hot crusted bread speaking truths
labouring backs bent over ovens
cows chewing cherrywood cuds cosy
what could be more knowing
as Nature spreads tranquility tacit ?
____________________________
GOLD PLACEMENT WINNER POEM
Contest : Brevity Poem : Allpoetry August 26
5 words x 5 lines
Prompt: Dispersion
When a human soldier's slain in battle
like so many cattle,
he's called a hero in defeat
while cattle are called meat.
bells tinkle gently
I’m trapped in a cup
watching cows in spring
loamy Earth beneath
ceramic walls crack
moo-ing opens base
______________________
Contest : Standard : Trapped in a Tableau
Sponsor : Nette Onclaud
Placed : 4th : March 26
Only when we have felt, even once,
the clawed caress of strife,
do we value the soft warm hand
of peaceful days in our life.
Give me boredom and humdrum
over adventure and interesting times;
a quiet corner in a calm house
to write and edit my rhymes.
Oh, war has driven the pen stroke
and sorrow versed in the bomb strike,
but I’d rather read all about it
in a book and only imagine what it’s like,
than breathe the smoke of burning -
the death scent of a home.
I do not need to personally bleed
to scratch out a war-time poem.
Better to write of cows and apples,
than Flanders field and poppies;
to write of a Luve like a red, red rose,
than a requiem for the Croppies;
and though the poet much values his words
I’ll bet that each war-torn bard
would’ve chosen to write first hand in the soft
than ink pain in the trench of the hard.
They are now but cash cows
(a trough in which to quaff)
for the many attendees
who sit on long-winded
Government-funded investigation committees
no one around to hear the sound
(of what falls in the woods)
while their coffers swelled
for all the papers printed on the ecology
more than several trees were felled
the fracking drilling boring too
(found underground)
wastes water in copious quantities
releases greenhouse gas
and undermines the earth in the final analyses
deliberate discussion and debate
('til the cows come home)
to which they are compelled
only exacerbates the issue
of global warming
with all their hot air expelled
Although
it’s a hard row to hoe
a rough furrow to harrow
and a tough trench to plough
there’s many a meadow to mow
I hereby avow
and tho' it may be news to you
farmers have the need
to sow their seeds
where milkmaids milk the cows
swineherds feed their sows
and shepherds have their pie
and eat it too
in Slough now
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
I see you through the purple flowers.
Heart churning in your chest.
Sitting cross legged, pumped with powers.
Crowning chastity through your crest.
Wildflowers hear your song, for it is their song too.
The bumblebee lies atop your head, buzzing with the tune.
Cows grazing in the field below begin to sway and moo.
Red and orange songbirds stretch the notes over the moon.
Time slows its senseless clock then stops the endless ticking.
It slowly finds the rhythm and is syncing.
Heart beating with the moon and the cows and flower pickings.
The moment when the universe is winking.
I will look for you tomorrow and even yesterday.
But I can only find you now, ME, TODAY.
they do
and sheep possess concentration levels
that allow them to watch television
which is extraordinary
and so is broccoli
i like polo mints
my daughter calls them doughnut mints
her favourite book is called 'stop that cow'
which involves a 357 mag with an 8-inch barrel
a pig in a forty-nine dollar wig
the agitated cow asks, "you wouldn't happen to have
a pack of cigarettes."
the guinea hog replies, "i don't smoke."
"i didn't think so."
i met my best friend in a cafe
he told me statistics mean nothing
It seems an eternity, waiting
for the cows to come home.
They never will, and so why
do I wait so long to take a hard look at myself?
Mirrored reflections caught in the bourbon glass,
fractured and foggy.
We drank more than our share last night,
and my memory fell down the stairs,
rolling with the bottles,
bruised,
yet always out of reach,
a blue moon waning in the distance.
The 1960s hover,
phantoms of a past we romanticize,
awaiting their return as if
a forgotten song might suddenly play,
but we can never go back,
to flower power,
to protests in the park,
to nights where anything seemed possible.
Lost in the haze of our youth.
I await their return other things,
like an old friend who swore to come back,
but never did.
Promises dissolving ithinvair,
like smoke rings we blew into the night sky.
And here I stand,
waiting,
for the cows that never come home,
for the past that never repeats,
for the moment I finally look,
deep into my own eyes,
and see not what was,
but what is,
and what might be.
milking cows
This is an easy day
I wrote something this morning
it is hard
to make sentences flow
softly, like the narrow river
where I sat transfixed for hours
doing absolutely nothing
I saw a baby trout looking at me
swim away, it had other
things on the mind
perhaps a juicy worm
A holler from the farm
go get the cows home they
need milking
What do cows do?
Munch munch grass and moo,
Watch horizons long and blue,
Listen in to insects humming,
Splat fat cow-pats on the dirt.
Cows walk to the dairy in a crowd:
To and fro, to and fro,
Their udders swinging as they go.
They line up for the metal calves
With sucking tubes all disinfected,
Yet cows still seem to sleep contented.
She was the cat’s meow
But yet she cried bow-wow
Bow-wow-meow is the place I drink milk moo-moo
Not mine skirt apparel I’m the ballerina in the tutu
Whom am I to cry out, when in my throat I shout NOW
11/17/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
COWS
Big pregnant
Grazing eating birthing
Pasture farm barn field
Mating fighting impregnating
Big horns
BULL
super
duper
pooper
scooper
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