Calves Poems | Examples

At Mile Thirteen

The crowd is gone.
Even the banners have tumbled,
damp scraps collapse against fences,
glued there by storm and breath.

Here, at mile thirteen, 
the body speaks its own dialect:
ribs clattering like loose screen,
calves stuttering,
lungs threading sparks through the fabric
of my chest.

Still, I keep faith with motion.
Each footfall a defective prayer,
each muscle shivering,
but unwilling to betray me.

I remember the child I was,
running shoelaces through fields,
believing the world boundless,
believing endurance implied joy.

Now I know endurance
is the art of carrying grief
without letting it drown me.
It is learning to trust
that a horizon recedes
only to teach patience.

The audience disappears.
Even shadows seem to lag.
The only voice left
is the one I forge
between heartbeat and breath.

I do not race to conquer distance.
I race to prove
that I am still becoming
that even when torn open by fatigue,
the soul can strike a lantern
from pain.

And if the finish waits, let it wait.
Let it wait.
Here, in the thirteenth mile.

Pens of Praise

The factories no longer exhale fumes but fillers
Clanging steel is traded for selfie stick.
Whip is gone but the gaze remains.
Wage is still dingy and stale.
Accepted without questions.

When the labour was visible, we called it brutal.
Children with soot in lungs, blistered hands,
bodies bent before they grew.
Now the soot is scrubbed, hands are clean
but the bending of spine begins much earlier.

They are raised in pens of praise.
milked for their innocence like diary calves
hooked to the teat of validation.
They don't toil but trend.
Sweat has replaced sponsored smiles.
The mines are gone but digging continues.

Rafflesia has been renamed Rose
and the stench smells like aspiration
bottled, branded
and sold as hope.

Law shields the body not the soul,
factories can be condemned not studios.
A worker is trudged; a creator performs.
And performance is the wound taught to pirouette.

Fists won't rise nor will ink spill,
as the table is set too neatly
and the chairs are too soft.

Even after a century
money still has grandfather rights.
Sitting at the head of every table,
blessing the hunger and
deciding who eats.

Whatever You Want It To Be

Your golden calf
 speaks artfully in my ear
 marketing its millions of worshipers- 

 whispers of temptation to be like you-

If all life produces are idolators
from the gold calves they adore,
where are its gardeners
its realtors
its nourishers
its doctors
its listeners
its philosophers
it cleaners
its mothers
its fathers?
These are the pillars of society.

Remember this
 and don't feel ashamed of who you were meant to be.
 We all have a part to play on this sea of glass
  and rocky debris

arthritis makes a poem

Arthritis in my knees, my buttocks and my toes
Arthritis in my elbows, my calves, and my nose
Age brought arthritis into me good and hard.
I’m sure there’s a poem in this, said the optimistic bard.

Blue cheese and old pickles

I shudder while peering at sepia photographs,
showing visits to my maiden Aunt Hilda’s house.
Even though I was very young
it was clear she didn’t tolerate children.
I was to be ‘Seen and not heard.’
Pa said I wasn’t to utter a word.
I loathed being pushed and forced to kiss her.
Aunt's wrinkled leathery skin looked like
she’d been pickled in vinegar.  
 
As she waddled around with a damp duster,
wiping at my finger marks that only she could see,
the wooden floorboards creaked like old bones
for she was grossly overweight.
Her buxom breasts smelled awful
and emitted a musty, moldy, cheesy smell.
Stretchy tan tights were never able to camouflage
the vivid blue bulging varicose veins
which snaked from her calves to her fat ankles.

The old sour puss passed away when I was six
Now, as I reminisce, I will no longer remain silent!

Weight of wait

"A mother's love is whole no matter how many times divided." 
- Quote by Robert Brault 
------------------------------------------------------------
Cubs, Calves, Chicks, Foals,
Kittens, Puppies, Hatchlings, Fledglings
Wait for mother’s return, eagerly
They don’t hear the drum beats of mother
Mothers don’t hear the joy beats of young
Each day is wild celebration for them all.

Black Shrine

This is our black shrine,
Where my father lit the lamp.
With dried dung in the cauldron,
My mother stoked the fire.
In the village, the sheepfold remains,
Where the ewes gave birth to lambs,
Their tails covered in dust,
The camels cried out for their calves.
Everything stayed far away,
When we moved to the city.
But my parents lit a flame,
So the shrine's fire won't extinguish!

I grew up learning farming,
Watering sheep, tending livestock,
Received plenty of guidance,
From the small yard I knew.
A kind mother's heart, worrying for her child,
Her "May you thrive" curses soothed my soul.
Parents are the critics of their child,
May they forgive my mistakes...
I brought them with me to the city,
Keeping the shrine's fire alive.

After turning twelve,
I cut hay with sickle and scythe.
Being the youngest in the house,
I tended the samovar's flame.
While guiding me through life, 
the youngest of the shrine,
My parents rejoiced, 
seeing I could light the fire.
In this house, like my father,
I will now be the owner.
Above me, without rest,
Stands the spirit of the black shrine!

My Rose Garden

My Rose Garden was devoured by a cow that thought it was a bull.
The farmer and his wife pleaded with the cow to go back to the field.
But it refused by stomping and grunting.
Now what remains is a baren field, and a broken fence.

With not much to eat in the garden but rose thorns, the cull cried of stomach pains.
Throughout the day and night she mooed as if to blame the world for its life.
In time, not even the steer expressed an interest in his mother, as his future was cut short.

