Long Ruminant Poems
Long Ruminant Poems. Below are the most popular long Ruminant by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ruminant poems by poem length and keyword.
O mind
My small ruminant
Chewing with your untiring teeth
Days gone by
Pulled out from the pages of a book that no one reads anymore
What are you looking for there?
It's just a pointless routine
Or like an ancient gold miner
Sifting the sands in the streams
Are you looking for some precious radiance?
It's all in vain my darling
Because everything in this world is worthless in its own way
The great principles are often rainbows beyond reach
Where the day's substitutes are hanging
Driven by lust for money and short-lived passions
Nothing from the past can be returned to me
In my remaining days
And the nature of the world won't have advanced
Even a single step
If when I reach the end of my days
The child in me is far better
Than the crazy man writing the poem
Form:
Where was I?
unusual.
behind
the dizzying looking glass,
cement block,
panelled windows,
noonish saloons
sipping my loathing
like mosquitoes
milking stone veins
constipated.
contemplating pretty suspects
and their banditry of spotlight and shadows;
cute fashions with their dreamboat accessories.
Snatched away!
Who was I?
a deserted
quotient.
All of me, crumbs
sucking thumbs,
snorting baby powder, perfumed by heaven's hope,
resisting hunger
and decomposing
inside career mascot attire -
long-sleeves and layered layers
buttoning down body shame.
Where were we?
Ten-and-less aisle,
bargain corner debates.
Okay, maybe unquestioned.
Neither taken,
nor given as a suggestion,
no soft eyes
pursuing my pepper coarse afro edges,
rising bust, diffusive thighs
and stooped shoulders.
Hominim deflated,
experiencing overqualified non-affection
as a ruminant beast,
between ungovernable lioness
and resigned kitten.
I was left holding a pen,
multiplying stereotypes
around fatherless girls
without an agreeable image
of self
who fell for blank pages
to redraw the stages
that had
failed
hearts.
Flesh.
COCKADOODLE DOOOOOOOOO! COCKADOODLE DOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
That big red rooster greets each morn that way,
Waking all of us...and the farmer too,
Just so we can all start the day.
A beckoning call to the barn is made
We just go a strollin' with an easy gait.
Food, water, and then they wash us down
Before the suctioning, as we await.
It feels quite good to get that electric relief
As those ruminant gallons go gently away.
I may choose more hay as I give and give
With a soft sounding "Mooooo" as I stand in the bay.
Led from the barn to pastures so green
But they're always greener to me on the other side,
I stand, or sit down as I chew my cud
'Til milking call at evening tide.
You may call me "Bossie"
Although I'm really not...
The produce I give is warm right now,
But Pasteur said that it had to be hot.
What a beautiful life I have
Just going from here to there.
Giving my body's bounty,
With hardly a care.
For sure it is enjoyed by millions each day,
The pure white drink which is ne'er pernicious.
Just one thing more I'll say about it....
The time I have and the milk I give is UDDERLY delicious!
I stared at the wall, it stared back at me.
I was so lonesome longed for a roomie.
And as I despaired, with feelings of dread,
I heard a low moan at foot of my bed.
Wonder of wonders, beheld there a cow,
Afraid was I with sweat wetting my brow.
Quietly stared at the ruminant breed
Chewing cud of regurgitated feed.
Large were its eyes, as marbled limpid pools,
Did it hide wisdom from mystical schools?
As time ticked by I was caught in its thrall,
Couldn't find reason for the mesmeric fall.
And then when I thought my mind was all gone,
I heard the cock crow, and soon it was dawn!
My phantom companion with a low low,
With a nod of its head got up to go.
Before it vanished it pointed a look
At the pile of tomes lying in a nook.
As I reached out for a dust-covered book,
The phantom vanished before I could look.
Shaken and stirred, I dusted the cover
Wondering at what I would discover.
Treasure I found on each and every page,
Food for the soul, wisdom for every age.
A rapture in each line which sets you free,
A splendor in the "feel-and-see-and-be".
A release, as in abandon you whirl,
Immersed as you are in the dervish's twirl.
Now I'm never alone, I've my Roomie,
A mentor, a guide, a friend in Rumi!
(for: ’niyi osundare)
the goldness of those eyes,
like the eye of the earth –
beaming, mirrors the secret softness
hidden by the ash-like depths of our souls!
many of them, brother, so learned;
o! carrying shrines of empty superiority,
as they coaxed the lads
to believe the new deities of half-truths,
and bring sweet-smelling oblations
to each black prof who looks and speaks at us;
’niyi, my brother, you know these well!
yet, when we saw your inner complexion,
we knew it well:
we, the celebrate sons born at the niger’s banks,
you’re a prof: a black prof: a twin of us!
the preciousness of those sharp eyes,
the ever-ruminant seed of that heart
which almost marked your pen, a ruffian!
are these the ingredients
in those soup of our radical celibacy?
your presence like other presences
in our village:
spoke tranquility and hopefulness
to a village full of raw anxieties!
then you twinkled away from us
not forever, no, but for a while!
brother, while our eyes, almost in cessions,
are down-turned in supplications
to the brightest eye of the earth;
our ears in remembrance with our eyes
seeing the sacred lips gaping in admonitions:
‘whenever the muse in ferocity comes:
then strike the pen as a hunter in his primes!’
yes! when we heard this lexicon,
we knew it well:
we, the sad sons suffering at the ant-hills,
you’re a prof: a black prof: a twin of us!
