lost the wild woods game
So keep your gun and bullets, defend your
Simple home, and leave the prairie creatures
To wander prairie home
And if you see his finery, running wild
By tree, remember he’s an emblem, of
Open land so free.
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015