Best Weaned Poems
This morning I woke up and bend my knees
To enter the highest of holy place
Here from my Patmos to see the Shekinah seas
And taste the eucharist of grace.
I am praying man, for prayer is the only eye
I have to see the things unseen
The promise of choral trumpets in the sky
When from this life I am weaned.
Sometimes day's burden invisible gets heavy here
Until I lift my prayer up
When suddenly cares like clouds disappear
From the proffered cup.
O I bend my knees to give HIM thanks, to ask
For favors for my friends
And in HIS peace awhile with HIM to bask
Till blessing for my children descends.
I pray for country too, and strangers far unknown
That they for therapy could shake
Some compassion from compassion's throne
And know the joy I have awake.
Categories:
weaned, faithprayer, prayer,
Form:
Quatrain
September meets with warm embrace,
quickening the harvest pace,
though looming autumn can't efface
what's left of summer's arid grace.
The linen hanging on the line
dances with the gust and shine,
while maypops heavy on the vine,
with honeysuckle, twist and twine.
The cool grass tickles naked feet
while weaned lambs in the distance bleat,
and find some shelter from the heat
'neath leafy canopy retreat.
The gentle wind so jaunt'ly plays
and tousles copper hair ablaze
like furious dancing autumn rays
from Mabon's fiery upraise.
Through rustling leaves the sunbeams glint,
I catch the balm of sage and mint,
and every herb and floral scent
blown to me by the wind's dissent.
Breathing deep olfactory prose
until the old red rooster crows
waking me from my repose
and from beneath the tree, I rose.
When as I rose, a red leaf fell,
wisping down its last farewell;
a changing season to foretell;
the coming bounty doth compel.
Cicadas loudly buzz along
and sing their end of summer song,
o'er by the thorny brambles throng;
unto the prairie they belong.
By and by, I turned my mind
back to the farm and daily grind,
collecting eggs where I can find;
inside the henhouse, else behind.
The hens put up a bitter fuss
with feathers flying from the truss,
so I let out an angry cuss.
Still, they obliged; allowed me thus.
Upon it all, I took my leave,
finished with my blast and thieve
much to the angry birds' aggrieve;
giving them a day's reprieve.
Outside the coop, behind the fence,
my greedy boar approached me whence,
grunting for his recompense,
and so two eggs I offered thence.
Then on, as careful as I might
into the farmhouse kitchen white,
delivered up the shelled delight
to feed the morrow's appetite.
Upon the ending of this chore,
I happened back outside once more,
to watch the day fade into lore,
and Luna make her grand encore.
-----------------------------------------------
Categories:
weaned, autumn, day, farm, september,
Form:
Rhyme
Heroin lies the irony —
Segregated babies are weaned on
milk-of-the-poppy
doctrine of Equality
Emancipated notion on the nod:
A false sense of freedom
is taught in every syringe-scattered schoolyard
Children of the cold, concrete jungle cry hard ...
opiate tears of injected fentanyl medium
Misled by the wavy cattle prod
Ghetto by-products of iron oar legacy
get kicked to the curb
by hollow words of homeless empathy
Cotton head infants overdosed with coo joy,
at the mirage sound of liberty
Beast-of-burden swayed buy patriotic noise,
so lung addicted to hypocrisy
Bottled-up hallucinated hope
is just a serotonin chain reaction memory
Minds blown in the wind,
be the next gen dopefiends for democracy
Categories:
weaned, identity, metaphor, perspective, truth,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
My lovely nanny goat
an unusual gift for my thirteenth birthday
shiny coat
Dad would milk her
I’d carry all the milk away
White fur
Cute pet
Loved to eat hay
wet
My lovely nanny goat
I’d carry all the milk away
Wet
*a true story I had a nanny goat 'Susie' for my 13th birthday, when we purchased her she was in kid and once the kids had been weaned we used to milk her twice every day. Her favourite food was very ripe bananas!
