Best Yearling Poems
Golden are finite grains of sand, running smoothly through
The hour glass of time, tiny precious moments of reflections
Treasured gems, captured in thoughts of the shifting pages,
Of the ever turning calendar months.
Against the frosted goblet of remembrance, lie champagne
Lipstick kisses, impressions left overs of smudges residue
Of love's betrayal.
Celebrations bursting bubbles of memory, turning into frothy foam,
That slides downwards, off the empty bottle of regrets broken vows,
Of the New Year's promises sensed past.
A clicking symphony of tiffany tears, shed upon the satin pillow shams,
Dried are the rose petals of passion, cold embers burn within the
Hearth of the tender heart.
Bold is the youthful yearling, whom stands upon the Oedipus of
Emergence, strong is the inner being, a blossoms flower yielding,
Yearning to sprout, to feel the warmth of the sun's loving grace,
Yet banished beneath the weight of truth's injustice at the end.
But in hopes faith it grows, lighting up the box window pane of reality,
Climbing upwards towards the heaven's enlightenment of
Tomorrow.
Ripple do the waves of the timeless, one more waltz to dance,
Another romance to enhance with their devotional trance, a
Lingering flickering flame moves across the ocean of the broken
Hearted lover, who listens only to the music’s rheum.
Oh in desires high pitch moment of consequence does not
The innocent victim lie slain, at the footsteps of lusts threshold
Of adulthood, evergreen is the tree of the New Year, and
Loneienesses vines, creep along the life lines of the
Devotional heart.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I was a city born and city bred young fellow,
whose shoes had mostly only touched concrete and tar.
Oh yes I had seen grass, but out on a footy ground
and my entertainment was drinking at a nightclub bar.
As a city bred young bloke I had never seen the stars
for blanket smog and neon lights had blocked them out.
I never knew what clean air was, nor really cared at all,
and rain was just a nuisance that I could do without.
I had no idea where food comes from - why should I?
I just hand across ten dollars, and bingo! In my hand,
is warm and crispy chicken with leaves I throw away,
and chocolate milk comes in a carton with a brand.
But I’m informed one morning, this is not the case.
Milk, like cheese and butter, and yoghurt too somehow,
comes to the city from the country, for us city folk.
And I didn’t quite believe - from the inside of a cow.
A cow! I’ve never seen a cow. What’s a cow look like?
That’s right! I admit I’d not seen a cow in all me life.
I barely knew the difference, between a cow and a pig,
until in a nightclub - that’s where I met me future wife.
Jean is a lovely girl; so pretty, and near rural to the core.
She knows every breed of cow that is written in the book.
Jean has milked them, immunised, dehorned them in a crush,
so she’s quite strong in the arm and can land a great left hook.
I’m talking of me own experience; me jaw is still quite sore.
The lesson that I learnt is to choose words more carefully.
I’m not sure if the listeners sed at what I had said,
or were pleased to see an enraged woman acting like a bully.
Since we had married in the city, and lived in a city flat,
me darling Jean for many months suggested time and time again,
we should go back to her hometown where Jean promised me,
that I will finally see a cow and Jean won’t have to explain.
Now I’ve seen Friesians, Jerseys, Guernsey’s, Ayrshire’s;
I’ve eyed Poddy Calves, yearling Heifers, Bulls and Steers.
I’ve become an expert on cows, and just what is required.
I know everything that’s needed about cows so it appears.
But when lecturing colleagues with Jean close by me side,
it became the catalytic weapon to cause a murderous scene,
for I proudly uttered loudly without consequential fears,
that I had never seen a cow until - I met my wife Jean.
A yearling asleep
When its mother arrived
She knew it was time
A green meadow, the best place
It was time to say farewell to her fawn
For he was a young growing buck
She wished him good luck
He would miss being
A small spotted fawn
Who
Waits patiently for mother
While gnawing the grass
Oh, he would dearly
Miss those wonderfully
Glorious days
All is still in deceptions abyss,
Beneath fathoms deep, aquatic,
Wolves are on the hunt.
Stealth predators unseen, unheard,
Hanging on the fringe of detections,
Outer limits.
In plain black and white,
Behold a deadly beauty personified,
Intelligence next step in evolution.
These devils of the bluest depths,
Known as the Orca.
Chameleon's blending between shadows
Darkness,
And the suns rays penetrating,
From above.
Waiting in the quite shallows,
They hide in anticipation,
For the right moment to strike.
Titans Krakens, await for the first
Signs of weakness in their prey.
Together pack mammals work,
Combing talents to best formulate,
A strategy for the imminent attack.
Upon life's rookery a chilling,
Silence falls.
Young seals sleek and fast,
Taste freedom's excitement,
With wonderment's exhilaration,
To finally be on there own at last.
The open ocean calls to them,
Come challenge my waves,
Youthful innocence, boldly splash
Amongst surf and spray.
