Best Cows Poems
they do
and sheep possess concentration levels
that allow them to watch television
which is extraordinary
and so is broccoli
i like polo mints
my daughter calls them doughnut mints
her favourite book is called 'stop that cow'
which involves a 357 mag with an 8-inch barrel
a pig in a forty-nine dollar wig
the agitated cow asks, "you wouldn't happen to have
a pack of cigarettes."
the guinea hog replies, "i don't smoke."
"i didn't think so."
i met my best friend in a cafe
he told me statistics mean nothing
When a Norwegian cow passes gas
They want to tax the gas from its ‘ass’
A cow passes 4 tonnes of methane each year
Just imagine the stink from its rear!!!!
Thanks for the inspiration Anne Lise ***
Jan Allison
31st March 2016
Cows roamed sunlit green pastures hugging the river banks
Where villagers of meager means cultivated their tiny farms
Living happily amid bare necessities trusting destiny's hand.
That place, I left behind, taking the only dirt-road out of town
Long before brazen street-lights replaced kerosene lamps
And invading industrial hands pilfered farmers' pristine land.
As modernity ravaged lives, trampling elder's innocent footprints,
Bewildered serenity escaped the pain of dismantled memories.
Saddened river knows, having carried ashes of the anguished,
Heartache farmers felt when strangers re-wrote ancestral story.
September 28, 2018
Lines of ten that remind you what it was like back then
Sponsor: Silent One
cows
graze..
surrounded by fog
Ain't it rather ironic that "global warmists" got marooned in the ice!
Their Russian ship was held fer days as firm as a carpenter's vise!
A couple of other ships came to their rescue and also got stuck!
Sans the aid of the good ol' US of A, they'd a-been outta luck!
Egg-head perfessors keep sayin' that Antarctica is rapidly thawin'!
I ain't so sure 'bout that and I git mighty tired of their incessant jawin'!
Seems there's more ice than ever fer the hordes of penguins to savor.
Perhaps "warmists" could find more productive things to do, doing us all a favor!
Can't blame the big freeze on cows fer their emission of methane flatulation!
Wonder how Al Gore is gonna spin this awkward situation?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
If you see father Ken Saro Wiwa
Tell him about me as a mouth to his songs,
Tell him that they have removed the meat
He gave to us and gave us grasses;
Dirty grasses to replace our milky meat,
We are not cows, then, why would they bring
grasses for us to chew in public ?
Our smokes are restricted from moving out,
Our kitchens have turned to oil wells,
Our mother's mortar taken far away land.
Tell Buchi Emecheta that we have no water
To drink even land to farm our crops now.
Our air is stinking with dark sticky viscous liquid.
They said it is a mixture of holy gases,
Its looks like liquid and solid hydrocarbons,
Impurities of surphur, nitrogen and oxygen!
The words coming out from their teeth suck.
Exploitation of our wings are done by the cows;
Beautiful cows in a beautiful dresses to suite.
The search for oil has killed many with Geologists.
They eat Naptha here and there with Kolas,
They wear paraffin oil as their bangles,
Petrochemicals are the eyes that loots their pride.
More funny cows are sitting on crude now,
More cows own more oil well than the goats.
When will the goats be given chance to speak?
If you see father Ken Saro Wiwa beyond,
Tell him that our creeks are baptised sinfully,
Our hands are tied behind us to keep shut.
If the going get tougher and rougher here,
If the sky visit us as promised with a new rain,
We will break out from this caged pleasure
To a place of rest looking at the rising half sun.
---- Another Voice stronger.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
Yawn said Saudi Arabian prawn in a bin liner watching a cake. Chopping cutting cuticles cubicles clubbing clang clanging clam. Drama is not an item in a scene. It is merely to disguise battling molluscs and lettuces in flowery beds. Aroma of lemons should never play on a boat in a bath that is less than five metres wise. Traitor training tapping tuning turboprop. And fish wave peas around in the air. Quite quickly and dramatically but the Ukraine is a base for a nine mineralised lake of great ice. But ice cream is a bad idea for it can run away thus leaping down cliff paths dexterously. How rather incredible. Wow. Questions should be delivered in an atmosphere of greatness as flotation is great in bins don't change dams and beavers enjoy 'other' beavers company in turbulent carpet writhes or under prettily patterned summer dresses. Bomb then. Themselves. Turn thrice a pitch. Good. Poignancy of a branch. *** geraniums grabbing gators. Gatorades. Hahahaha now go kiss a fragrance. *** cordiality coughing chews chant chant chant. Xxxx confrontationally. Peanut dome equals z.