A Pet Minichu Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mohan Chutani
checked with how many syllables
04/16/21
Categories:
weaned, childhood,
Form:
Rhyme
Smith and Wesson’s cool steel kisses my right temple. I cock the hammer. The slow clicking of the cylinder’s turn is amplified through the barrel into my ear. Finger resting on the trigger; and I reminisce.
Striking that young maiden and the bright red trickle from her cheek, giving my flesh the appearance of eternal youth. How lovely it was to immerse in the warm blood of so many young virgins sacrificed for my vanity. And being left to die alone in my castle. What a waste.
In my lust for recognition I relished in terrorizing the streets of London. What a rush it was to baffle the authorities, putting my handy work on display; artistically arranging the bodies for my twisted desire. They say it was around twenty women strangled and mutilated, if they only knew the real number. But that passion weaned quickly. In my urge for a grandeur macabre I overdosed on heroine in hopes being able top that in my next incarnation.
As Feuer of an entire nation the delegation of wholesale slaughter didn't quite measure up to the ecstasy of someone else’s existence being extinguished through my own hands.
The era of free love lent to an easy spree of killings in northern California. In my need for some recognition, I teased the authorities with cryptic messages; to this day and my great disappointment they have not been able to decipher. The most that came out of it was a marriage of Clint Eastwood and Hollywood in the name of Dirty Harry.
Hugging my finger to the trigger giving it a strong, swift pull I can’t help but wonder, how do I achieve a higher satisfaction than when I delivered the Kiss of Death, sacrificing the Son of God for just a few shillings?
"Everything Halloween Contest"
Categories:
weaned, evil,
Form:
Prose
I am the Temple
I am the temple
Baptized in rain
Weaned by the sun
I am the temple
A manifestation of glory
Well-formed beyond perception
I am the temple
Capable of cored inner peace
Taught by the blossoms of the great oak
United in matrimony to the wind
I am the temple
Mystical in origin
Halved with the contents of the ocean
Bathed in dewy blades of grass
I am the temple
Wired to heal
Mulit-layered with creative energy
Painting realities across life’s canvas
I am the temple
In its purest and truest form
www.nefretitim.com
Categories:
weaned, inspirational,
Form:
Blank verse
A walk through the meadow seems in order
The sun is peaking through some wispy cloud,
Coreopsis is in full bloom along the border
While verbena and cosmos are standing proud.
I make my way through the overgrown path
Pushing aside the wild carrot and floss flower,
Knowing I’ll have beggar’s lice as an aftermath
Causing my nosy neighbor to snicker and glower.
It’s a fine, fine day; butterflies are everywhere
And the mockingbird’s are tweetering melodies
As I get closer to the tree line a-way over there
Where the squirrels will jump between the trees.
I do not expect to see deer since I’m rather late
And they are generally feeding in early morn,
So they’ll have bedded down in hidden shade
They have long weaned their early spring born.
Surprisingly, I see an opossum trundling along
Three or four young’uns clinging to her back.
Picking a bouquet of flowers, I break into song,
And hear scuttling noises, I’ve disturbed a pack
Of nesting quail, fairly close, and off to my right,
Streaking in a flurry their white underbellies flay
I locate them just in time to see them take flight.
I’ll get on home to vase my wildflower bouquet.
Written August 6, 2022
Categories:
weaned, animal, bird, flower, nature,
Form:
Quatrain
His granite form against blue skies
Rippling on the bulging eye, wild waves
Of muscles the netting cloud defies
Reason in concrete, his pride raves
In self glory of athleticism, what a gem
Hard and shadowed without a diadem.
I know that man, I lived inside him
Long ago, slurping applause like a child
Incomplete in potrait, morally dim
About the treasures I often defiled.
That man is just a screen of muscled skin
A pampered fear that won't give in.
He will not cry, because he was taught
It's wrong for boys to show emotions
His destiny by a web of lies once caught
Leaves him lonely, old aspirations
Become wrinkled raisins in the callous sun
Manhood and wood subterfuge the pun.
