Best Milks Poems
Whatever turns your crank
Whatever tickles your pickle
Whatever dunks your donut
Whatever waxes your dolphin
Whatever buffs your Buddha
Whatever pops your cork
Whatever pets your monkey
Whatever frosts your cookies
Whatever spills your pills
Whatever trips your trigger
Whatever humps your camel
Whatever melts your chocolate
Whatever peels your onion
Whatever chafes your carrot
Whatever flops your mop
Whatever rocks your socks
Whatever teeters your totter
Whatever milks your goat
Whatever pings your pong
Whatever peels your banana
Whatever blows your nozzle
Whatever tips your canoe
Whatever flicks your switch
Whatever zips your zipper
Whatever blows your stack
Whatever... whatever... whatever!
© Jack Ellison 2014
A huge shout out to my dear friend, Eileen, for creating a wonderful memory with this collaboration. There is a vital lesson when moments like this are created: The cure to uncertainty is togetherness. May we all make more memories like this. Friendships, real ones, are a commodity.
Surrounded by impenetrable marble
A stained glass perception
Milks dignity from dilapidated pores
I stare unto retribution’s flame
Gliding softly on waxy façade
Holding the hand of a friend
I hold on,
Strength
Waning
Distorted view of reality
Piercing inner sanctum
Veil of peace
Tranquility
Torn asunder
Set aflame
Melancholic facades
Dripping in hardened tears
Waxy build-up
Inner core of existence
Reality
Licked by burning infernos,
Extinguished
I hold on…
Holding the hand of a friend
We raise eagle’s wing
Banishing oppressive lips
Venomous soliloquies
Tasting alliterated misdirection
Uninvited to solace’s peak
Our time is now
Our time is now!
Our time
Turning hourglass sands
Into horizontal awakenings
This eloquent candle will never wane.
Our strength faces resurgence
Your hands to mine
My soul awakened, revived
Our orange-hued sands of time
Reversing ravages of melting tears
Candle light, incandescent,
Burning
But not melting
On this night
Burning,
But no hesitant flickers,
On this night
Generating heat of bonded hands
Bonded minds
Burning flame of mystery
Light
I hold on to your hand.
This is our time
OUR TIME!
Words set to eternal flame
Oh, yes.
This eloquent candle shall never wane.
©Drake J. Eszes & Eileen Ghali
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
Passive in passion, taking in the sweet scent of the bloom
Milks the serenity of an environment, within nature
Rides the ferocious wind that formats the raging ocean
© Harry J Horsman 2010
Part 1
Onion
the delicacy of friendship
I found you in the flowers
Standing tall we become one
Looking down from gangly towers
Squash, you burn, you pillage, son.
Follow me you say in tongues
Thy shallow mind reveal me tell
Whisper lies clean load the guns
I feel the burn I rot in hell
Friend folly menacing the liar
I loathe this coffin how it leaks
Dear foe you raped me set on fire
The onion peal itself and weeps
Part 2
Traitor
dear monkey boy
Older eyes eat themselves,
glance and kill the other
Unified in the dance,
they steer the musty rudder.
Pained and sweeter deeper wells,
poised buckets drunk with water.
Singled out the one that dried,
handed weights to pull him under.
Wiser times capture the mind,
death justifies dishonor.
Knife slice neat through the devil's back,
who stares blank and milks the udder.
Part 3
Tempest
patron saint
Inside this box
Goodbye tempestuous fall
My puppet of steel coiled thread
Smashed buttons and twisted dread,
Alarm these doors, and
Escape this delusive bunker bed
Stamp the spiders
Thief, vulture of the deflection
The mocking patron of the sinners
Erase this affliction
Relating inward at the reflection
Rise you fool
Part 4
Phoenix
i love you
close the grip
cinched hematic grip
drenched, clawing
seeking the sheave
becoming the counterweight
i absorb, now
extracting the heat
rise like a phoenix
away to be gone to be free
fix me! i have fixed me
i am alive and i love you
Part 5
Aye, Damager
Abolish her state of disrepair
Scattered, spattered drippy thoughts
All around this box of soused leaves
Soak, ferment in the faith of our love
I can't fix this, you know
I loathe this misunderstanding
Of what I am speaking, projecting
To me, Aye Damager, to you
This devil in me
turned and twisted
A wrecked elevator in rejection
Years locked painfully aware
...
I’m the whispering voice of legacies long sense past, the overseer
Of generations traveling with broken wings of tribal tradition,
A vanquished chieftain, whom sheds his sacred feathers, as tears
Shame upon the white man’s winds of manifest destiny.
