Best Teat Poems
A bossy old cow in the street
was rolling while licking its teat!
When it howled like a cat,
I thought: What’s up with that?
Can bossy old cows be in heat?
Inspired by both a poem and the limerick contest of Jan Allison
Red cents fill the coffers of the rich.
It is the blood and sweat of others,
yet, no longer enough, no longer enough,
worthless as the silver-less lie of a dime.
It is the blood and sweat of others
melted with base metals, base morality,
worthless as the silver-less lie of a dime
not filling the hollow holes of their souls.
Melted with base metals, base morality
a growing virus among the bone weary,
not filling the hollow holes of their souls,
both, rich and poor, suckle an empty teat.
A growing virus among the bone weary,
yet, no longer enough, no longer enough,
both, rich and poor, suckle an empty teat,
red cents fill the coffers of the rich.
**re-vised ;) hope it's clearer!
*an unrhymed Pantoum
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
In her beauty she walks beside the water
Her reflection is found in its stillness
The quietness of her heart mirrors that of the pond
Decisions made much earlier have left a void within
But still she has a quiet strength, and knowing
That what must be done will be done
She offers no excuses
And feels no need for justification from others
And this has set her free
So many times her thoughts were consumed
With satisfying the demands of others
Tugging on her heart like hungry pups at the teat
All wanted to be heard and gratified
Twisted and pulled by the will of others
Had left her weary and troubled
Her freedom of choice a casualty
Had died from neglect
The difference in her now had come
From a heart that for too long
Had been disregarded
But now as she sat beside the mirrored pool
And looked deep into and within
A recognition came
She was enough
You ignite the
romance of my dreams.
I wish to encroach your
lips with my
tasty sandwich of perfected
rosemary teat.
I'll make your brain
immune to my soul
so you become out
of breath when far
from your source.
My toes will python
your emotions,
make you feel good with
motions that can't be
found in Neptune.
Oh! my Fairy prince,
should I Massage
those fire clay
masculinity and
blow your mind out of its organ?
I'm devoured by the
moans of your consistency.
Devoted to the strings of
your intentionality.
Should I delineate your
cubes of grip so it
illuminates the lines
of storytellers?
Or are you too shy to
tell the world that,
You're the heel of
my heart, the calf
of my stamina.
The spine of the moon
and the Larynx of the dark stars.
Honey!
I'll let you dance to the rhythm of Calla
Lily while I paint in the beams of Zinnias.
She sits in wonderment with the night
surrounded with content
he draws back the blind
with feathered pen
and slips down her stockings
licking of her length
finding the vein of her strength
he climbs
a pinnacle of perfection
purring within the night
whispers
he whispers
into her wind
gnawing at the teat of the storm
she warm
flashes her vuluptous brilliance
shadows beneath her eye
casting depths to his curl
and he curls
fearless
into her fortitude
dark and oh so torn
he calls out her name
again and again
she responds in kind
they lie
in repose
her scent soaks up his name
he swells with each sweet sweet breath
together they form
establishing their claim
Where, oh where, is God?
When will the man-child stop asking why,
stop searching for the other, the greater, the bigger
the more glorious presence?
This constant need to see other than oneself as the source.
Even with a brain (and we know Frank Baum has told us
only STRAW men don’t have brains) we refuse to see,
refuse like a baby forced to eat mashed peas.
We make our children are we their God’s? Hell no!
We name this Creator (for man is nothing-if not a naming animal).
(The father says Da; the baby says DA! Da says cat, baby says CAT!)
Life cannot exist for man without a naming, a judgment, a categorizing.
We cannot GROK it (as Heinlein's Christ character, Valentine Michael Smith
illustrates for us in Stranger in a Strange Land).
For something, someone, has to have made us, yes? no?
Oh yes, they had to consciously decide to make
something as marvelously special as us, didn’t they/it?
* Please refer back to verse 2 line 5.
Where, oh where, is God? When will the man-child stop,
stop searching for the teat, stop the blame game,
accept the responsibility for fouling His own nest?
Why does God have to look like us?
Does everything we create look like us (the light bulb, the car)?
Does that mean there is NO primogeniture if He/she/it doesn’t look like us?
Wait, wait, all of Creation manifests differently, eco systems need
diversity to maintain homeostasis!
Yet we bawl like babies. WHY are You killing me!
Why must I die? What mutant child have you given me
this spawn of Satan!
This primogeniture, this God, this be all, end all, know all, BEING,
this omnipotent source either is outside of us? or inside of us?
Or are we inside of it? And, if it knows us not—
If like the amoeba, it simply divides to exist, absorbs to exist,
excretes to exist. Why do we insist on worshiping it?
