rse, the beasts, they paid no mind. The heifer shrieked again as blood began to spout
Christine Chirdon
Christine Chirdon
Sep 7, 2013      Sep 8, 2013

The sleet had piled high up on the side of the road, spraying the brownish gray over the pedestrians. Sharlesburg was far out on the Pennsylvania country side, and the town was choked by trucks hauling by and the smells of dairy farms. No one really stayed there long, aside from the clerks in the little stores, maybe a few waitresses, and none of them wanted to stay around. No, the waitresses all wanted to move to the city and get their big time jobs, and the clerks wanted to move down somewhere warmer to retire. Maybe to the lake, but that was too rough in the winters. Well, the Summers were gorgeous, and so maybe that would work. The only ones who wanted to hang around were the farmers.

     Life was slow, and the farmers knew the land. Time there plodded away slower than the cows grazing on the moors. As one year grew into two and two into six, not much ever really changed for them. The land would go from muddy and torn to green and sparkling, gold and cracked, and again to the mud, smeared with the white from the snow. And all the while, the animals paced, and so did the farmers, wandering deeper and deeper into the rut.

     Tyler sat by the window, watching the cattle huddle together out in the mud, her tea and her breath fogging the window. Her father was out at town for the weekend, though she never really asked why. Monday he would probably stagger home reeking of a medicine cabinet. Another cow might die this winter, she was sure, because she had never learned how to deal with a cow in labor, and the vet didn't like to come by any more. That Tyler wasn't sure of why, but her father was almost certainly the blame for that.

Her mother wasn't around anymore; she left with a furniture salesman to live on the lake.

The television glowered in the corner, the same four channels playing the same four things. Tyler switched them off, but wanted the noise, and turned on the radio.

"REPENT SINNERS REPENT SINNERS! FOR THE FIERY HELL AWAITS YOU! I MEAN YOU, YOU WITH YOUR SEXUAL MUSIC AND YOU JEAN SHORTS! HAVE YOU SEEN THE TV? THOSE GIRLS, WITH THEIR EXPOSED CHESTS AND GOING TO WORK-,"

Tyler switched it off again.

Something had fluttered outside. What really caught her eye was that it wasn't white, like the sky, it wasn't the snow, it wasn't the mud or a black back of a cow. It was something red and shiny.

The snow was falling pretty hard though. She couldn't be sure.

In the quiet, Tyler could discern the mooing yelps of one of the cows. She pulled on her yellow winter coat and scrambled outside. The air was cold and sharp against her nose, ripping away the smells of manure and filth. Even the tobacco from the ashtray was blank; the landscape was nothing but sound and snow and the god damn cold.

      The cows stood in a brace, black bodies radiating heat in the January snow. Tyler shoved them aside, though they hardly budged. Saliva dripped onto her shoulders and onto the ground, little pits in the mud. One cow groaned again, and as she got closer, she saw it was laying on its side in the middle of the brace. A pregnant cow, heaving under the pain of labor.

    She guffawed, trying again to shove the onlookers aside, but it seemed as though they merely packed closer together, and she could hardly get an arm through. As Tyler watched, the cow shrieked in pain.  Cows clamored tighter in the bunch and their eyes swallowed the sight as dully as cud.
"Please, move! get out of the way!"
     Of course, the beasts, they paid no mind. The heifer shrieked again as blood began to spout heavily fourth. The Cows did not even step back. They did not budge as Tyler beat on their rumps, not a flinch. The cries of pain grew weaker and weaker and the legs went from their horrible flailing to the slow movements of a dying moth.
When the scene ended, the cows were no longer amused, and passed on. The heifer was dead. Tyler scrambled forward in hopes of saving maybe the calf.
It was only a bloody rag , hanging sadly from the mother's bowels. no life had touched the wretched thing.
Tyler sighed.
And went back inside.

Senor Negativo
Senor Negativo
Jul 10, 2012

If the first few lines were really true
you wouldn't have posted the rest.
Misery loves company.
Why?

