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There stands the Idol on the Square,
Glistening in its glazed, gold splendor and so-called glory.
Its sun does not shine on it because it is important,
The sun shines on it because the Idol is simply there, simply there to bask in it all.
But then come the first tribe of people who walk into the empty square,
Who walk into the Idol’s city looking for company.
All they see is the Idol, a figure firm and masculine
Yet it is also lean and feminine.
All who see the Idol’s seductive stare,
With its crafted eyes gazing like a graceful serpent’s eyes
Believe the Idol to be holy
As it glistens in its glazed, gold splendor and so-called glory.

The first tribe looks above, hungry and hopeful.
They sit down in front of the idol, as they are taken by its chiseled, serpentine form.
Then the second tribe comes in and notices the first tribe eyeing the Idol.
The Idol eyes the newfound fans flocking by the handful.
The second tribe sits down to gather around the Idol and forget their long journey
To wherever they were supposed to be or whatever they were supposed to do.
Then tribe after tribe leers in line and take their time from the wilderness
To bask in the Idol’s wisdom of wasting without worrying,
As it glistens in its glazed, golden splendor and so-called glory.

The tribe members sit around the Idol, looking up and demanding peace
From treading arid deserts,
Walking through moist, flesh melting jungles,
And venturing through bone biting arctic winds
And forgetting the larger presence around them
That lead these folk to the danger of this place
And what would lead them away from the Idol.

The tribe members dance around the Idol.
They blend their blistering, bruised bodies close to the Idol’s golden platform,
Against each other in a violent **** of screams, moans, and demands for where they are
In their mortal life and for the realm beyond the weary bone and flesh they inhabited.
They ask constantly of what they can do for the Idol,
All while forgetting about a larger purpose of their own god
And why they were walking around in the wilds in the first place.
Instead, they are entranced by the Idol’s mute music
That rings in their heads, which screams from the closed mouth of the Idol
In its glazed, golden splendor and so-called glory

The shriveling tribes bow down to the Idol’s grace without individual care
with their rib cages poking out and their mouths dry with drought.
In their weakness, the tribes goad the Idol
To perform a miracle of strength like or more than their own god,
Or even more than each tribe member can do.
Yet their minds are sinking into a haze of ash
From the fire they burn around the Idol to hopefully bring it to full life
And their skin is black and charred from pouring all the goods and money
Into the ring of fire surrounding the Idol
They give their nourishment to a being built on the basis of needing no sustenance
Except its own and the lives it is stealing from the people around it.

The tribes holler and howl for the Idol to answer their wishes for a safer haven
Than the barren one they are frivolously wasting in now.
They desecrate their individuality with conformist chants used to glorify their god
But instead are used to glorify the Idol with ragged throats.
The Idol still stands, blind, deaf ,and mute
To the tribes’ kisses,
To the tribe’s prayers,
And to the tribes’ outstretched arms grasping for salvation.
The Idol basks in the tribes’ ignorance yet ignores their ignorance
In its glazed, glistening, so-called glory.

The Idol on the Square
Stands in a pool of starved and dying bodies
Still pleading in weathered whispers,
And still gripping the Idol’s platform with bony fingers.
All these tribes, all these offerings to the vultures
Perching on the tops of buildings, on the lamp posts, and on the city gutters.
They were once followers of their own god,
And of their own destinies,
But they are now the followers of the Idol,
The Idol of Death,
The Idol of Damnation,
The Idol of Starvation,
And the Idol of Lamentation.

They are followers of the Idol on the Square
In its glazed, glistening, so-called glory.
Ju Clear Nov 2016
Our Farmer is different
He wants to change how things have been done
To make our world kinder to the slaved millkers
Some say radical,even risky

Our Farmer wants change
He wants to be kinder to the cow
Just milk once a day
Let cow and calf stay together


Our Farmer is being kinder to his herd
Giving kudos
To his products
Come full circle make cheese again

Our Farmer can see the future
No milk for the processors
Just milk for calf  little extra for cheese
Organic is the ethos

Our Farmer is making change
Making a Kinder world
We're produce is Kind
Animal welfare is high

Our farmer is being the kindness he wants to see in the world
                                       KINDNESS Rules
Inspired by a hard working farmer that is changing how things have been done
Äŧül Jun 2016
Oh now here she comes in hot pursuit,
Unaware of her presence just behind me,
She surprises me as I feel wet on my hand.

She is on all four limbs of hers,
Under my left hand she sneaks,
Oh she starts licking it hungrily.

Moving in the calf section,
I feel really close to heaven,
For every calf here is so cute.
I am loving this summer training after my 1st year of Master of Technology course in Animal Biotechnology has gotten over.

We are assigned in groups of 5-6 people each to a different group of animals.

My HP Poem #1091
©Atul Kaushal
Paul Butters Jan 2016
A newborn calf totters on shaky legs
Trying to balance and focus all at once.
Then seconds after birth a big cat pounces
With searing jaws.
The calf’s whole experience of life
Captured on film.