Clarity’s shattered warrior languishing within a river of
Crimson shoals, drowning beneath salvations suffering,
Wounded left at bending knees of mercy, abandon, with
Our archers crushed bow, and idle arrows of sorrow, upon
The battle field of ignorance and indifference.
Kindred leaves of humanities autumn,
Left torn and tossed asunder,
Tatters remnants, drifting loosely on the breeze
Of progress,
Built upon the ash pile of a nation’s people.
Many life flames flicker at the sacred fire beyond,
Hear the drumming’s roar; it is the beating heart,
The bleeding soul, crying out for revenge, but
Driven deeply is the spear of destiny, piercing
The righteous spirit, shattering it into a million
Pieces, that descends as raindrops of regret.
Treaties promises melt away as paper confetti,
Burnt embers offerings left as crisp fiery spray,
Floating in the deadened chill of winter’s forth
Coming.
Beneath the singed blankets of tribal markings,
Lie huddled the feeble of starvation, those whom
Desire to feed from the table of their ancient culture,
But these eloping breasts are drained dry.
Behold these starving cannot remember the flavor
Of her milks taste, nor the fragrance of her natural
Perfume, for they are the lost tribe of humanity,
People of the desert prairie, blown apart by the
Scorching winds of fate.
I’m the whispering voice of legacies long sense past, the overseer
Of generations traveling with broken wings of tribal tradition,
A vanquished chieftain, whom sheds his sacred feathers, as tears
Shame upon the white man’s winds of manifest destiny.
Harken my children and listen, for wind whisper walks amongst
You, and I’ll mend the bow, with prides honor, in faith’s devotion,
The ancient warrior shall ride again, against the flames of our
Sacred fire, and thus the weeping woman shall cry no more.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I think my MOO MOJO has let me down
that HE bull, Morris, just grunts and frowns
he doesn't even glance around
when I pass by, I'm just another COW.
Those devilish twins, Dan and Dick
sneak out at night to play their tricks
while I try to sleep, they go COW DIP
and knock me down, they need a good WHIP.
And every morning, when Sally MILKS me
she pulls so hard, it nearly KILLS me
It's an UDDER shame, one day, you'll see
I'll KICK her good, when she ain't looking!
I'm in a baneful MOOD, I feel so alone
Just wandering along, I MOO and I MOAN
I chew my old CUD and aimlessly roam
Wish I weren't filled with these dang HORMONES!
Written on 2/19/2016
hand on back
drilled smile
he milks me
from behind
vote Monty
mochadoodle
moo
9/20/12
Black Eyed Susan
for nette's "septolet the puppet" contest
fabric: drill – double meaning of practice and durable twill cotton (also, cottonmouth refers to a dangerous snake as well as "an uncomfortable condition that feels as if your mouth is coated with cotton. http://www.ehow.com/how_8412538_fix-cottonmouth.html#ixzz278lYPjBG)
flavor: mochadoodle – not kidding! it's a flavor of coffee: milk chocolate, cinnamon, and hazelnut
(Monty is a made up senator - referring to the expression "the fully monty" - meaning everything that is expected or possible)
Thoughts by a Horse Owner
A farmer milks a cow for all it’s worth …but
a horse milks a farmer for all he’s worth!
Horses are an expensive proposition to say the least.
Try lavishing your love on another beast.
When you look upon a star and make a wish,
much cheaper to buy a little goldfish.
then if you can’t afford it
when your dream comes true,
just flush it down the loo.
Or if you’re into recycling, eat the little guy…
And for crying out loud,
quit wishing towards the sky!
Answer to Doris Culverhouse’s invite for a silly poem.
There you go Doris! : ) ...(but I mean it!)
Each day I go to work to graze at my desk,
I pass many a sullen cow grazing in the field.
They have ropes around their necks that bind
them to a peg,
And I a tie around my neck to bind me to my desk.
Through my large office window, I see calves torn
from their mothers:
Farmer wants their milk, and their milk he will have.
Through the door across the floor, I see my kids
turned away:
Boss milks my time and energy, and not a pint will
he share.
That's why my kids cry each day I leave for work:
'Tis the pain of knowing that when that night
Boss drops me home, all he'll drop are drops of me.
O lord, that's all they can have, my poor little kids:
drops of my energy, drops of my time—drops of me!
A new day begins
As the day before.
The Jersey girls assemble themselves
Into their usual cow chain.
One girl’s head follows another’s tail.
Then head then tail,
All along the sodden trail.
This habit has worn a pasture lane
Of mud and muck,
And cow to barn.
