I was sitting on a three legged stool
Somwhere in the middle of ninteen seventy
nine.
Milking, by hand,a cow in the byre
When I heard, Gangsters ,
A song by the Bristish Ska band,
The Specials
On the transistor radio.
And it's like when you fall in love
Or when you recieve an unexpected gift.
Music is the gift that,
Keeps on giving.
Im forever falling in love
Over and over again.
Voices in the head, play dead.
River, rib, rill, red.
Thunderbolts within the tread.
Gold, be made to lead.
Tornado, blue widening gyre.
Belladonna, byre.
Lyrics of the liquid lyre.
Orange funeral pyre.
Mandrake, when you start to shriek.
Canine, thy bad bane.
Feline, tremulous top teak.
Wading through green rain.
Paranoid, schizophrenia.
Thought-spark, white shirt hurt?
Lachrymose the languor law.
Arrowed, O black quirt.
Severance? Gone, thine own way.
Hell and Heaven, hay.
Doubt, dread, doom, dung disarray.
Away from me stay.
Coral reef, the legal brief.
Cases, caught a cold?
Cannabis, thy pressured kif.
Brown the grizzly bold.
Nanotechnological?
That means very small.
Mother Entropy, your call.
Sword, halve. Vine, vinall.
Tyrannosaur, how you roar!
Kill floor crimson gore!
Lava volcanic null door!
Wind up war before!
Light or shadow . Sponsor Suzette Richards posted 17/3/2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a young pup
expelled by his litter mates
rejected by the mother
huddles alone abandoned in the cold byre
longing for comfort
an old and tired sheepdog who’s long past his prime
takes pity
offering to share his food
and a life long bond is forged
where they find a safe haven in each other
Milking time
breaking dawn, the sun slowly rising in the east
as early morning mist evaporates, all is quiet and still
in the distance, a cow bellows.
a cottage door opens and a maid emerges.
in her hands the milking stool and pail
later she returns to the dairy
cows gather at gate
black dogs yapping at their heels
the milkmaid awaits
welcome the warm byre
maid rests her head on cow’s flank
creamy milk pours forth
S lowly, imperceptibly, long summer days start to die,
E vening comes down, like a smile to a frown, softly as a sigh.
P atination turns to grey, suffused with rustic hue,
T ides turn and skies burn a different, steely blue.
E verywhere is hunkering down, now that summer's lost,
M ornings are fresher, following the thresher, now rimed in frost.
B ucolic ease flushes the trees with dazzling autumn shades,
R uminants sleep in byre and barn as daylight softly fades.
I nsular people in city and town find refuge in their mufflers,
S unny smiles and beguiling eyes morphing to sneezers and snufflers.
Come in from the byre, Mag Hand
Sit you down there firnenst the coatstand,
But first light the fire and
Throw on the dinner Mag Hand
Lave the Childer outside,
ah shur look they'll be grand
D'ye mind the Carnival, Mag?
Don't be lettin' on that you don't
Shur you borrowed your sisters coat,
hat and shoes
And a broach for the style yes ye did,
So you did, Margaret Hand
Oh but you cut a fine rug Mag Hand
All the sulky lads on the side agreed
without doubt
They looked moon,
maw mouth'd and meek
While you moved unbounded and sleek
Ahh you stepped and bounced
like a young wan Mag
They knew well the kind of ye
And slithered behind a' ye
But wouldn't encroach or mooch
or intrude
Because, come here to I tell you my love
(something they'd not understand)
You were such a grand lassie,
Back then in the prime
But you're now a fine woman
Mag Hand
WINTER JOURNEY’S END
Their calculations must have been at fault
Their instruments in need to calibrate
That wandering star’s location in the vault
Had seemed a compass true, inviolate
The auguries had all concurred to say
Event of moment in the cosmic scheme
To change the world forever come what may
Would come to pass; they’d seen it all in dream
Yet here they found themselves upon that night
Within a byre with beasts and men unblest
To witness scene both rude and recondite
The focus and the end point of their quest:
Young mother - fate to suffer, heart to bleed
Child God incarnate, laid in cattle feed
A Chowder Of Cats
There's a chowder of cats on the corner
an exultation of larks in the sky
a troop of monkeys high in the trees
where the rhino's doth daily crash by
A pack of dogs patrolling the lane-way
a herd of cows at rest in the byre
a bellow of bullfinches grasping hawthorn
A mischief of mice staying warm by the fire
A parliament of owls swoop over golden corn
where an army of caterpillars stay low
a flock of sheep look down from the hills high above
a congregation of alligators sleeping in a row
A pandemonium of parrots rudely laughing
an unkindness of ravens unamused
a drove of bullocks seriously unimpressed
a bloat of hippopotami singing twelve-bar blues
Petrachan {Italian} Sonnet
A crash of thunder flashes through the night
while streaks of light illume the dreamer's farm.
He lies in slumber, not aware of harm,
fatigued from labor and the day's delight
of barnyard scene where roosters preen and fight
and stock offspring lock horns in mock alarm.
He dreams of screams which shatter peaceful charm
and wakes to find his dreams have spoken right.
Yet what he fears appears to be untrue.
His lambs are snug and warm within the byre,
the cows content and bent on cuds to chew.
It seems no reams of wheat are lit by fire,
although the stile beguiles with spooky hue.
He calms the qualms of wife ere she expire.
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