The Author
A man was coming to stay with us at our little farm, years ago
ago, when someone who could read the papers was an intellectual
Or if not, a clever dick too smart for his own good.
The writer was supposed to work, too, to get a feel for farm life.
But he was weedy, didn’t want to help with mucking out in
the barn in the morning, and he had to go back to his typewriter.
Finally, his manuscript was done. He left a big eater; he was not missed.
Two years later, when the book came out, it had little to do with us
but how hard he had suffered pretending he was a child slave, and
much was written about this, but no one came to our farm asking us
about the man. Time has changed today; people would ask
questions and not take printed words for granted.
Was John Lennon
crossing the line,
mucking about,
burning his bridges,
or bucking the palace,
a fine sign of the times
then, in 1969,
not often seen,
when returning his MBE
to The Queen?
Miss Maddie Muskrat mastered Missouri mud
Reveling and rolling in it in a joyful way
Catfish groused that she was mucking up the river
Bass, bluegill and crappie told catfish off
Muskrat makes us happy with her positive attitude
Catfish had never thought about that side of it
He adjusted his attitude and began enjoying her mud antics
They became happy friends after that, thanks to this lecture
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
I hated all those lessons and rules
Playing sports in the cold and the rain
Exams, tests and essays in schools
l won’t need this stuff in my brain
It’s a waste of my time, it's just lame.
I am leaving school in just one week
No more boredom and tectonic plates
A good job, with some training I seek
Will I miss going to school with my mates
I wonder now what my future awaits
An interview can be a terrifying thing
He said, “Why not a single GCSE?”
“To this role, what do you bring?!”
Five years, I had nothing to please
Seven interviews and now, great unease.
Starting work at eight in the morning
Not what I imagined it would be.
Mucking out sheds, won't be that boring
I look back now, and my errors I see
Will my mates have careers, unlike me?
Now I do the same things every day
I miss school, and my mates, I’m sad
In the cold and the rain, I now dismay
and think of the opportunities that I had
To waste all that time… “was I mad?!”
If only I'd concentrated on school
Had fun, but tried when it mattered
If only I could have followed their rule.
All that knowledge I could have gathered
My dreams and future are they shattered?
Her hip was decidedly dickey
She was not as flexible as before
Various joints were complaining
She had trouble getting up from the floor
She was not as young as she was
Bits of her were definitely aging
Inside she didn't feel any different
But the outside was certainly fading
So it was time to get some help
It was time to stop mucking around
Before her get up and go had gone
Some form of exercise had to be found
Yoga seemed the logical choice
She welcomed it with warm embrace
Soon she would feel twenty again
Dream on! If only that were the case
The poses were near on impossible
With names like ‘warrior’, ‘pigeon’ and ‘tree’
Every muscle she possessed rebelled
She desperately wanted to flee
Would anyone notice if she left?
Could she creep out the door unseen?
Thankful for a moment’s distraction
She speedily fled from the scene
So if she wasn't going to exercise
In order to be able to rise and shine
She was just going have to live with it
And drink a helluva lot of wine
What, I cannot say,
A feeling something's wonkey.
Like mucking muddy sand at the bottom of the ocean,
Beneath acrobatic, trapeze artist monkeys.
What can be said,
About the snorkeling tigers?
Or the underwater chainsaw juggler,
Breathing fire?
There's a soggy clown around somewhere,
Spitting spades and hearts, and clovers.
It's a three-ringed circus sideshow -
It too, will soon be over.
Three old crows were standing head-to-head
Conversing in the hallway between the classes
Wondering who they were dissing, with dread,
I knew fellow teachers they thought jacka**es,
And, occasionally, I had been on their hit list
Every workplace has a similar gossipy klatch
If they suddenly vanished, they’d not be missed
They liked nothing better than a pis*ing match.
I made a practice to stay clear of their clucking
I’ve never enjoyed putting other people down,
While some people enjoy what I call mucking
Their favored pastime, a proverbial knockdown.
I prefer spending my time building others up
Helping those out who are having a rough time,
Avoiding those who engage in childish trollop
While adhering to my chosen ethical paradigm.
Written July 5, 2022
Like a young heart, the sun outshines,
flirting with the billows of clouds,
leaving a gentle kiss on the blushing horizon.