With no calves in the field, the bull left for the furthest sections of the property.
And with no place to escape, and no cows and rose gardens to be found, he simply laid down, and died. 

by, Martin Braun
12/21/24

Just a Rumor

My thighs and buttocks have dimples…
So I'm grateful they have so much to smile about! As my stretch marks, or laugh lines rather, can attest. 
You must forgive my breasts…they've been upbeat and perky for many years and they deserve a rest. 
My calves have a sense of fun! Bored with the same tan color, they've decided to decorate with streamers of purple and blue. 
Not to be outdone, my arms have joined the fun, waving with enthusiasm whenever my hands do!
A life well lived and full of joy, of laughter, love, and humor. So now you'll know,  if you hear I've “let myself go”, that it is just a rumor.

Eternal Paradise

Bears and Calves will eat together 
Children will play with snakes that slither
We'll be tired of work, but we'll satisfied 
We experience peace outside and inside

Coffee and tea, together with friends
Happiness that will surely never ends 
All of the loved ones, dead and forgotten 
Like old stories, they will all be re-written

We'll be young as youth, bid wrinkles farewell 
There will be no sickness, all will get well
Might sound like a fictional fantasy
But this is actually a future guaranteed

The cat instruction manual

Make one's self scarce when that cage
suddenly appears and before they
splash that sticky mess that to our
fur adheres..
Learn how to get attention when no
one seems to listen by increasing the
volume and stay persistent..
When offered unsavory courses
just let them sit and spoil,
until they make better choices or
refrigerate in foil..
Show appreciation from time to time
by rubbing on their calves with your behind..
Master opening doors with out reaching the handle.
It should be number two in this cat instruction manual.
Always keep a neat appearance.
Don't make a litter mess.
Have patience with your people and your life will be blessed.

Twas a Prairie Life

There are clouds on the horizon
Winds are blowing in from the east
The washing's still out on the line
And the Sunday's best is all creased

The cows are waiting on their feed
For the prairie grass in long gone
We can see they're growing restless
And they'll need milking come the dawn

The eldest now talks of college
It's a doctor he wants to be
From the time he was ten years old
He would say "farming's not for me"

Mary passed away last August
The youngster was thrown from her horse
Her memory is precious
Though we live with the remorse

The winter is fast approaching
Now's the time to stockpile supplies
We'll begin gathering those things
On which the whole family relies

Eventually spring will come
As the cycle of life renews
Calves will be at their mother's side
As, too, spring lambs to the ewes

Even though I love this hard land
I know one day I will retire
I hope I get a chance to live
A long time before I expire

I'll open the gates, set herds free
And I'll let the land go its way
Since there's no one to follow on
This farm belongs to yesterday

guilt

guilt. Guilt guilt 
my very bodily make up
 my life’s Romance after romance.
 Every roadmap has led to this single moment 
dark, black sludge that starts slowly at the toes 
slowly makes its way over and on top of my feet 
crawling up and over my calves
 why is it so thick like that? 
Trying to move just an inch but it won’t let me budge 
but continues to consume my body. 
It is to my belly now. 
How did it happen so ing fast? 
Despite being scared at least I can still breathe. 
It hasn’t gone into my chest just yet 
what is that touching my chin?
oh ! It’s still here. 
Hard to ignore now. 
Feels like it’s taken over my life.
 I try to push it away but it fully consumes me anyway
all because I am happy and enjoying life. 
Why is there pain from feeling the utmost joy and pleasure in freedom? 
Why can’t I just breathe easy? 
But instead the dark black sludge is in my lungs,
 each breath more labored than the last one 
It has me cemented to the ground 
while glistening  in the sun and moon light 
people gape in awe of how beautiful it looks on the outside,
 but if I dare let them in, 
they’d be stuck here too, 
with nowhere to run or move.

Waupaca Awakens

‘Waupaca Awakens’

The thin ice cracks
As daylight breaks,
Along the still waters
Of a chain of lakes

Melting snow and slush
Both lapping the pier,
Letting the bluegill know
A new season is near

North of the place
The first sound is heard,
A sign of change is ...
The red-winged blackbird

Their call from the birch
Is melodic and shrill,
Carried on the winds
Of winter's last chill

Leaves of the maple
Needles of the pine,
Rustle in the breeze
Shiver down their spine

Timid, black bear cubs
And white-tailed fawns,
Welcome one of many
Warm, springtime dawns

Mallards in the distance
Returning geese overhead,
Spotted calves yawning
In their fenced in bed

Much seasonal beauty
One small town did regain,
All of Waupaca awakens
From meadow to Main.



(4/4/24)


2nd Place 

"Waupaca Awakens with Poetry" Poetry Contest 

waupacaarts.org/waupaca-poetry-contest-winners-1

(Just a note for those who may not know ... Waupaca is a small town in the state of Wisconsin, not far from where I live. Their annual poetry contest was held recently and I placed 2nd with this poem ... )

Bedroom Attire

Her goodnight clothes send me an invitation that reads: come play with me
Oversized sleep tee leaves room for my palms to follow your skin 
Fuzzy Shorts that hug all the right places my hands can't touch at once 
Shorts that stop above the cheeks so I can see them smile at me
Grabbing thighs, pulling hips, getting drunk off your curves
Feeling you close hoping your skin reads my palms 
Read between the lines and see how much my fingerprints miss you
Massaging your feet, curving your calves, hand full of thighs, too much booty too hold but I can't let go
Carving the stress from your back, pushing the pain from your shoulders
Molding peace into your temple
Bringing a softness from the strength of my hands
How does that feel
Cuddle me she says
I gladly wrap my legs and arms around you
I want to anaconda swallow you
Sorry if my body suffocates you
I can't help it, because it's needs your body to breathe
p.s. take your clothes off I want to be closer...

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