Long Water buffalo Poems
Long Water buffalo Poems. Below are the most popular long Water buffalo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Water buffalo poems by poem length and keyword.
A bird flies over a blue-green sphere,
but it doesn't measure a day or year -
it may be ten thousand years ago,
or perhaps, ten thousand years, hence -
the world glanced over by a crow
shows neither monument, wall, nor fence.
Sometimes, it soars, sometimes it flaps -
in the now, it knows no future or remains,
using eyes, not names on maps,
for it has no use for names.
Never, does it count up scores.
It only flaps and soars.
But you're human, so I will appease,
using man's names for these things it sees:
towering, fruit laden trees,
over desert hares enjoying breeze,
as they feel it softly blow
the date palms of Jericho.
Leatherbacks in the ocean, that glide free,
but hatch upon the land...whereupon,
they find their way back to the sea -
the turtles of Marathon.
Swimming to the river's song,
darting under an iceberg,
in a current, cold and strong,
the brook trout of Gettysburg.
Down below, a mountain steep
in the prairie far below
graze those austere sheep,
the bighorn of Ludlow.
Over the scrub and brush
and flying by the sea,
it spies the singing mistle thrush,
and gulls of Gallipoli.
Wildflowers bloom by trickling springs.
A mother bird patiently sits.
So pleasantly she sings -
a skylark in Auschwitz.
Living a life that's solitaire,
climbing on terrain that's rocky,
enjoying mountainous fresh air,
the serow of Nagasaki.
A kingfisher swoops down for a snack.
For a moment, he will not fly.
but will rest on the sturdy back
of a water buffalo in My Lai.
Spreading out his broad wings,
a seabird after a squall -
to her little chicks, a perch. she brings,
a cormorant in Stonewall.
Gazing at the full moon, in profile,
a striking pose, quite noble,
he mournfully howls all the while,
the grey wolf of Chernobyl.
Building a den in the sand,
the sweltering heat, to withstand,
this skittish animal was a
desert fox of Gaza.
Yet, there was one creature, unseen.
I wonder where its teeming masses went?
Was it unintelligent?
Was it unevolved?
Passenger pigeons or something mean -
a riddle dies unsolved.
it was third platoon’s turn to leave
the safety of the wire
our platoon’s mission
search and destroy
the air was like a sauna with no relief
the jungle closed in on us
blocked out the sun
our packs weighed on us
as we humped twenty klicks
without a break
our jungle fatigues
hung heavy on us
failed to wick sweat away
from our bodies
we felt as though a
salty monsoon had soaked us
Johnson, on point, was
out in front probing
for the enemy
we all hoped the day
would end peacefully
we spread out
to lesson our chances
of mass casualties
we reached the village
mid afternoon
it was deserted
even the water buffalo was gone
we ripped up the floors
in each hootch looking for
the hidden enemy-but found none
when we finished searching
we pulled our Zippos from
our pockets and lit
the dry straw that served as
a roof on each one
and watched as the hootches roared up
in flames like a Roman candle on July 4
our lieutenant signaled for us to
take a break and we sat among
the debris some smoking
cigarettes others catching some zees
no one was
going home in a body bag
our day was a success
The baby ponycorn took a long drink from the
Still water of the pond.
The Enchanted forest kept her safe and sound
Though the reflection in the water gave her
Chills that nearly woke the unicorns of old
From there dead slumber
Beyond the edge of the cliff where
A fatal lunge they took,
Saving the townspeople from the
Dark and grinning Drago
Thousands of years ago...
Now Drago had returned!
Through the ripples of the water
His dark and sallow face
Glared up at ponycorn.
She hobbled away from the riverbed
Staggering through the tall grass...
On her toddler legs she tottered
Into the city ruins, astrewn with the carnage
Of past battles, she stood against a small stone wall
Which rose into a tall pillar.
As she closed her eyes
In hopes of dreaming
Of centuries past,
She smelled smoke
Through her nostrils...
Her eyes shot open
To the sight of Drago
Charging towards her
On a water buffalo,
A torch high in hand,
Laughing hysterically...
The lean, sturdy little ponycorn
Blinked tears out of her eyes
As she flared her baby ponycorn nostrils,
Kicked dirt up with her left hind leg,
And charged!
Thus is the tale of the last ponycorn.
Easter Reading
In Lima – Peru- a hippo was pulling the tram car with
its best friend, a water buffalo. They had ended up
here, far from Africa, after the great flood ebbed and
had been blessed with eternal life, only being mere
animals, they didn´t know this. In Lima, no one made
a big issue of this, but when the wider world knew
and some adventurers set about trying to kill the pair,
in vain, the Lima people took another look, especially
since the church thought they were the devil´s own
handiwork, god would never have allowed beasts
besting man. Angry people took to hurling mud and
stones at the animals, also calling them rude names.
From the mountain came a man dressed in white
burnoose, and spoke to the people:
“For years, you respected my creation, the hippo
the water buffalo, with respect and care, I thought
well of you and decided that the archbishop of Lima,
when the time was right, would be the new pope, but you
have disappointed me greatly, hence the new pope
will be the archbishop of Buenos Aires, Argentina”.
The man, in white burnoose, paused and said
“It is also the time you electrified the tram system.”