Milks Poems | Examples

The Sun Will Rise

 whistling
in the rain
how I love you
so they say
a dream is not
a nightmare in a play
a tragedy but whose to say
halved misery the other mystery
milks silken
savvy
ergo
me
yue

The Milking Maid

In dawn's embrace, she strolls the dew-kissed fields,
Her tender touch, to morning's yield.

Silken hair, a cascade of midnight's grace,
Soft hands whispering, love’s gentle trace.

Beneath the boughs where shadows fade,
She moves with ease, the milking maid.

Her breath, a sigh in the cool, crisp air,
Her eyes, a promise, a daring dare.

Each motion, slow, deliberate, kind,
Her touch, a whisper, to the bovine mind.

Sunrise glows upon her skin,
A dance of light, where dreams begin.

The rhythm of her work, a sacred song,
A timeless dance, where she belongs.

Her form, a curve of pure delight,
In the gentle dawn, she milks the night.

In every glance, a story told,
Of warmth, and care, and hearts of gold.

The world awakens to her tender art,
The milking maid, with a lover’s heart.

Hilda Milks Cy

Every animal in the lot came by for a hi
They wanted to see Hilda milk her baby Cy
Cy was okay with it, not a bit tit shy
And of course, the kitty was sitting by.

Hello! Said Hilda, welcome one and all.
She got a stool as she sat down in the stall.
The chickens began clucking, the cow gave a moo.
I wish I had been there, bet you do too.

Up Early Picking Peaches From His Tree

Up Early Picking Peaches From His Tree

Eyes golden zenith holds mysteries galore
like a blue streak feeds itself doubly blind
in its wakings an old barn without doors
the farm animals simply do not mind.
Nobody saw, for sure nobody cares
The farmer milks the cows so thirsty is he
Digging for gold he does not ever dare
Up early picking peaches from his tree
Wife a lovely maiden, her love she shares
Farm is not much, twenty acres and a mule
Envy no, he thinks they do not compare
Beside he has a pretty daughter so like a jewel

Nothing like rich man's iron gate horse farm
Farmer lives simply does nobody harm.

Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Aug 11th, 1971

The Mama Girls

I open their ketchup pouches.
I open their milks.
I open their napkins
Until the mama girls make themselves known.
Then they do all the opening for the tables.
Amazing their kindergarten classmates.

Whatever Whatever Whatever

Whatever turns your crank
Whatever tickles your pickle
Whatever dunks your donut
Whatever waxes your dolphin
Whatever buffs your buddha
Whatever pops your cork
Whatever pets your monkey
Whatever frosts your cookies
Whatever spills your pills
Whatever trips your trigger
Whatever humps your camel
Whatever melts your chocolate
Whatever peels your onion
Whatever chafes your carrot
Whatever flops your mop
Whatever rocks your socks
Whatever teeters your totter
Whatever milks your goat
Whatever pings your pong
Whatever peels your banana
Whatever blows your nozzle
Whatever tips your canoe
Whatever flicks your switch
Whatever zips your zipper
Whatever blows your stack
Whatever... whatever... whatever!

For Stevo Down on de Farm

Stevo milks de cows but O’ brudder
in de shed some begin to shudder.
  With tight grip he pull
   on both cow and bull
but one sure doh milk like de udder!


       Written: August 2014

When Depression Peaks

I love the reality the dark keeps,
without designer drugs or alcohol.

It is as deep as the void from which light has sprung.
To speak of mighty waves the sea released.
To follow boldly solstice no drawn drapes up from.
The triggers I can't fix to see my face.

Drawn and racked as peasants do it.
I face the west the ocean calls she sits upon it.
The drug is sleep I'm welcome to be found inside
American tragedies.

The farmer milks his cows and his wife and all ends well.
Each angle that is found in your well turned ankle.
The dress that hides the moon each shooting star.
When depression peaks, 
because I love the way you always smile.

Softclock Foray 1

Soft Clock Foray #1

He serves her armadillo heart
      to four knaves under glass,
      and tones her angst with creams of slight.

He pours himself a generous sea
     from under her Ouroborean eyes,
     to slate his endless urn of thirst,
     and milks her breasts for sweet blue       
     syrups.
   