Yet beware thy kindred spirits,
Those whom seek the unknown,
May pay a high price of flesh,
And bone.
But these young pups hear the
Siren’s voices,
And heed not the warning tone.
Sliding instead into the icy waters
Cold embrace.
The undertows current carry’s them,
Towards the coral reef.
Deadly jaws haunt the tidal rift's,
Rough jagged edge,
It is a gruesome rule of survival.
Few new yearling return unscathed,
Some don't return at all.
The arch angels of death must take,
Their poundage of flesh.
With a grinning smile,
Natures perfect killing machines,
The wolves of the deep, await the
Next bloody hunt.
With hungry eyes anticipation,
Tasting satisfactions mouthwatering
Bites yet to come.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
In Texas, we measure time with a cow’s height
the calf, the heifer, the yearling, the cow,
the calf, the bull, the steer, the steak.
In Texas, the sun climbs fast in summer
and enjoys sitting five feet over your bald spot.
It reflects, in your eyes, off the dullest of rocks.
In Texas, there is a beautiful girl behind every tree
and all the axes are rusted, chain-saws are fronted on.
Anything with a leaf and so tall you can't see over, is a tree..
In Texas, God sits in a cloud and underneath him
we hope he cries, for we allways need water,
if he doesn’t, we thank him for the shade.
In Texas, the edge of the sky is over your neighbor’s house
and young men in Mexico see the edge and takes off
to find it, to become the next “Kings of Texas.”
retirement homes
the doe and her yearling fawn
nibble the hedgerow
Duchess, a brown chestnut Tennessee Walker with a
long flowing ebony mane, frolicked non-stop along the
fenced pasture bordering the corn field. She had the
whole eighty acres to herself, kicking up her heels as if
she was still a yearling. Fall was nearing its peak and
winter was just around the corner; for Duchess, it was
just another wonderful season like spring or summer.
The dark gray skies indicated a storm was approaching
and with the nights changing temperatures, a dusting
was evident. Dusk slithered in with the north wind,
suddenly- whirling fallen leaves and whipping cold-
needle- like rain pierced her huge brown eyes. Duchess
bolts – and like the wind, wheels her slender muscular
body in a joyous dance. Hoofs thunder intensely on
hardened cold soil, uprooting clumps of grass, sending
them flying along with her splaying tail. Oxygen
saturated nostrils swell as she canters poetically in a field
of crystals. The snow now picks up pace as does her
slow stride; turning into a gallop. Steam pours from
swollen lungs through her soft muzzle, she feels alive
but exhausted from the sudden burst. She gazes across
the open field and watches the tiny crystals collect on
evergreen along the hillside, gradually transforming into
puffy white flakes. She knows winter is here.
Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Second Place Winner ~ "Horses or Snowflakes or Horses
and Snowflakes” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance~A Rambling Poet~
Nov. 8, 2010
Olga Scheps embodies Chopin's Piano Concerto n° 1
For a pianist who ponders her prey
The taming arms-length erect posture
The torso and pulsating violin back encased in red-rich ornate coarse wrap
Nape muscles strung by swaying grace-groomed arms branched aloft
Pursed lips part for allegro romp
Tensile gushed groin screaming on seat-edge flailing fingers
Averse to sleek chord whale case under knee-cap check
Who is the Master of the indomptable Mistress
Does the script express and extend the actress's role
Or trundled chords liberate hidden Polish voices yearning
Cabriole on prairie pastures
The yearling kicking high on the keyboard
Startling the chevron-sinewed munching herd
Light lambs and kids throwing frolicking fits
Round and round the heifer humping high down the meadow
Stung to the quick half-recurring bars of the theme
The feline fauve now appeased by soft churning cuddles
Pages of screwed signals hung on lined sign-posts
Roused by nut-cracker knuckles
Flush out repartee collective timbre strings
Doused by the sweet-sweating triumphal orgiastic release
The wilful eyes of the hungry panther
Turn soft and pander to the prey
Is this when the poised moment of the composed kill
Misses the mark just once
The sleek black whale bears its twinkling teeth
in hollow rage
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018
Life’s many twists and turns make a full of life,
roll with the punches when you’re on a roll.
Time will prove to you that it takes time
for there is so much to do and live for.
Today I pray love, thankful for yesterday.
Knowing you’re happy, I’m grateful knowing
all that we do rests on giving our all.
Holding me close to you keeps me holding-on.
Years of bonding, our dreams has lasted, yearling
tears of joy and pain. The lesser are tears
more contagious than laughter, bound for more
love forever after, a lifetime of love.
Dedication to oneness is our dedication.
Unity proves - nothing stops this unity.