Cry of mucking gulls above,
visit the no longer alone, white laced-topped waves;
its bounty full, a romantic love with morning gone.
A tern with its black hat,
near goldenrod, scattered in heaps,
pecks on the length of the treasures of the beach.
The tuneful sound of the spring ocean surf,
rolls in, touches my toes in a tease,
then runs away giggling, but not for long.
Once again it rolls to chase me for a nip at my toes.
4/12/2022
Cowboy and Cowgirl BOOTS
Leather and Rubber BOOTS
Riding and Mucking BOOTS
Boot-Scootin' Boogie BOOTS
Ankle and Knee BOOTS
Steel-Toed, Stinky BOOTS
Puss n' Boots and Kinky BOOTS.
THIRD PLACE WINNER
written August 7, 2021
for "The Marmite Poem" poetry contest
sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
How many head do you have?
He turns his weathered face toward me. You buy’n?
His hazel eyes are dancing; I am no cowboy.
I'm in the throes of boot stomping country.
Saturday nights are for dancing
And you better be sleeping in church on Sunday.
I take a big whiff of healthy country air.
We're standing next to a pasture full of bluebells.
There are clumps of succulents on either side of this old barn.
She needs paint everywhere except for her brand-new window.
Two antique milk jugs are down here, with yellow and purple petunias.
The missus, he explains noticing my noticing.
A black crow lights on a fence post about twenty feet away.
The most annoying croaking caw sound.
He is not happy you’re here, the old timer tells me. I grin.
There is one lone renegade sunflower to the left of the shed.
I wonder about that, but do not ask.
Want to see the horses or the cows? He asks.
I want to see both, I say.
We’ll start with the horses then.
The cows are mucking around in the mud; you’ll have to put on waders.
I try to look pleased.
"My passion is to see poets' souls, brilliantly on fire!"... .P. Romios.
" Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world!" Percy Bysshe Shelley, romantic poet
Without us being phony politicians mucking about with pants on fire.
We cannot change things without the courage ourselves to see evil, write about it, and see it ends.
The silence is deafening as the media cheers on Communism wearing the deranged mask of Socialism.
One day, we may lose this right to be truthful as poets forever.
Stop hiding behind butterflies and flowers, as none will keep you free.
Patriots will cheer you on, do not worry about those who avoid you."
"A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep."
— Salman Rushdie, award-winning writer
2/26/2021
~1~
UP, UP AND AWAY
Up, up and away!
I let my balloon go;
In order to have its way
On reaching up to stars.
Up, up and away!
My balloon went straight up;
No mucking about
In touching moonlight beams.
Up, up and away
But now
On a downward spiral bent,
Then realization came
With an almighty THUD!
Back to Mother Earth;
Deflated,
Flattened,
Kaput!
All my puffing ability
Now gone in tatters.
As up, up and away!
I let my another go;
In order to have its way
On reaching up to stars.
Francis Cooper – Mac © 2019
Lack of women
The plateau of Alentejo has a rich fertile soil but few women
most of them studied and became unemployed lawyers in Lisbon,
something had to be done. And a busload of women came in the hope
of finding a wealthy farmer.
They were in their forties but tried to look 35 with heavy makeup
it was pathetic, pale, sweaty faces the sun is intense under the immense
blue sky exposing a life lived inside nightclubs.
The women had the task to do the mucking out. put new straw
for the sheep and milk them.
For many t was too much, they took the bus back to their civilization
as they knew it.
I didn't see the end of the show the many ads took a long time
I got bored and flipped to another station.
But some women stuck it out they thrived, and who knows?
They might find their affluent farmer.
Mucking out and milking we are curds in the churn.
Our house is a blooming belly brimful and snuffling,
feet planted in the green rubber of muddy dawns.
A fox rapturously cherished a hen last night;
brown feathers speckled red fly now on the wind.
The patchy cat watches; it knows that we share
a dream guzzling tractor, with its rhythmus purr.
The tangy beasts are fed, the turkey and goose fatted.
Our meat squeals in the marketplace and struts to auction.
What is not eaten, wallows.
We live thigh deep, grub and plow;
partake in the love of it.
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