Bull Shit
5 heifer hang from hooks.
Miceal Kearney
Aug 30, 2010

all winter housed in the yard. Fed
the freshest silage, the cleanest water.
All the nuts they could eat.

But they’d hang their heads by the gate,
longed for earth between their hooves.
Hard to run giddy on concrete
between confining walls.

Eventually beaten with hurlies
and a black pipe
onto the back of a truck.

5 heifer hang from hooks.

and buy an in-calf heifer instead.
Miceal Kearney
Dec 22, 2010

Extending my sleeves past my frozen fingers,
it is -3 and handles of anything
get extremely bitter this time of year.
I fork in splinters of silage
#235 pokes her head out through the feeder.
I have plans for you Missy Moo —
well: our progeny.

Provided you’re in calf;
provided you stay in calf;
provided you calf down successfully;
provided it lives long enough to be killed.
If not, I’ll probably sell you
and buy an in-calf heifer instead.
No pressure.

Their upstart child’s a heifer
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ

Fishtails flap and screw
through earth’s cradled womb
through heaving sands and ocean floors
for fortunes crude and wildcat dreams
for days of easy living.

Earth retaliates
with rotten eggs and busted drills
but her resistance spent
the caprock crumbles and exhales
and like a newborn slapped
she screams the scream
which marks the birth
of a spanking new-sprung era.

Jubilant the fathers dance
Stetson’s tossed high into the air
their faces flecked with bootblack gold
their hair slicked back with glistenin’ oil.
Their upstart child’s a heifer
to milk until it moos
then trade unto the butcher’s block
for meat
when it goes dry.

Enriched in the meantime
between breakdowns
rain and air turns to poison
rivers flood
the poor starve.
We’re all wildcatters
with the gleam of gold in our eyes
and the spray of crude
on our faces.

My Texas Poetry (I've lived in Austin, San Antonio and Killeen):

Trip Advisor: Travel America with Haiku [Texas]
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/455837/edit/?next=/my/poems/title/

Spindletop
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/553730/edit/?next=/my/poems/title/

Buda   [Texas Poetry]
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/449167/edit/?next=/my/poems/title/

My Ex's -- He's from Texas
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/my-exs-hes-from-texas/

A Little Cathedral in Texas
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/a-little-cathedral-in-texas/
To walk your figure passed heifer own'd herds,
Lee Janes
Lee Janes
Dec 30, 2012

Again, hello my smooth tender Suffolk maid,
What do you have there in your woven basket?
Would you like to listen to a dainty rhyme I made?
If with a lovin' pinch of salt I ask it?

I know you know, of course you know,
That I would walk with you where ever,
Plough through wind and rain even deep slushy snow,
My heart with warmth gives in any quite such weather.

To hold your gaze with sweet subtle words,
For you to answer with your so kind voice,
To walk your figure passed heifer own'd herds,
Talking together brings into being sunbeam rejoice.

To grasp your arm mild, to clench your hips tight,
Begging gentle kiss of mine to dazzle your cheeks rosy glow,
Never could scholars ink descript such a devout sight,
As to my song express'd could never, your beauty, show.

Their upstart child’s a heifer
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ

Fishtails flap and screw
through earth’s cradled womb
through heaving sands and ocean floors
for fortunes crude and wildcat dreams
for days of easy living.

Earth retaliates
with rotten eggs and busted drills
but her resistance spent
the caprock crumbles and exhales
and like a newborn slapped
she screams the scream
which marks the birth
of a spanking new-sprung era.

Jubilant the fathers dance
Stetson’s tossed high into the air
their faces flecked with bootblack gold
their hair slicked back with glistenin’ oil.
Their upstart child’s a heifer
to milk until it moos
then trade unto the butcher’s block
for meat
when it goes dry.