They plod the path with bulging udders
To give sweet milk made from clover.
Lo! It is a ritual
Of back and forth,
To and fro!
The sodden lane is dark as coal.
A sleepy man
Readies himself with pail,
As the girls line up,
First head then tail.
Lo, it is a ritual
Of muffled moos in grain filled troughs
With yellow corn on drooling mouths.
For each cow gets her morning treat
As warm steam rises from the teat.
Woe! A life of barnyard chores!
By hand, he milks
With stool and pail.
Each pet waits her turn in line
By head then tail.
The sleepy bovine moan and snore.
The man, he leans
Against one’s side
And rests his head in furry hide.
Such labor,
Grief, care and thought;
Sometimes he thinks to sell the lot.
Lo, barnyard smells invade his dreams
With buttermilk
And warm, sweet cream.
Then big brown eyes meet his in friend.
Come evening,
He will milk again.
Whatever turns your crank
Whatever tickles your pickle
Whatever dunks your donut
Whatever waxes your dolphin
Whatever buffs your buddha
Whatever pops your cork
Whatever pets your monkey
Whatever frosts your cookies
Whatever spills your pills
Whatever trips your trigger
Whatever humps your camel
Whatever melts your chocolate
Whatever peels your onion
Whatever chafes your carrot
Whatever flops your mop
Whatever rocks your socks
Whatever teeters your totter
Whatever milks your goat
Whatever pings your pong
Whatever peels your banana
Whatever blows your nozzle
Whatever tips your canoe
Whatever flicks your switch
Whatever zips your zipper
Whatever blows your stack
Whatever... whatever... whatever!
Arise! Africa
Arise Africa and let the mills wheel along.
Arise Africa and feel the wills meal prolong.
Enclosed in the winds, the milks of nature endowed,
Enmeshed in the oceans, topography of landscapes around.
The talking drum with the voice,
The vuvuzela with the horns.
Awaiting the flickers of light,
From squibs of Heavenly light glow.
And when you see the day again,
You will regain the resilience of victory.
Upon the turbulence of invasion, you stood,
Upon the bits and bits of snips, you geumed.
Glamour ridden in garments of Sapiens,
Grandeurs stricken in firmaments of lampreys.
Thriving on the machinations of man,
When the mantle of zest acclaim the fore.
Amidst the prismatic of colours,
Mincing the lilt of mimosa days.
From the wakes of gloryville return,
The mouth of Africa will blow the horn of victory.
Adeola Yusuf Amuni
Tail moves the dog or dog moves the tail ?
Who moves faster than Carol's e mail?
Who knows the recipe of relativity soup?
What is the blood group of Becky's latest scoop?
Who wins the battle of Xomba in Galaxy 3?
Who catches a butterfly in the woods of Innisfree ?
Who goes to west when east sleeps on feast?
Who cries like a cucumber when she is kissed?
Who builds a yellow villa on the cloud nine?
Who writes" I Love You" on Cindy's credit line?
Who milks a honeybee to make the Pandora cheese?
Who chases a Spanish lion in the Chinese seas?
Andrea knows the answers she is the poet of all
She burns the oil of moon after a sundae nightfall.
the blinds die and end of story,
There is no story...What to talk about?
when there is nothing to talk !!
Keep the silence for the flowers.
and "The smell of lilies and Fridays
And as a target ...
the world among others and acts,
And did not hesitate and did not hesitate
Or low and does not get up ..
Or up as not to break...
And ... simulated and Kali, distressed
Or in the strange world,
of many twists or excursions
And the naked climbers,
unbelieving and amazed
Or sauces and visceras,Or ovens, volcano fumes
frozen diarrhea dung, or pride and pedals
The impossible or routes and fear?????
imprisoned more than the chains
? or fear is the prison. Yes. Fear paralyzes
Prison maybe ,small or maybe large
The Ethereal and Ephemeral game
and the castration ..give hollow of the actions and eruptions born ..
Why are they returning to the scene?
To the dry valey of tears ... where have feeling hurts?
And destinations ... unfortunate project ...
Burned in communion and the pipettes and the breezes
and anus in rockets and silos ...and not the sky or ceiling;
the Mare Eva, gave birth on ,rats and unclean from floods and sewers
Creating facebooks ... sample of the small muzzles
and kills them in eternity ..those chimpanzés from hollywood movies
Those revenge stories,stupid milks and veneric vessels,
... the end-of-the-century poisons,
By pissing on the millets...those invertebrates venoms,
and ruthless of mud and mire of an unnamed planet