“Milking the situation” is from a long-ago age
“Milking the cows” from our agricultural heritage
Some phrases hang on
Though some are long gone
Some remain in our lexicon though we've turned the page
(letters to my presido-elect): ii
the dregs
of the libations
enticing the gods
upon the shrines
of the uncurbed squander
of the treasuries –
o, the squander
of earth’s roots!
& the kins sigh
as the mothers cry
for the fathers lie
in the tombs
the untimely tombs
of countless days –
& the uncurbed coronations
of the cows
reached the pompous limits:
the roof of native skies!
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Another one for Andrea D.
Imagine a vast vat of liquid
Covering 5 football fields
33 feet deep in manure
Think of the energy yields
When big piles are seen
Of manure all green
Most people just see piles of crap
But if truth be told
It's a pile of pure gold
When you siphon off gasses you trap
On a dairy farm in Golden State
Experts on gas sit and wait
They push poop in a hole
Cover it like a bowl
And just let the gas ruminate
With nearly 2 million cows in this far western state
You have to admit the potential is great
Just getting these cows to be hole-potty trained
Will yield a great deal of cow-poop methane
And the methane gas gathered this way
Can be sold to the grid so they say
So the smell's not quite honey
It's the smell of good money
And we've finally made gas passing pay
So that's what this company did
With some cows and a hole with a lid
With a scoop and a scrub
And this gigantic tub
Cows are now passing gas to the Grid
Mdailey
It's fifty miles to the city
And fifty home again,
Around that pothole on Depot Road
Into the arms of the lane.
Old George has left his hay down.
A day or two since mowing.
Pink shadow of the Grange Hall,
Blind in sun's last glowing.
The cows are gathered to the barn,
Tail switching at the gate,
Udders glossy ripe with milk.
Supper'll have to wait.
Take down the bucket and strainer,
Rite of the ending day.
Bury the sound of city streets,
In the sweet whisper of hay.
Bow your head to the great brown side,
A choir in the gentle refrain:
Fifty...miles... to the...city,
Fifty miles to the lane.
Feed them silage for good milk yield.
Better than grazing in the field.
Inside they come and silage eat
and they delight in tasty treat.
Dry and warm in the shed they stay
munching silage throughout the day.
With alcohol at three percent,
a happy meal from grass-ferment.
They are content and keeping dry
and slowly getting somewhat high.
But some unsteady on their feet
as far too much silage they eat.
Feed them silage for good milk yield.
Better than grazing in the field.
They say;
They can be milked to bring the flavor of life
Milk the breasts of a woman and you get loving adoration
They are also like a well of life
That nourishes young babies
From the womb
They say,
Breasts are a man’s balls
To play with in a game of love
It depends on who catches the ball and kicks
It right for a win only
Breasts are our mother nature
The source of life and wisdom
the cows are asleep
snuggle closer to get warm
frightened by the bus
I awaken well before dawn has thought of yawns
It is quiet then, and quite eerie in a way.
The peace deadens distractions, death-hour mourns.
The mind awakens refreshed, sparked by noir cafe.
Contemplation peaks then, and declines throughout the day.
There is no rush to milk the cows or other things.
No deadlines to meet; the slate is clean and ready.
What else can you do at such an hour, but think upon what morn brings?
No one else is mad enough to be up then, all fresh and chatty
Even the shops and streets are all mostly empty.
The sounds are muffled, hushed to not disturb,
Even the birds call out in toned-down tomes,
just to say 'Gidday' with a contrite little blurb,
like those asleep, snore gently and mutter in dreamy moans.
It is so quiet, that you can hear their gentle breathy tones.
A cock crows, a bell tolls, the garbage truck bangs day open.
The first light rings an alarm; the pre-dawn think-tank session is over.
'Good Morning' can be annoying if your stuff not strut and done.
The clatter, toil and bustle of the day makes chaos of the order,
which can only return - past day, past night, in pre-dawn embroider.