Enriched in the meantime
between breakdowns
rain and air turns to poison
rivers flood
the poor starve.
We’re all wildcatters
with the gleam of gold in our eyes
and the spray of crude
on our faces.

Spindletop is a salt dome oil field located in the southern portion of Beaumont, Texas in the United States. On January 10, 1901, a well at Spindletop struck oil. The new oil field soon produced more than 100,000 barrels (16,000 m3) of oil per day. Gulf Oil and Texaco, now part of Chevron Corporation, were formed to develop production at Spindletop.

The strike at Spindletop represented a turning point for Texas and the United States; no oil field in the world had ever been so productive. The frenzy of oil exploration and the economic development it generated in the state became known as the Texas Oil Boom. The United States soon became the world's leading oil producer.
heifer
robert martin
robert martin
Apr 11, 2010

if I’d known you grew tomatoes
I’d be eating there tonight,

I loved and lost
and cried and gambled,
and drank
and ate too much,
because of you

let me push you in the tree swing
till we wear the treads off the tire

I am aching
under my shirt,
next to my lungs,
where my heart used to be
over you

I don’t love you
and my baby don’t know you
so don’t call us
like you my friend

unless you want dessert
don‘t call me sweet

my love is not for sell
and I don’t rent it by the month

if my tears were sacks of pennies
I’d count a million
with change to spare
over you

my love burns
like a liquor store on fire
for the sight of you

don’t talk to me
about my mama
if you can’t be nice

don't talk to me
about my dog
if you can't be nice

I got stitches
in my britches
from falling off the porch
through the rail
loving you

help me
hold me
heal me
heifer
please come home

you can live with me forever
because mama don’t mind

if you was busted
I’d love you broke

if your love is a trap,
just leave your bait
by the door

we go together
like a Chevy
four wheel drive
truck

Copyright 2010, Robert S. Martin
Some heifer would accidentally… or purposely
Carla Marie
Carla Marie
May 29, 2013

In a past life… I’m sure of it… I was exceedingly

Grandiose…

And as grand as myself… each entrance-

Pausing in doorways

To give each and every head the privilege

To turn and peruse the

Magnificence that was me…

And with each exit

Shatter champagne glass… and

Slowly… hip swayingly….

Drag full length mink along the floor….

But not this time around… No…

This phenomenal, prosaic, and unpretentious time around

If I drag full length mink…

Some heifer would accidentally… or purposely

Be guaranteed to step on it.. making me hafta

Step to her…

(get off’a mah coat!)

And no good can ever come

From two grown women…

Rolling in gutter gum

And miscellaneous sidewalk debris

‘til the cops show… and I catch a case…  

With footprints on my coat…  

gum in my hair… and

My spirit of woe…

Cuz it wasn’t s’posed to go

Down like that… not the way I saw my

Grand Exit at all…

So…

I’ve concluded … evidently… by the way it seems like i should roll…

Not this time around… but in a past life…

Surely… I was exceedingly

Grandiose

ude body of a boy wearing the head of a heifer.  his legs are not entirely under as of
Barton D Smock
Barton D Smock
Jun 7, 2013

places where I worship

from the dark green church of my fascination with heavy frogs comes the nude body of a boy wearing the head of a heifer.  his legs are not entirely under as of yet but he is let stumble.  from the same dark an excessively wormed fishhook flies on a line and knocks the boy’s scrotum behind like a bell.  I scratch my fake arm from shoulder to elbow and believe the sound is not coming from the hook scraping back into the dark.  even in dream I hallelujah lip synch.        


places where I am discontent

in an abandoned dog’s house, I am, shoeless, with a slipper, in my mouth, a spotlight, caresses, dry grass, my mind, I mistake my mind, for the brain, cinerea, for cinema, my thoughts are meat, are herded, whipped at by a whipping tool, I fear nothing more than I fear, my penis, what it thinks of me, or that it thought, me, first, and lastly

beneath that whip, at the end of which, some interrogator’s, bulb.

 
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