Lowing Poems | Examples

Ground Clouds and Fish Smaze

A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.

Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.

On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.

Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage

by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.

As Sun Starts To Shine

G-lowing
L-ight,
O-nce
R-eleased,
I-mmediately
A-rrives,

B-rightly
A-llowing
L-iveliness
A-round
N-ature

©bfa042025
Monocrostic (Birthday of Gloria Balan)

A Poet’s Lines Not Bright Enough

Goth mood’s not right, not bright enough.
Fountain of sea, rapt in darkness.
Crepuscular ink blocks sunlight.
The cursive waves doth strain the wrist.

Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.

Fountain of sea, deep in darkness.
Coarse keys, ivory black, musing.
The cursive waves doth strain the wrist.
Resist of playful sounds - thirsting.

Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.

Coarse keys, ivory black, musing,
and refusing to budge - lines spurn.
Resist of playful sounds - thirsting.
The burn hisses and squeals; smudges.

Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.

And refusing to budge, lines spurn.
Crepuscular ink blocks sunlight.
The burn hisses and squeals; smudges.
Goth mood’s not right, not bright enough.

But not the mountains

But Not The Mountains

There is no sound from the mountains
Unlike that of  the Magpie
The kereru or the Bell birds
Or the tractors rumbling across the paddocks

There is no sound from the mountains
Like the Nor Wester racing through the trees
The bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the cattle 
the bark of the working dog

There is no sound from the mountains
As the Southerly snow whips them unmercifully
Save the sound from the waterfalls 
as they race towards some unknown destination

There is no sound from the mountains
As the braided rivers wend their way to the sea
As the big jet planes fly hither and yon
There is no sound from the mountains
Save that of peace and tranquillity

September Falls

Summer's twilight arrives in September.
Each day the warm weather abates and surrenders.
Placidly, the days follow a pattern:
The hues of autumn emerge with foliage that will turn
Emphatically splendid
Much the way Mother Nature intended.
Blowing breezes grow sharper and crisper.
Everywhere is susurrous with leaves that whisper.
Radiant sun still pervades as the winds get brisker.

Fortunately, there's still good weather to be had.
As autumnity approaches, one is never really sad.
Leaves begin layering one on top of another.
Landscapes transform with spectacular color.
September is truly a month like no other.

To set the scene

A scene was set.
Beside
Clover covered hills,
Delicately, the
Estuary was 
Flowing to the sea.
Growing 
High 
In rows, were
Jacarandas
Kissed by rays of sunlight.
Little 
Marigolds
Nestled
On
Planter boxes
Quite 
Resilient from the warm
Sun.
The window was open,
Under it was a 
Vine,
Weaving in an 
Xeric condition,
Yellowing as it died with lack of 
Zest, as no-one cared.

4:42 AM

yesterday 
i found my- 
self laughing 
and crying 
at the same 
time, and 
that’s when i 
realized i’m 
falling in 
love, with 
grief, god 
help me i’m 
so like an 
ocean my 
emotions 
rolling like 
waves, bil- 
lowing it’s 
true, and 
i know that 
you want some- 
thing, i 
know ‘cause i 
want it too 
there’s a tune 
in my head 
too obtuse 
to make sense 
so, i 
sketch these words 
scribbling 
scrambling 
frantically 
who is the 
king of this 
world that de- 
creed that we 
do as we’re 
told well i 
know we should 
but i can’t 
help but put 
swine before 
pearls and i 
see that we’re 
all singing 
the melo- 
dy, that 
haunts our sleep 
please wake me 
when we get 
there i want 
to know the 
end but i 
don’t want to 
know the thought 
of my own 
end, no 
more exist- 
ence, why 
is our 
world so 
dark turn 
on the 
light can’t 
deal with the 
grief

August

Ashy cloud melts in the fold of the scorched sky,
Unleashed, the summer drizzle floats in the air dry.
Glowing spectrum of sunset sparkles in the shower,
Unique concert starts as raindrops dance on flower.
Shades of rainbow drape the color of bloom’s own,
The tinge of reverie suffuses me when I am alone.

