Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Don Bouchard Dec 2021
The rough draft
Stillborn lies:
Five paragraphs
Fully formed,
Safely stated,
Three points,
Strung in line
Tense & form
Aligned monotony.

No life here,
Words penned,
Five paragraphs
Double spaced,
Properly indented,
Grammar neatly safe.
Enough, and without risk.
Nothing here to see.

No life here
Nothing here to see

I am twenty-one again,
Standing in a chill March barn,
Steam and blood scent,
Obstetric chains straining
On the winch I crank
To save a calf born breech,
Rear heel pads pointing up.

The strain and pull exhaust me,
Mother staggering in the stanchion,
I wrestle against time, about to break.

The calf’s hips stall against the cable strain
Then slip as something pops...
Whether baby or mother
I am uncertain.

Whooshing, the calf slides out and down,
Cable and chain,
Blood and fluid,
Umbilical stretching,
Last tethering connection.
The newborn lies un-shivering,
Inert upon wet straw.

I slip off the chains,
Grasp the slippery feet above
Jellied hooves,
Hoist the calf,
Hang it head down,
Slap it against the wall,
Chant, “Breathe!”

Desperate miracle!
The lungs gurgle,
Raspy coughing,
Gargling mucous,
Air brings life.

The mother,
Eyes rolling,

Forty years later I stare:
Stillborn paper
Delivered late and lifeless,
Having form,
Technically correct,
Lying breathless on my desk.

Were I to slap it against a wall,
The lines would still be dead.
So, what to do about resuscitation?
I cannot slap the paper,
Nor the student.
My dry eyes tire
Following inanity.

DB Dec. 8, 2021
The lines blur between two forms of struggle. Resuscitation is only possible if the basic spark of life resides.
Bhill Oct 2020
yes, I see it
no, its got to be from the smoke
I know, it does make for some great sunrises and sets
oh, can you hear the cattle mooing this morning?
makes for peaceful coffee time...

Brian Hill - 2020 # 273
Jordan Gee Sep 2020
Chop wood, carry water,
channel Ra.
Overtones over the undulations of Nun,
where the first man stood quite
apart from his father.
The cattle of Ra poured forth from his eyes and
thus he ruled over what he made.
Red frequencies in the dark are
strung outside of time -
the mana by which energy makes art.
I cannot look toward the Black Octave…
bad cymatics in the Red Resonant Year.
I’m barking at the Blue Tetrad.
The indian guides couldn’t tell if it was
Comanche or wolf.
They remained still for quite a long time.

By: Jordan Gee
all of it in frequency
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
The First Christmas
by Michael R. Burch

’Twas in a land so long ago . . .
the lambs lay blanketed in snow
and little children everywhere
sat and watched warm embers glow
and dreamed (of what, we do not know).

And THEN—a star appeared on high,
The brightest man had ever seen!
It made the children whisper low
in puzzled awe (what did it mean?).
It made the wooly lambkins cry.

Not far away a new-born lay,
warm-blanketed in straw and hay,
a lowly manger for his crib.
The cattle mooed, distraught and low,
to see the child. They did not know

it now was Christmas day!

Keywords/Tags: Christmas, day, lambs, star, children, baby, Jesus, manger, crib, cattle, oxen, straw, hay, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, Bethlehem
CasiDia Jul 2019
Within the stomach of the world
The country stretches its branches, uncurled
Who is the horror of Napoleon Bonaparte?
Who darkens and fools the heart?
Often when man is shaken to the core
Other worlds sneak peeks in his door
And even in the junction of cattle
Metaphysical and mystical truths dazzle
Touched by the sea, a vision came
The pearls of the earth in flames
A jackdaw perches itself on pistons
Radiating heat from all of its mission
His mystic sense stayed tight beneath eyelids
Yet lit the flame in all said and undid
Like a voice in the wilderness
Or even a prophet of old, who might deliver us.
MisfitOfSociety Jul 2019
Cut off God’s thirteenth finger,
It brings the world bad luck.

At the supper of the twelve,
It traded life with a kiss on the cheek!
A tree held a rope for it,
So it could trade the life back!

Number thirteen of the twelve,
Died in a non-existent hotel room.

The dead speak tales of the one,
Who’s kiss killed the sun.
Blew out the world’s candle,
And slaughtered god’s cattle.
Loaded three long nights into a gun...
And pulled the trigger!
SR Nirmal Kumar Nov 2018
Swaying blades of grass
Tenderly await
Grazing cattle
A Simillacrum May 2018
Robot noise
Robot noise
The only sounds on Earth
are the stomp of heavy metal,
and the grinding of gears.

"What's worse than this?"
we wondered.
It turned out
we had more to learn.

The pure human had left
at the start of the new internet.
We were hybrid beings
of fleetness deemed cyberspeed.
The faster we learned,
the less we learned about us
as creatures.

As creatures,
we were captured in chains
the day we fully interfaced.

Hammers for nails before,
the sales elite saw this in store:

Stood up sleeping,
cow cattle weak to sweet lies.

Robot noise
Robot noise
The only sounds on Earth
are the stomp of heavy metal,
and the grinding of gears.

Let's examine the heart of rebellion,
shall we?
a rider there found the lore
and envision his plan
though surely a wire tell
and fine her in her skull
a minute's worth of plaintiff
while they meet rhetorical
and anchor a horse feather
this bar between hither
with Pegasus dimly lighted
and Chisholm Trail afoot
wholly charm a spirit together
in a kiss of extraordinary measure
that a yellow sky glitter
under the stars tonight
Next page