Tired of being told he cannot become
From school to dull signs of no vacancy
I hears the sirens penning his freedom
He looked for himself, found no legacy
In history or family achievement that will
Stand up to the praise of gatekeepers ill.
He feeds his hungry urges into children
Fatherless because his woman must think
She cannot balance her budget with heaven
And for welfare cheque he's o'er the brink
Thrown, used, demonized, discarded, weak
Now, no virile glory left in love to seek.
He turns to her helpless in his helplessness
Angry with the impotence of history
Mute before her need to have forgiveness
The saddled statue slouches into misery.
You know him too, the black man, proned
Against pale paperbag of evening, stoned.
In Africa he was redeemed by mother, queen
When things fall apart, in America his old
Structures uprooted, he cannot be weaned
Of the nurture that never existed. The mold
Upon his life is history, and only the lover
Carrying the cross can be another redeemer.
Look at him like a child asleep after his spawn
Of delapidated family and garrots of dream
Only ego keeps muscle bulging under the brawn
The heart is mute, and pride wil not scream
For pain though like a white cataract it drowns
Him. How still the victim 'fore the victor frowns!
Categories:
weaned, black-african amerfamily, family, pride,
Form:
Verse
MEMORIES OF MOTHERHOOD
Childbirth isn’t called labour for nothing, it is damned hard work but so worthwhile when the baby is finally placed in your arms. I can still recall the sound of my newborn son crying and taking his very first breath, it was a moment I will never ever forget.
Not long after my son was delivered he was placed into my waiting arms and I was able to cuddle him for the first time. I stroked his downy blonde hair and checked his fingers and toes; when I opened his white shawl it was very evident he was a little boy!
As a first time mum I was not prepared for the contents of his nappies! It became very evident when he needed changing as the smell was appalling! I found it somewhat confusing that white breast milk would produce such bright yellow poop but it was perfectly normal!
I remember when he was being weaned, his favourite food was baby rice, it looked like wallpaper paste but he would wolf down a bowl of it for breakfast. I tasted a tiny bit, it was so bland and actually tasted as bad as it looked, but thankfully he loved it
My son is now grown up and has flown the nest, but I can’t wait to see him when he comes home on a flying visit next month!
My Five Senses Contest
Sponsored by Viv Wigley
7/26/18
Categories:
weaned, birth, humorous, mother son,
Form:
Narrative
I use to stay hungry, would eat a healthy portion of meat. Still I felt incomplete, I was destined to repeat until I heard of Spiritual Meat.
Meat very good to eat, it's nourishment to the bones and can be a real treat even sweet. But there's another meat and it's role has a specified goal cause it's not only nourishment for the body it's food for the soul.
Spiritual Meat, builds character makes you complete. It also turns up the amps making you a Heavenly Lamp and releases you from your worldly prison camp. But if I so desire how do I acquire such a delicacy that's so much higher and completely discrete as Spiritual Meat.
First you must have a Spiritual thrust then be Spiritually nursed until your worldly thinking is reversed but in order for it to flow as smooth as silk you must start on Spiritual milk.
Then to make progress you must be willing to confess and let go of all the worldly mess. Only then will you gain access and know the meaning of true success. After you complete this wondrous feat you'll be ready to eat Spiritual Meat.
This is not success from climbing man's Earthly ladder which can turn you into the Mad hatter, for many lives this illusion has shattered because it takes away what really matters and has left countless people by the wayside, battered and tattered.
So grab your baby bottle, at first you may waddle but stay off the throttle and before you know it you'll become a roll model. Then your feet will be placed on solid concrete. Once you are weaned you'll become clean, even if you are a fiend because you'll know on who to lean. Only then will you be able to eat your Spiritual Meat.
Categories:
weaned, appreciation, beautiful, character, encouraging,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The meadow has come alive with sight and sound
As I go through the gate, I hear buzzing all around,
The bees are busy working on milkweed flower
Waist-high daylilies and coral honeysuckles tower,
Enticing a few hummingbirds into the crowded field
I snap a piece of sassafras which is carefully peeled,
Soon I see three cottontails on the path up ahead
About the same time, a cardinal flashing by, all red,
I hear the call of a tanager and a mourning dove
Today, there is so much here in the meadow to love.