SONNET FORM #6 - Shadow Sonnet
Kentucky Girl
Passing meadows lush with grass
Rail fences painted white
Stretching off toward distant hills
I observed an remarkable sight
She was a Kentucky girl
Bred from champion stock
Proud and beautiful to see
From head down to fetlock
Her body was magnificent
Sixteen hands in size
A shiny, rippling chestnut coat
White blaze between her eyes
I could see she was a yearling
She had not yet been shod
A girl still basking in her youth
Pawing at the sod.
It seems she liked to flirt with me
By ignoring my advance
Then moving down the rails a bit
Giving me a sideward glance
She would not let me get too close
Though she had no fear of me
Perhaps she thought I’d harness her
She just wanted to be free
Much time has passed since I saw her
And admired her gentle face
But I know I was just born to watch
While she was born to race
Placed 4th in Carol Browns A Horse Story
Toddlers teeter on the hollowed trunks and sport with juts of ice.
'Cross boulder bridges, flouting rapids, hop the agile blond and beige.
Yet in close chase, for or found, and on uneven ground, they’ll slip.
Clots in black and rose bespatter tans and whites.
Though clouds may cope the flights of cubs and fawns in torrents spirit laden,
steps shan’t be erased, where o’er plight’s edge they’re furrowed.
Would least the cliff lay lad to nestle upon drifts of pedals fallow
or as cradled by green swaths of summer blades.
For if to hope, the whelp when bade need but renounce a bed of clover,
might a father’s beckon stern retrieve the slain.
But scolds can echo no reprieve where o’er forever’s precipice
the yearling brown has left the seasons scarlet stained.
Though with the day’s advance, a glance would chance the fact all tracks do fade,
in the havens gray, in every trace, we dawdle.
It’s the cleft that blanched a mother’s face. Bereft, her tears are gained.
And blood ‘s been shed till never, like the rains.
The rain that reached the rural of my roof
Collapsed through ceilings cracked, a crying child
Sometimes I cry myself. A man I mourn
The day that I will die of deaths disease
In tale I tease my thoughts to take back time
When age was young, a yearling of a youth
But brother, I must battle this blind pain
As he that walked with faith on waters will
IDEALLY, THE WORLD WOULD UNDERSTAND WOLVES.
Rarely do they kill just to kill…but for survival.
Even when wild dogs kill sheep, wolves get the blame.
Mysterious, aloof, confident, proud and beautiful
Every action a wolf takes is for the good of the pack.
Many people fear Canis lupis and kill them randomly.
Believing that the death of a wolf helps profits,
Erroneously they are killed when flocks are attacked.
Ranchers round up and set out to eradicate…the wolf.
Killing creatures like my murdered friend, a hybrid wolf (83%), hurts.
Adventures in our family, he was part of our pack.
Vacations, fun, and visits to parks ended; a needless killing.
I could not believe my yearling wolf was dead; poisoned.
Kavik, I still miss you, my playful, loyal friend.
Copyright 3/18/2015
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
When I think of wolves or see a movie about them, I always miss Kavik’s love and kisses.
Yearling struts its liberty in unstinting energy
Oblivious to reserve that shoes a gallop with dullness
Unaware of regret's stable and the binaries of age
Trotting between indolence and indulgence
Hot-blooded youth that knows the sway of vigor in
every race, instinctive
right out of the gate
Acrostic composed May 5/2023
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Hopped out early from his bunk bed
Jumped into his old blue jeans
Slipped his hand into his pocket
Found enough change for a drink
Put his tennie to the kickstand
Hopped aboard his three-speed bike
Smiled in great anticipation
Drew a breath of summertime
Strapped his helmet to his noggin
Heading on a morning ride
He had reason to be smiling
Now that this day had arrived
Billy rode along the asphalt
Like a bird he felt so free
No more classrooms, no more homework
School was out for twelve whole weeks
He cruised past Demato's grocery
An old stucco painted white
Where good gossip was the staple
Soft-boiled peanuts on the side
Heard some geese honk from the mill pond
Saw a yearling near the pass
Billy eased off on the pedals
Trying to make the moment last
Sunlight gently swept across him
O'er the treeline at the rise
Fragrant honeysuckle blossomed
In the holler near Route Five
And he wondered about Heaven
Could it be as nice as this
He was sure of one thing nicer
His dear grandpa whom he missed
As miles disappeared behind him
And his thirst began to build
He had one more place to visit
For his trip to be fulfilled
Soon he reached the Tower Toll Bridge
Though no toll was ever paid
Inside joke by the designers
Built for one car, either way
In the distance he could see it
A lone tombstone on a grave
The old church that stood beside it
Had a century's decay
He dismounted at the entrance
And approached the ancient sign
All it said was Billy Edwards
Born in eighteen-fifty-nine
Date of death gone to erosion
But his age was given - eight
And the last time Billy came here
Both their ages were the same
For a full year he had worried
If he'd die within that time
Just the same as Billy Edwards
Now he had some peace-of-mind