He rides the pulse of her loudly sleep
     to meld a silent crash
     that oozes verse from myriad wells
     which seal themselves with stones of light,
     and brilliant are his tongues for her.

She knows this all and yields to him
       circles of small vanities.

Flag

flag

a train runs over me and mine
indifferent to our
cries its moguls feed without blinking are incredulous
masses going to swell to occasion grace is it
to be sheep suckled on milks of 
savage pride while honey-blessed malnourished
legions no longer bleat they howl with mutant
alchemy grey towers conjure only
more foul-magic talismans to throw dogs empty
bones will not satisfy even sparrows consume themselves in famine
they'll have to kill me i'll not taint myself in
their unholy rag i've seen them eat their children and pimp
their own to strangers
he began to weep rivers of flame and bleed armies of rage
too late to quench tiger-fire soon will femur 
trumpets wail chod-rite cymbals crash all urns of sin spill forth
lava-like consuming marionette and masters in
ancient ways known to all

rb '90

Mother's Day

Hair cooks food and milks mothers
 She bashes with broken toys like a magician, even if she wants a family for a count, but know how to make every child feel full.
 Stealthily mixes water in its bowl. mother tells thee the fairy tale to light up
 That lifeless moon makes her brother too. mother look at another strange specimen of her sorcery.
 Saree's with mattress hands on the floor makes pillows. Mother spent all her life in grooming in making you. she
 Just laugh at you. What does Rohilla want from you and mother

The Baby

Pale mother is back. She looks tired.

"Where's the baby?"

A shadow walks across her eyes.
"I'll make some Corn Flakes."

"The milks gone off mum,
where's baby?"

She sits down in an easy chair,
picks up a woman's magazine.

"Gone off", she says.

Curiosity

Charm crafts cheer
Dream draws dear


Meet milks minds
Feel frames find


Craft clear choice
Prize proud poise


Lift lines loud
Pay price proud


Set sure spree
Feel form free


Lure lifts laughs
Some strange stuff


Etch each end
Sense sure stand


Glimpse grand glow
Kind keep knows


Heap heart health
Word warm wealth




Leon Enriquez
01February 2018
Singapore

My Thoughts

My thoughts was that
She'll wait.
But she crept away with
my emotions.
She'd arrived like a lamb-
Even wolves in lamb's clothing.
She feed me with milks-
Fluids that has the looks of milk.
I gulped her milks and farted-
Never knew was farting away
My freedom.
Farted till i began purging-
Purging my desires and wills.
Then after causing me such harms;
And I cursing her arms.
She fled like a cheetah,
Whose prey made jest of.

I thought she'll stay,
I thought she'll spray
Lovely trends on me.
Thought she'll be my meal.

But never knew was:

A lamb with mild hoofs,
Who metamorphosed into wolves of scattered nails.
Digging misfortune in my way:
Dumping faeces on my path.

But she'd skedaddle,
All her proclaimed love are now fables.
She for years had me as fool:
Please what should i do?
       17:21:17:13:42

The Early Milking

A new day begins
As the day before.
The Jersey girls assemble themselves
Into their usual cow chain.
One girl’s head follows another’s tail.
Then head then tail,
All along the sodden trail.
This habit has worn a pasture lane
Of mud and muck, 
And cow to barn.
They plod the path with bulging udders
To give sweet milk made from clover.
Lo!  It is a ritual
Of back and forth,
To and fro!
The sodden lane is dark as coal.
A sleepy man
Readies himself with pail,
As the girls line up, 
First head then tail.
Lo, it is a ritual
Of muffled moos in grain filled troughs
With yellow corn on drooling mouths.
For each cow gets her morning treat
As warm steam rises from the teat.
Woe!  A life of barnyard chores!
By hand, he milks
With stool and pail.
Each pet waits her turn in line
By head then tail.
The sleepy bovine moan and snore.
The man, he leans 
Against one’s side
And rests his head in furry hide.
Such labor,
Grief, care and thought;
Sometimes he thinks to sell the lot.
Lo, barnyard smells invade his dreams
With buttermilk 
And warm, sweet cream.
Then big brown eyes meet his in friend.
Come evening, 
He will milk again.

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