Campfire Nights

By the time the sun's faded o’er the prairie
well I’m just about as tired as tired can be
My horse has been fed and all the tack is clean
after a biscuit and a few campfire beans

I lay my head down on blanket and saddle
listening to lowing of grazing cattle
Somewhere cross the campfire a guitar gets strummed
and songs start to flow from those old cowboy’s tongues

Voices that float across those low campfire flames
telling tales of glory, riches and fame
Songs sung by punchers that history won’t name
about all those brave men who once roamed the plains

Lending voices to the songs, a coyote’s howl
the screech of a hawk and the hoot from an owl 
The shuffling of the horses hitched to the line
the sough of the wind as it flows through the pine

The strum of guitar and the hum of soft tunes
The sight of the stars as they shoot cross the moon
I pray I will always have these kinds of nights
with cowboys singing across my campfire light

Away In a Sleigh

Away in a sleigh
No gifts for today
Santa's gone on holiday
Reindeer unyoked, stray

Mr Claus found a clause
In his contract, to pause,
When boots on reindeer paws
Were threadbare without cause

So folks, its pick-up collect
No delivery to home direct
No gifts in stockings decked
Myth of fee-free delivery wrecked

Mr Claus searched high and low
Tried every courier, fast and slow
But the sticking point for no go
Was chimney drop, to down below

The reindeer are lowing
Stars in sky are glowing
Cause Mr Claus forgoing
Has taken up sewing

Evangelist

*2 Timothy 4:5 But watch thou in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry.

Evangelist, a Bible-label for work* of God’s empowerment
Victorious for wondrous and glorious reaching-out venture                                                                    
Asserting that the Saviour anchors redemption-assurance
Nurturing faith, propped well upon rich spiritual nourishing…
Going, guided by the Holy Ghost; with divine light, glowing
Enabled to minister along joyful servanthood example
Lover of the Lord, leading others midst building lives…
I am the fruit; and now endowed with evangelism-influence
Steadfast is my commitment for prayerful winning of souls
Triumphant to tell the Gospel: “Trust Jesus Christ today.”

June 16, 2023
2nd place, "Writing Challenge - E Word" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 6/19/2023.

The Pilgrimage

Every six turns of the moon
A journey to the girl I take.
I leave behind my safe cocoon
Into the noise and into the fake.

The pungent smell of multicolours
Punching nose and mind alike.
I sit and pause in splendid parlours
Waiting for the joy to strike.

And strike it does, oh glory be.
Electric sparks and lowing moans.
At last she uses teeth on me.
Her gentle strokes, my buzzing bones.

Decisions made I walk to water.
She will wash my sins away.
She mentions something of her daughter,
I've never answered to this day.

In my goddess tank I float.
Blues and greens with sea and sand.
I am the castle, and they are the moat.
At last the call comes from the land.

She leads me to the gate and smiles.
Our deal is done, the job complete.
My world is lighter by the miles.
I smile and wave then walk the street.

My pilgrimage is at an end;
Returning to my warm cocoon.
She and I will meet again.
After six turns of the moon.

A Real Cowboy

I always wanted to be a real cowboy.
A Buck-a-rue with scars on my cheeks and worn boots,
I wanted my spurs to jingle and my saddle to creak and
 deep lines and sun burned skin decorating my face,
an ugly galoot and dressing in a suit, Pert-near a disgrace.

I wanted to eat out on the range under the Cottonwoods                                                                          and smell of woodsmoke and sweat,
 clean my plate with the rub of an elbow before putting it in my pack
and throwing what’s left of my coffee on the campfire before
 Ole Paint and I trailed back.

I wanted to pitch my bedroll under the moon, gaze 
at the stars that cover the sky at night,
go to sleep with the wind rustling cottonwood leaves,
the mournful sound of the cattle lowing
and the gentle words of the night hawk’s song  
putting the herd at ease.

I wanted to be a real cowboy, not just to play the part,
a real cowboy living a dream and riding my Quarter Horse.
But could I stand up to the lonely times when nature
turned its back on me and the wind was no longer a breeze
but a cold howling wind, a biting wind and I didn’t have my wife’s arms 
to comfort me.

Fire Is Eternal

The wind whispered loudly,
Screaming through the trees

Every leaf emerald and alive,
The height of fertile spring

All the cattle lowing,
As the bright fire stronger burns

Maidens pale and glistening,
Thunder-round and turn

Wolfish warriors circle,
Blood thirsty for the chase

The willows moan in longing,
To rest before  blistering days

The stones stay true to silence,
Praying for summers break

And though through midnight a cold wind blows,
The fire eternal stays

The Sightless Sea

Lowing fog horns
shake scales from rooftops.
We see the seawall drowning,
the surging waves rising
unfolding spume and brume
into mountains.

From the pub on the harbor front,
we can hear the buffeted gulls feeding
on the sluice of passing squalls.

"Look out the window" you say
(the window is a hundred pieces
of sky caught in a fish-eye).

"No boats will fish today," I whisper,
but we both know
that there are small boats out there,
they call out like cows, as wind- ghost
lead them through gray havens.

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