Farmer Richie milked the prize cow a bucket full,
greedy, he milked the next one, but it was the bull,
the bucket went flying, as the horns found their mark,
streams of milk on road, Richie’s rear ripped like a cork!
Hey black friend, why hate on your brother
He is your brother not an enemy
When you all strife for a befitting life
How then is it a sin for another to strife
Kojo was a sweet soul with ambition
That would break a brick to hustle aright
Struggled to keep his sister’s dream alive
He milked his hustle so much that it blossomed
But upon his rise, came a blightful malice
From colleagues, all to deprive is worth
And seize his reward
Somewhere in Kumasi
A beautiful dream lost its spark
Kojo,his mother’s lover
Called in joy to say mama I will be home with bounty harvest
But there in Kumasi
Gruesome clan of debtors ganged up to dim his light
Poised to withhold his harvest
Somewhere in Kumasi,Kojo breathed his last
Right in the hands of his oppressors
The joy of motherhood, stripped in day light
Somewhere in Kumasi
Hate defeated humanity
As Kojo’s grieving mother, still awaits her son’s return.
Mrs Peeck and husband Clem
provide refuge from my family home
No hugs but felt the love
had no children of their own
Afternoon tea of homemade bread
blackcurrant jam and scalded cream
Home grown fruits preserved in Fowlers jars
a meal at night, silver beet was cooked with steam
Unannounced I'd come to stay
overnight a comfy bed
Dream about old cars and bellows
found in Clems machinery shed
Next day home made lunch was packed
down the hill backto school through long blades of grass
Mrs Peeck we'd ask her age
a question that she'd always pass
Footnote: For those who are interested there is an on line recipe for scalded cream (clotted cream)
The cream I refer to was from a house cow milked by hand
We were not so poor
To be ungrateful
For what we lacked.
Full plates in a heated house
Made it seem undue to complain
For lack of poetry or a candy cane.
Ne’er a penny in a bush
Nor gift under the tree was for us
With corn, milk and eggs a plenty.
We dared not wish for more.
Each night we knelt in thanks
Before dreaming of a hotdog,
Birthday cake, Christmas
Gift, or a dime to buy
An ice cream cone.
The weeds we kept at bay
The trees chopped expertly
Our toil stayed the rest.
We were not so poor
To be unthankful
For what we lacked
As we hoed the corn
Milked the cows
Feed the chickens.
Starved of play we were
too busy making hay
To be ungrateful.
The bull roars when he sees the big cow being milked by foreigners men
“Reverse Cyrano”
Reverse Cyrano
new wave poetry
straddles the ruins
milked
with two sugars
dark Tea dreams
red leaves laquer
the vain roadmaps
that stain the ingrained
with pommegranate poetry
the bejewelled heart
sweet and tart
and thick
skinned
sliced and skewered
each granate
a sparkling
hidden gem
within the ruby
words written
riding astride those worlds
like wolves
in those comforting
dicomforting whispering woods
for Cyrano reversed
so easily contracted
a hidden god and a poet
that lost lovers
may find submerged
in disoriented time adrift,
eyes open-wide undestracted,
the ravenous misunderstood unmissed.
Candide Diderot ‘25
(Goliathus goliath music symbols and meanings.
Titanus giganteus articulations to rests
Scales are a set of notes ordered by
a combination of whole steps and half steps.
A small headline running below the main headline; also called a drop head.
A small headline running below the main headline; also called a deck.
The space running vertically between columns.
The Android receives a soul
Which is pure Evil
Darrel's Devil is a Term Used to describe
a guy who fell in love with Darlrel's Cow
her milked it and kept the cow
clean and healthy.
when it became time to sell the cow
Darrel's took the cow
to another place
where he kept the cow for weeks.
When they found the Cow Someone gave the guy the
nickname Darrel's Devil
because the Guy thought he was doing Darrel's a favor.
He eats devil eggs with hot peppers and he fa loud
thats why they call him Darrel's Devil. Darrel likes
the fellas egg's.
the Vallhall journey
drunken orgies - fight and death
mead - milked from a goat
small forest
The small forest or the woods by the white road
made of crushed sea-shells, was a place of enchantment
Squirrels played here and had no fear of lone dreamers
stumbling over oak roots.
