the hurl
high twirl
a bull
force full
a pic
got sick
missed car
to spar
in state
aimed straight
the hurl
high twirl
lot views
on news
a bull
forceful
a scene
quite keen
granddad
hurt bad
still good
withstood
The universal yearning to be famous
or heap together masses of monedes
mean zip to me. My id’s an ignoramus.
So own your games of thrones, your maravedis.
Your Florida is Phobos, Denver, Deimos:
your Aspen’s asinine, your Hamptons, Hades.
The rutting writ no longer runs, to tame us:
Pam Blondie you can keep, and likewise ladies
who once manipulated that mandamus -
your Slinky Susies and your Sultry Sadies.
So what remains? It needs no Nostradamus!
The three of us, and Guinness, in O’Grady’s -
my friend and brother, Fighting Irish Seamus:
my little Spanish missus, named Mercedes.
The children came late, at the end
among the bodies, naked, stripped
the corpses starting to distend
with gaping wounds where swords had ripped
and hacked to recognitions fall.
Their foes had taken life and gold;
the wives to stricken poor to pall
these men whose lives were dearly sold.
The children came, as did the rats,
the cawing crows, the hungry dogs,
the ever-present feral cats,
and fat pink grunting, rutting hogs.
They came to scavenge what was left
upon this greenfield butcher's block
and what they took was not the theft
it is those who lead should be in dock.
Queen of Heaven,
Lady of Solitude,
Sovereign of the Universe,
Opener of the Way,
Mistress of Angels,
Hail, O Builder of the Universe,
Graceful mysterious rose,
Refuge from despair,
Gate of Dawn
Whence light is born
Whom all in heaven see
As fairest of the fair and
Strongest of the strong.
Hail, O First Cause,
O Crown and Throne,
Soil and Flower,
Aether and the Sea,
Dragon-quelling
Slayer of demons and gods
Saboteur of all cruelties;
O, Glorious rutting virgin
Utmost benefactress
Devour our sufferings
Liberate us from our chains,
Gladden with your blessings.
battle between bucks
deadly duel-decided ~
scavengers spectate
(November Full Moon – Dakota and Lakota)
Its Gleaming Light-Beams Washing My Old Soul
So sad about some far-off hidden things
That are not my business, no not me
Washing these feet in such soothing hot springs
No not I, nosey as a damn ole busy bee!
Along the mountains, its jutting ridges
I walk admiring that fabulous star
Cross I the famous great seven bridges
This heart yet blinded wondering where we are!
Its gleaming light-beams washing my old soul
Saw evening as it slowly crept in
My worries stabbed me taking their deep toll
I a warrior but heavy are my sins!
There walked with majesty, the black-maned boar.
Snout rutting the ground, to find its next score!
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Jan. 5th, 1979
Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; Today at 08:33 AM.
Excuse me if I come across as brusque,
but you exude a certain pungent musk,
as though you’ve grown up with the wildebeests,
or recently discovered ancient yeasts.
And so for your forgiveness, I do hope;
I really meant to stifle that last laugh.
For Christmas, I have given you some soap;
I find that it works wonders in the bath.
I also think you’ll have a better year;
in fact, I’m sure it will be quite improved
when not beset by all those rutting deer
and every other animal that’s hooved.
—————
for the Musk Poetry Contest
sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
written on 12/20/22
Dare challenge me?
Then be my guest …
The stags enter into a jousting quest,
No time now for antlers to rest,
The challenger locks his horny crest,
With focused stare and forceful zest,
A testosterone and power fest,
Nature at its Darwinian best.
Into the gene-pool
He wished to invest,
Can he suceed,
Survive this test?
SOFT MUSIC IN THE MORNING
They had made love
were wet and sticky like
rutting animals with a powerful odor
that filled up the room like pungent
plants in a tropical swamp, touched
every inch of fabric and skin, rode warm
evening breeze through the living
room window, across the small wrought-iron
balcony to the houses nearby
Early the next morning they did it again,
then deciding to shop but refusing to
shower, covered damp odor with cloth
and cologne and went to the market as
if carrying a secret in the pale, golden
light of an early sunrise
But everyone knew!