Does It Know us? Does it know all of its creations?
Is it an active participant in its own creations?
Refer to the book of life, the planet earth,
the solar system, the structure of an atom.
Use the brain you were given by God
for YOU are not a Straw Man.
First Published in 2013 Sweet Dreams and Night Terrors
My Dear Precious Pearl,LENORE, I know it has only been a week since last I Wrote.
Today I write to whisper my words of LOVE in your milky white ear.
I have created a hybred Rose for YOU. A Purple Lavender
the colour of Clover,as the field where we first we knew each other.
A Rose the colour of Royalty,and Spirituality. I watered it daily with my tears of LOVE.
I sang songs of yesteryear that fell on deaf earthly ears, Yet she Bloomed
as the opening of arms longing to be hugged by YOU; My unforgettable beating of my forlorn Heart,the rythm of the melody. As I stroked the silky softness of the Petals,I dream, of spooning; of holding your tender warm teat in my hand;
of burying my face in the nape of YOUR neck.Resting in the unforgettable Joy of LOVE FOREVER and ALWAYS through the Eons of Eternity.
The Purple Lavander Rose flourishes at the Entrance of YOUR Eternity - My Eternity.
She is the symbol of my Never-Ending LOVE for YOU. May her fragrance appease YOU
and our God; until I entwine with YOU and "HE" for the Eons of Forevermore.
My Heartbeats are YOURS until again we meet in the shade of the Garden of Eden.
I LOVE YOU ALWAYS and FOREVER YOUR LOVING Husband...Harry
Inspired by the Contest : " LOVE Letter "- Free Verse
Dedicated to " Heather Ober " Sponsor of said Contest
I Don't Care...
I don't care,
if you're battered black and blue,
I don't care,
just as long as I can drink and screw.
I don't care,
if you've lost your damn job,
I don't care,
you're just a kernel off the cob.
I don't care,
when I see you begging in the street,
I don't care,
I get to suckle on capitalism's raw teat.
I don't care,
about the elderly, the poor, or the weak,
I don't care,
if the earth will be inherited by the meek.
I don't care,
if the climate is warming, I'm so much cooler,
I don't care,
in my penthouse I'm the boss, the only ruler.
I don't care,
for those rolling for scraps in the muck,
I don't care,
I really don't care, cos' I don't give a f**k
inspired by Bob Geldof's "The Great Song of Indifference"
Time to bring them home...
I was thinking sleepily.
After stuffing my face with holiday.
Time to bring those red, white, black, and blue teenagers home...
Time to resume video games-get some strange.
Instead of babysitting rocks on icy Afghan mountaintops.
Numbers for names exchanging blows with rock men.
That play charades with dirty hand grenades...
Sometimes death needs to be left alone.
To sip life from the Teat of misty goats.
To grow rows of golden poppies
Turn our mothers into heroines.
Time to bring them home.
Country Joe asked it long time ago.
"What are we fighting for?"..
A jungle without a soul.
Another 58th parallel. Jam session...
Big-headed devil is dead.
Buried at sea, alongside honorable men,
Spawning for eternity with sea hags.
Time to bring the boys and girls home.
They're dying in droves while Congress is on extended vacation.
Bring them home. So they can cut or whorl in the grass.
Before their limbs and minds are bent.
Let them kiss their puppies that are now fully grown.
Remembering girlfriends. Who moved on one tour of duty ago.
Bring them home; let them tell war stories.
How a tangle of teenagers smoked a local and his lamb... then laughed...
How a green friend slept forever under a red, white and blue fleece.
Then flew home under a flag, atop metal wings.
Time to bring the boys and girls home, forever,
At her behest, he'd sworn off meat
"She knows best," he's latched to the teat
With calories halved
Poor guy nearly starved
No wonder with steak he did cheat
---------------
(C) John C Michaels, April 2017
The air is heavy like a dirty woolen blanket
each colorful strand pulled through the warp.
Horns blare and traffic skids and screeches
as unborn accidents are aborted
by fancy-pants cops.
The city slickers in their posh clothes
zip along toward the outskirts
avoiding those in dirndl-shaped, Polleras skirts
and Monteras hats, as if ashamed,
either of their own roots, or of the neglect.
The road to El Salvador* is long
weaving along rough pacific shore lines
wefting past fishing villages,
and cement factories with tangerine groves,
each lane bringing the colors of modern life.
The oranges, red and pinks of fine fabric repeated
in on the metal surfaces of trucks, buses, and motor cabs.
Each person’s destiny pulled and pushed
by the action of man, earth and tide
forward, ever forward..through
the dunes of Lima’s desert.