I used to walk there when cows had
been milked, fed
and the mucking out was done,
fresh strew strewn
in stalls, and the barn had contented animals
I could do so many things in the forest, be an Indian or
take out my pocket phonographic book,
the milkmaid
gave me and masturbated.
especially drawn to pictures of cunnilingus women
seemed to enjoy this form of sex, I was horrified when
told this was not a manly act, ye the pleasured faces
stayed on my mind.
A year later, I drove to the forest
it was a private estate
high walls and posh villas, but the squirrels had gone
I laughed out laud
The good people in the villas will never know my secrets
here, where I dedicated and trained for a hearty sex life to come.
An edited version of my book: The Collected Work, of
Poetry, Vignettes, Humor and Political Statements
My soul seems to be hidden today.
Where can it conceal itself?
I thought it was always with me,
Roaming the endless paths
That clatter the corridors of my mind,
coursing through my arteries and veins,
invading all essential organs
that keeps me alive all day.
Maybe it flew away
Like some mad eagle that lost its way!
I will not search for it.
It will return when it feels
There is a need for it.
My feet follow tracks unknown
Oblivious of time and space.
I meet old friends and strangers,
I pass on,
I do not recognise their mien.
I thread through paths lined
With rampant dark green ferns,
I slush through shallow muddy pools,
I rest below the copious hedgerows.
Down in the valley cows are milked,
Geese cackle and cocks crow,
Cats copulate in peace.
Fragrance of new-cut hay
Makes my nostrils flare.
Smoke billows from the chimney
Of an old cottage near the farm.
Should I invite myself,
Betake a country hearty meal?
I am welcome
Urged to taste the home-brewed beer
Or the new fermented cheese.
I feel a kind of peace.
Perhaps my soul is back
Or perhaps it's the beer or the cheese.
Who can say?
Wet foggy morning,
a shy daylight wakes me up with the birds music.
The cats heard my voice, they call me to have their breakfast.
Before my coffee, I am their waitress.
I look at them while they eat, they look happy, so do I.
The sun starts to show
as the fog is fading away,
not a jumper needed,
but only short sleeves in a gifted sunny day by nearly winter.
Cows are milked and they go out to graze in the green meadows.
This is the country, where the time seems to stop,
where the stress is confused
and faded away with the early fog.
We feed the pigs, rabbits and chickens.
They look at us so grateful.
I go out for a walk among the chestnut trees watching the crows chasing the hawks, listening to every note the little birds sing.
Chilly nightime with a clear sky,
bright stars to contemplate,
a reverie for the eyes watched from the farm's warmth.
Way down on the farm
are cows, shepherds, and cattle
waiting to be milked
Tedious toil from dawn to dark,
a farmhands days then so harsh and stark.
The clockhands ticks round slowly by one by one,
Pa's work ending with the setting sun.
Daybreak and sunset he milked the cows,
in between with the horse and plough.
Across the fields a church bell peals
recording his monotonous ordeal.
Each day to the beerhouse his footsteps led,
then back to our cottage for supper and bed.
Us young'uns spent days gleaning the field,
a years's bread such toil could yield.
Hedgerow sloes in the market sold,
eked out the wage in our household.
Sister helped Ma with her local lace ,
round an open fireplace.
Ended her schooling afore her teens
to enlist in the domestic service
scene.
Blue blood horseshoe crab
A million crabs milked
each year for humankind
to detect vaccine contamination.
blue, ghastly, gruesome, repugnant!
She's up in the morning
two hours before dawn
has done most of her chores
before the lights come on
Already milked the cows
and gathered up the eggs
even put liniment
on the horse’s sore legs
Bacon and eggs are cooked
the biscuits are baked brown
the gravy has been stirred
and the plates laid down
Once the pans are empty
the last bread's been buttered
the men tack their horses
while she clears the clutter
Now a fifty mile drive
just to get to the store
to pick up the supplies
they have been waiting for
Time to fry the chicken
and put beef in the beans
cause stomachs on the ranch
are never full it seems
After serving the meal
and cleaning up the mess
she'll ride out to the range
and work beside the rest
She has to be able
to ride fence, rope and brand
just as good as any
of those other hired hands
When the day is over
tired and hungry as hell
the men wash up and get
set for the supper bell
She'll be in the kitchen
cooking vittles again
Cause work for a ranch wife
never comes to an end
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