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Mark Apr 7
Fearful cows. Proud buckets. Sequestered and barbed.
Three freckles. A constellating of anchors.
Violating space.
The long road travelled and the long road ahead.
Each length, perfect reflection of the other.
You are travelling as a mirror. Roving.
Violating time.
Swallowing hours. Draped. A shroud of volition.
The sky is still crying. The sea is angry.
You hear it sometimes, underneath the wind’s wails.
It can hear you. Sometimes. But always it sees.
Violating mind.
What it sees sends sun to sky and turns rain to
tears of joy, collected in proud buckets, that
drizzle down, dousing the faces of fearful cows.
Geo Feb 15
Oh Brown-eyed Beauty
this morn, you look so forlorn
What has you so troubled?

Through daybreak haze, I
follow her gaze, hear her sigh
Why would they take him?

She takes one last look
as he is hung on the hook
then she resumes her graze
3 part haiku
Paul Butters Nov 2020
In bitter winds the little Pipistrelle bats
Flitter hither and thither
Into the hills,
Around tree-timber limbs
With brittle twigs.
They wing their way
In thrills
Of twists
And turns.

Meanwhile, deep down below
The cows moan,
Roaming through the range.
They moo while they chew the cud,
Ruminating their food
Grazed earlier from prairie meadows.

Through the long day
They are accompanied
By flocks of birds
Twittering and tweeting,
Much noisier than the bats.
A feather flung chorus
Singing operas and arias
Amongst the misty trees.

Word composers love these things:
Mother Nature wrapping us
In her arms
And filling the air
With sights and sounds
That sooth the soul,
Sending us soundly to sleep
While those bats
Come out to play.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\11\2020.
Musical words.
Adri Sep 2020
Subservient only to the wind
the gently blowing of the sycamore,
the soft green hues that line the countryside.
Small tufts of grass uprooted by
the gentle tug of the cows,
endlessly wandering the pastures.

The slow plod of time,
marked by the solitary grazing of the lone herd.
My steps marking the familiar indentations of
stretched gravel roads that seem to continue infinitely

A set rhythm of the land,
enclosed by rusted barbed wire,
stretching for acres against the
slanted posts forced upon one another.
Lush green trees cradle the relentless sky

I beckon for the cows to follow
They do so,
blindly not questioning
the authority of the one that offers food.  
I’m greeted
like a deity of honeydew and apple blossoms.
Bearing these gifts,
I am welcomed
by the cattle that I care for so dearly

I spend day after day with the cows
Growing closer,
caring for the new calves,
cherishing the bond that was built.
I begin to love them more than I love myself

Soon the long summer days,
turn to the crisp evenings of autumn.
I follow my familiar route to the pasture
Hopping the fence,
whistling a cheerful note,
but today is different.
The trees were singing a somber tune
as if the birds were crying out
pleading with the heavens above.
GirlScout Jul 2020
Green, long grass.
Fields tamed by stone walls
Fences twisted by stray twigs.
Breeze that brushes through
Cows' ears and lambs' wools
Strokes my hair as I stare
With glee knowing that we
Are joined by this same sensation.

Perhaps they avoid stepping on bluebells
And then regrettably flatten buttercups
like me.
Might they not step on the cracks
between stones,
As I do not step on cracks between drains?

We share the same fear as other
humans approach,
Ready to flee if they come too close.
For they could be the death of us
Or we the death of them.
Once this fearful distance is breached
What will happen then?
Cinnamon
winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******* history.
Isn't it?
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.

Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.
Consciousness pouring out of me disguised as words. I am craving cinnamon rolls.
Pagan Paul Jan 2019
.
No milk today.
Please tell the cows its nothing personal.



© Pagan Paul (27/01/19)
.
Silly one :)
.
Isaac Jan 2019
Miniature Cows
Miniature, you might not see it.
  Realistic, you might mistake it.
   Creative, how can anyone make it?
     Fast and slow, can you see it's patterns?
      Brown, black and white, yet no blues and blonde.
       Can you see the light or are you stuck in the eventide?

2. Cows in the field
The cows are dancing in the field, the green grass below their feet. "Moo!" the cows cry in joy, with the birds flying in the electric, light blue sky. 'Why can't I fly?' thought one cow, who was stuck on the ground forever and more. But this cow is sure about one thing, They can fly, but only in dreams.
I thought 'why not' and posted another one, but I saw the second one and did both.
Zywa Dec 2018
Rainy days mud
my garden, the golden root is rotting

my wishing well spills over
I am spent

flaccid roads to the city
get me nowhere, no one wants

to pay for that, the world stands still
my little son is sleepwalking around me

by touch, cow and calf look
at me and frown, sighing

vapours muffled by the fine droplets
of rainy tears on the globes of my eyes

the sachets of water in which the world
always is upside down

a violet hangs and thinks:

mud will become waterproof
slate, eventually
Golden root: Rhodiola Rosea, it grows in Siberia and is also called Roseroot

In French, the Viola tricolor is called “Pensée” (Thought)

Collection “Pending rain”
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