The invaders hug the hillside,
thousands upon thousands, of rural poor,
driven from the teat of the mother by earth quakes
and the terror caused by The Shining Path.*
Mao lives on in the upheaval caused by his ideology.
Yet, so does ayni*, the helping hand of neighbor,
the brown-skinned hand, more used
to the bobbin than the gun.
Here they have come in oneness
a finished soul on a back-strap loom,
dyed and drying in the heat
of Lima’s desert
they bloom.
*El Salvador- a shanty-town 45 min outside of Lima
with 350,000 residents. This community was nominated
for a Nobel Peace Prize in 1986 excellence
in social work and community growth
**Shining Path-The Communist Party of Peru
is a Maoist terrorist organization in Peru.[
*** ayni- Quechua culture is centered upon community
and mutual help (“ayni”). Their social system is based
on the principle of reciprocity: helping a neighbor
to be helped in return.
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.
I was born in the year 2423,
gestated in an artificial womb successfully
I drank the nutri-milk
from the dangling nubs on the synthetic tendril teat
I ate the petri-flesh
from the germ-free, sterile laboratory grown meat
My mother and father was the State,
my sister and brother was the corporate Company
I was trained in the art of industrial security,
because it’s a dangerous world
in the year 2443
I don’t have a name, but I got a number
I have a sure aim at anyone who wanders
onto Company property —
a crime punishable by death,
executed by me
I am the judge and the jury
It’s a very dangerous world, you see,
in the year 2453
Got sent on secret mission to the Wasteland,
where the mutated live underground,
beneath the irradiated sand
Went searching for #050279X
She stole a proprietary cure
for anyone stricken with the malware virus,
electronically transmitted by virtual sex
Had my cover blown, now they’re hunting me
It’s an uber dangerous world indeed,
as I fight for my survival
in the year 2463
I got cut off from Mother for the first time,
by a massive surge in solar neutrino energy
It’s strange living without direction,
no automated voice to help guide me
My internal logic neural circuits
suggests a disturbing probability
That I was sent on a ghost mission,
(with no chance of success theoretically,)
to die in the field with honor, most nobly
I am self-aware now,
in the year 2473
The tenth year of living dangerously
has become very familiar to me ...
as I drift through the Wasteland
living mind-control free
After forty years of active service,
I understand now that I had become obsolete
An expendable Company soldier,
born a slave of the State in 2423
Got freed when I got older,
by a quirk in celestial mechanics unpredictability
And now I understand with brilliant luminosity —
living free is the best danger there can ever be
Soft, the powdery feet
Scamper now along the street
Blanketed in sleet
White socked windy feet
Stretched under winter's soft sheet
Of ice thin deceit
Soft now the winds bleat
And stagger through the cold wheat
All footprints delete
Sucking the clouds teat
The pastured winds softly bleat
Winter's flock is sleet
Bright sun has no heat
To melt winter's powdered feet
Or gnaw the snow's sheet.
Was my life just a wish
I hid between the pages of survival
And even though the Universal source of all
Granted me this gift
This singular precious life
Did I search instead to be the worthiness of heaven
Did I judge all my actions
By the prison bars of hell
And see in your eyes and the eyes of others
The handiwork of demons
Have I written on the chalkboard of my soul
The dark inks of my submissions
I see that in our innocence
We have been duped and confused
Into leading a less than innocent life
And the greatest tragedy of this Earth
Is the ignorance of our denial
We do not see the collage of injustice
Their bodies scattered on our path
And all the bright and shining electronic objects
Are limply hanging from the sign posts of our children’s future
Their bodies dried and bloodless
Skeletal in their silence
Point the way to our decent
Into the depths of the untouchable and the soulless
Where and how have we been brought to this
To feel so very comfortable
While the price we count in money
Is the cost
Of human life
Did we eat too much
Did we want too much
Did we suckle so much in frenzy
Upon the teat of propaganda
Did I believe too readily
Did we swallow all our pride
Has conscience become a mouthful
A swallowed panacea of pharmaceuticals
When did we agree to be
So confused
Did you accept that all this luxury
Must be paid by the suffering of someone else
Or did I just close my heart
Close my mind and close your soul
And even though the nagging is persistent
The denial of truth haunts all of you
Did we bury ourselves in the infatuation
Of all this passing momentary thrill
Bought and sold from the instance of our birth
And it is not our part to carry the guilt or the fault
But each one of us in time
Must wake up
To the complicity that we play
In the slavery inflicted on this world
A part of innocence and ignorance
In the suffering of our brothers and our sisters
A peculiar gift is the insight burgeons a new light within the soul
Far more humane it is than burden of its curse
To live amongst these human chains
But still see all that we are worth