Form:
Frayed border prints paste illusion,
worn-out inks swirling bleeds,
The hauls, stareways, persuasion,
privileged balconies.
Antiquities of read reviews,
claims of a rustic quill,
to scribbled marks a light verse muse,
and forever bestill.
I hear the silence of the slams,
satirical critics,
synthetic irony exams,
stardoms paralytics.
It dominates its point to rise,
where life did emanate,
afeared facade recital trice,
timeless collaborate.
A reenactment of Bo Peep,
tough be a ruminant.
My first part, blossom -- was a sheep,
I was magnificent.
Mary possessed a ruminant child
its fuzziness was sickly pale
and as Mary moved about
the child would take the same trail.
He tracked her to a learning place
that broke the laws of it.
The kids each made a funny face
to observe the cause of it.
The instructor made him go
but he just hung around
and waited patiently, gustily
bleating when Mary he found.
We may never know why
he developed such a bond,
I think it was because of
the child she was so fond.
Mary possessed a ruminant child
its fuzziness was sickly pale
and as Mary moved about
the child would take the same trail.
Those who live an artistic life are genuinely soul-aware.
It is as vital to the human spirit as is the air.
Artistry, sculpture, and landscape design are creative,
That's around spiritedness that pulls and is probative.
Bury my heart in the wounded knee where even harm,
Battered gallows have histrionic gems and charm.
A ghost wrapped in a thicket of death rug toss,
Eigenvector fade marble eye fabric dross
Slap my lips with a cudgel, ruminant, spewing mere,
Apathetic brows cursed with sin shudder with fear.
I clasped my hands, viewing fake hooks and blows spare,
I may sleep freely on the rope or walk as drifting in the air.
Free from obscure sights, free from guilt,
I translated the chain that bound my spilt.
Each time the human spirit is apathetically ground,
Somewhere in the cold, an answer can be found.
Victim of its erratic walking and constant cold,
Lost and bastard, inquiries are permitted to be trolled.
You stay stoical and equanimous under a dearth,
You, the human spirit, are the nucleus of the Earth.
Yet, I took this mystery with me to the grave,
As of now, please note that I crave to rave.
I believe that fair things will win out for people,
When I dared not be the one to be motile.
Milk is insufficient for acts of human kindness.
The stomach can churn and be mindless.
Milk and whey used to derive cheddar or skim milk.
There are various choices for insights ilk.
Written: September 17, 2022
The Human Spirit Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
It's one in the morning
And I can't get to sleep
So I've tried various things
Like counting some sheep,
But they just won't stay still
They keep 'milling around
Backwards and forwards
All over the ground.
To make matters worse
What on earth can I do
When this big randy ram
Keeps mounting a ewe.
There's no sense of shame
Not a sign of shock
As they're doing all this
I'm front of the flock
Who just keep on milling
And munching the grass
And tooing and froing
In a big woolly mass.
It's being watched by the cow
With the big crumply horn
Who seems to be enjoying
This display of soft ****.
And I sigh with despair
As this ruminant steed
Keeps ravishing more ewes
And spreading his seed
It's two in the morning
And I'm still wide-awake
Counting sheep is no good
For heavens blooming sake
And to my despair
As insomnia get worse
I ve switched on an iPad to write
This bit of dodgy verse.
And while I wasn't watching
Littkrb Bo Peep and Little Boy Blue
Have crept under the haycock
And they're at it too.
If only it was possible
To just quickly reach out
To fetch that randy pair
A good solid clout
And that bloody idiot who said
It would help me to sleep
If i closed my eyes and counted
Some Imaginary sheep
Once upon a budding arcadian green
a last veil winter hoar melts on the bud -
Romney low country lambs fattened to wean
chew in flocks upon the ruminant cud.
In the tea trees to the whistling song thrush
I alone hear that first September dawn,
and outside beyond ryegrass, fern and rush
glisten woolly coats of sheep early shorn.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
But upon the altar of this season’s new day
so a spring offering is born a prey.
In stone moss stream, wild aromatic grass,
the sleeping flower does the sun invite
but an ancient blood moon shall come to pass
on the shadows of day and dark of night.
Soon the muster will shatter a false peace
in cornucopia of herd and bloom -
nigh the yard gates will fill with milky fleece
and only finest wool spin on the loom.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
But upon the altar of this season’s new day
so a spring offering is born a prey.
Smell the petrichor and jade scented hedge,
the lambs, the honeybees in pollen’s net -
that botany of sights and sounds and fledge
of young and new moonrise to moonset.
The morepork on night hunt moonlit prowl
casts its eye and spreads its speckled wing -
and in the mists see swamphens and waterfowl
rise again the prismatic dawn of spring.
Written: August 1989