Paul Butters
Something I saw on TV way back.
Cori MacNaughton Oct 2015
From the very first
she gently lifts him
pushes him to breathe
and so the learning starts

He is so clumsy
as she teaches him to swim
she laughs a gentle mother’s laugh
if inwardly

No arms to discipline or hug
yet what a heart to give
to her one small and only son
just twelve feet long at birth

One distant day he’ll near her length
at forty-five or so
and shall remain
the most important thing
to her
upon this Earth
. . . and, finally, one that ends on a up note.

Originally written on 6Feb99, read numerous times in public, and appearing here in print for the first time.
Cori MacNaughton Oct 2015
The White Whale

She swam the gauntlet
Six times, seven
Then took a chance on love
And was rewarded
Far beyond her hopes and dreams

But now this eighth trip south
Much harder than before
And she so weary
Overburdened
Unesteemed

Then it went wrong
The water
Kind no longer
Tainted and impure
Took first her child
And then, no longer caring, she

When soon she came to rest
Among the rocks
Almost as if to say
You’ve cared not for my ocean home -
Now you must deal with me.
When I started college, I majored in marine biology, and my primary interests then, as now, were whales and sharks.  

This poem, written on 6Feb99, was about a pregnant female California grey whale, Eschrichtius robustus, which had died at sea and washed ashore on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, in southernmost Los Angles County.  Although in life grey whales are dark to light grey, depending upon age and the amount of barnacles and sea lice encrustations on their skin, after death the outer skin sloughs off, revealing the blubber layer beneath, making the whale appear white to the casual observer.

Local residents were appalled by the stench, as whales' bodies are designed to retain heat and thus decompose rapidly, while biologists agreed that a spike in local bacterial levels in near-shore waters most likely contributed to the death of the whale and her calf.

My favorite scientific name for the grey whale, which I would like to see become California's state animal, is the obsolete Rhachianectes glaucus, which translates literally to "grey swimmer along rocky shores."  I can't think of a better description of these magnificent and loving animals.
We used to have a larger group
Ten thousand head at best
Once we had the largest herd
Of Longhorn in the west

But, times got tough, we sold a few
There was the drought back in '11
I didn't know it got so bad
But, now....we're down to seven

Yep, seven steers and cows and calfs
Out standing in our field
There's not a lot of meat out there
It's really a poor yield

The Longhorns down in Texas
Took our football tickets back
They said that our best looking cow
Was like a blanket on a rack

We've done our best to make amends
We'll be on top once more, I'm sure
But, we have to keep the calfs all fed
Or else ....we're down to four

There's lots of land for them to graze
They'll grow big, I am assured
But, now I find it difficult
To call seven head...a herd
Baylee Apr 2015
You know how,
In those moments
Right before you fall,
The earth starts to
Crumble beneath you,
And you can see your fate
As it happens almost
In slow motion,
But not slow enough to stop it from happening,
Or even to brace for impact.
So there you are contemplating
Your fate of falling,
As it happens right before your eyes,
Unable to protect yourself,
Or prevent the impact;
Helpless in a sense;
Like a calf just learning to walk,
But it stumbles,
And you want to help it,
But you know that it has to learn
How to walk on it's own,
Or it will never be able to run.
Martin Narrod May 2014
Hallucinating Bureaucracies and auditory Hallucinations : When the voice in your head speaks when you don't want it to, to head's of State not present. I could snuggle in bed if I wanted to, but I've got to orchestrate and reorganize the Clinton dowry. It started outright with trying on a purple, yellow, and blue button down shirt that had Scabies in the sleeve- and now you're all going to know why Mr. and Mrs. Obama don't want to talk to me about potentially increasing livestock traffic across the Americas. I think could practice will follow from such a manure, I mean maneuver. I pick up 10 or so bottles of plastic single-serve water for consumption in my apartheid room. It's awful in here. The gold disappears from the mines, and even the hands I used to work with are blurring up in the twister, and as much as you call or don't call I have no business managing your intentions- only mine. Some barrge of women over thirty. But still there isn't a problem. The river is beginning to flood, and the fishery's stockpile is running low. Maybe we ought to empty out an African mass grave and fill it with blacklists of co-conspirators and then make a drake or a flume out of the narrow walkways between the cities. Then maybe we'll have water to last us through the dry season.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------- Where in the world is Sam in Hammond, Can Diego? Forklifting pillars, bribing monkeys, playing with his Mickey Mouse and Michelob, catching the taller, eighteen and up crowd catch the last car riding the rapid drop from Space Mountain through, "It's a Small World After All:"  

It's a world of laughter a world of tears, it's a world of hopes and a world of fears. There's so much that we share, that it's time we're aware- it's a small world after all."  

And then he takes the biggest gulp of water into his mouth that I've ever seen the man take, and he puts it in a small cooler that's strapped to the back of his calf, and he swears to me that the aeroplanes are going to come loop around, and when they do their glorious water-landing, he and I, or rather, the both of us, will be saved. Saved, hm? I don't even bother sharing insights or my insides. I quickly flash him the most-pod horrific a tryst that irons down a photo of Egon and I back in the Old City, what was it, Chicago, or something that very much sounded like Chicago. Could be totally awesome and I'll chime in that now is the time when we do our work best. That's all. Intrepid,

— The End —