They were plump and too happy, their deep
satisfaction written on their faces like the
indelible masks of the neighborhood
raccoons
Soft music in the morning:
this middle-age couple, up and down
the aisles, gathering breakfast,
looking…. like they smelled
of love
Emanuel Carter
When robins return to my backyard come May
Bright bulbous dandelions show their pretty heads,
Fawns from last summer’s rutting forage each day
Between the open grassy fields and my rustic sheds.
Mother Nature awakens from winter’s hibernation
Sugar maples and pin oaks leaf out in grand display
Young gray squirrels chatter in mocked conversation,
Glancing furtively at feral felines while they play.
When Spring bursts forth in splendor, my soul sings
Flora and fauna restore faith and hope in my heart
Joy erupting inside me gushes forth and brings
The promise of new life, a fresh uncluttered start.
No other season arouses within me stronger emotion,
Or evokes in me such a lingering, lifelong devotion.
Written on February 24, 2021
For Regina McIntosh’s “Breath of Spring” Contest
And I heard again those voices,
Buoyed upon a murmuring wind,
And oyster-catchers with their
Distinctive, shrill-piping call;
The plaintive cries of floating
Curlews,
Carrying on that wind,
As spilt sunset
Settled over the ruby-red, wine-coloured
Moor.
Blazing purple heathers --
Distant bellows from rutting stags --
The whirling grouse...
And close by, opposite my quiet little
Door,
Seldom seen otters, whistling when
Calling their playful mates,
Splashed and sported in shallow runs
And shadowy pools:-
Opaque, amber waters, swathed
In brilliant starlight,
Reflecting intensity displayed overhead;
Night's rich velvet skies encrusted in
Sparkling jewels.
Yes, as darkness begins to fall,
With drowsy eyes half-shut...
Again, I see and hear it all.
For it is certain, I have now become
Familiar with what is truly meant...
To have to endure an ever waking
Discontent.
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” By John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Autumn comes with light rain and fallen leaves,
Shorter days, chills but lots of blessedness.
As pretty doves shelter under the eaves,
We sit on benches admiring the lake,
Some birds fly, geese long gone to better climes
And humpback fish swim, twisting like a snake.
How I love this season with such good times.
Up on the hill, a stag deer roars its call,
The rutting season has truly began.
Such is the exciting time of the fall.
Barks attract the young bucks to join the clan.
Youngsters prepare their main annual fare,
Halloween is near, trick or treat beware.
Your breath morphs into a November ghost,
a spectral mist that swiftly dissipates.
And barren trees lament the loss of leaves
as Autumn approaches where Winter waits.
The wind whistles through the twigs and branches,
rattling the bare bones of the naked trees,
and sings a soulful dirge for Autumn's dead
as rivers and the creeks begin to freeze.
Frost accumulates upon window panes,
creating frozen swirls of abstract art;
and dry leaves crunch and crackle underfoot
as rutting bucks clash, while Autumn snows start.
A spent sun slinks low in a teal-grey sky,
as Summer's late bloomers wither and die.
Like Zen in Her Old Age
Like Zen in her old age,
she moves as calm water
with the slow metabolism
of ancient stones and redwoods.
toiling like the slow rutting
of running water through rocks.
With finger to wrist,
she feels the tide ebb and flow in her pulse,
And within the ice age of an eye blink
she lives through the millennia
moving at the pace
of the slow creep of continents
as she steps back into history.
In the jaundiced light of the pock-marked moon,
Nevada nights many strange visions have seen
But few match spring time rapidly rutting rabbits
Racing and romping in moonlight madness;
Frolicking free in a sagebrush sea
Amidst white-crested mountain waves;
While whirlwinds swirl and in playas play
One hundred and forty fathoms deeper
Than luna-limned beach strands of dry lake shores.
Bobcats lurk in the moonbeam shadowed deeps,
Eager to feast on the bounding banquet
Of loco late-night leaping lepuses.
Madling moonshine swilling drivers pop a
Fair share of raw rabbits upon their grills
As coyotes yowl over missed moonglow kills.
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