The narrow pathway is overgrowing with wild carrot
Originally blown over here from a nearby cattle lot
Breezes are stirring up the gnats and dragonflies,
And I keep wiping floating pollen out of my eyes.
As I expected the mother deer has weaned her fawn
I’m surprised to see her here so long after the dawn,
The afternoon sun beating down is now aggressive
I should have known better, it’s becoming oppressive.
I’ll head toward home, foregoing a walk to the river
A sunstroke is threatening; I have begun to shiver.
Written July 16, 2022
Categories:
weaned, animal, flower, insect, july,
Form:
Couplet
Written: October 12, 2023
Cinquain Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
______________________________________________________
Guile gust
I grasp your gasp
goad grafts gently glowing
the gray grove greenery growing
glean grace
Skies Straight
I snared your sight
Schizoid swing of Steward
sewn souls spewing as oxblood stems
stark stance
Wince, wight
I've weaned your whiff
the world-wedged wink was wrapped
while not washing down the wild waft
when whet
Froth flow
your frisk frame flits
follow fall foliage
freshly framed flimsy fruity field
faint flame.
Sand stake
of smog steam sieve
you stride in silence steps
by slamming a skulker-shaped slope
spread string.
Categories:
weaned, analogy, appreciation, character,
Form:
Cinquain
To see you flash a smile to blush
Small twinkle in your eyes of green
I look and want for that scene
Watching from my hidden brush
I think I might have a crush
My heart overflows and teems
Can this lust ever be weaned
I settle on your desk like dust
An inkling you must have old friend
I’ve seen the way you stare
I’m trying to look back at you
Reciprocate what you send
Glancing back, am I that fair
Pasdiin is always a dare.
Categories:
weaned, feelings,
Form:
Sonnet
"She's eight weeks old and weaned," the farmer said,
then placed the trembling Pup within Meg’s arms.
"It’s time to go and find a home away
from home where she can romp and learn and grow."
Her friskiness, bright eyes, and timid bark
quick warmed Meg’s heart; Pup found herself a home.
That night Pup looked for mother as she whined
and chewed the edges of her cardboard box.
The ticking clock Meg put beneath the rags
replaced the sound of mother's beating heart.
A little more secure, Pup fell asleep…
Meg wondered if the mother missed her pup…
Two weeks have passed, and all is going well.
Pup's found a niche within the household walls
and learned the rules; no jumping on the couch
or bed. The hours she spent in wooded yard,
with kitty and the spaniel from next door,
have opened up her sheltered puppy-world.
How well Pup has adjusted in a life
away from mother's warmth and primal love.
She found herself a home away from home.
Meg thought this while she stroked Pup’s silky fur
and waited by the phone for her dear call—
Her child at school three hundred miles away,
who just began her freshman year today.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Structured Forms - Iambic Verse
Sketch a Fictitious Character II
Sponsor: Giorgio A.V.
Judged: 01/17/2015
Categories:
weaned, allegory, mother daughter,
Form:
Blank verse
I paused upon a morning breeze
Gently flowing through the trees;
These leaves became like little hands
Clapping joyously and free!
May my response to “wind” too be
A glad applauding like a tree.
I noticed in the stormy days
The battered trees, would rise again.
They held against the wind’s malaise
And fought to lift their arms in praise.
May my response to storms too be
As firm and steadfast as a tree.
When catastrophic storms have razed
And trees uprooted, broken, hazed
Knew their life was at its end:
They died with branches still up raised.
May my response to death too be,
As strong and loyal as a tree.
When a tree from earth is weaned;
Its fruit and lumber gleaned
It leaves behind a legacy
Of a life for other’s seen.
Oh may my life for mankind be,
As full and fruitful as a tree.
Categories:
weaned, christian, encouraging, endurance, inspiration,
Form:
Alliteration