"barnyard" poems
******* mischief misconstrued by me?
Love,
Held together like glue by me
I built this with my own hands
Now watch me cackle with glee
As I hold you over a fire
Like a beloved pet bird!
Fry now absurd lust,
Burn now: we never held trust
I never liked the feel of your hand
Paper and sand,
Throbbing adrenal glands
Proclaiming my fall -
I loved you, is all
I ******* loved you like a saint
I burnt for you at the stake
If I could give you my organs I would
I'd surrender all but my soul if I could
Love love me darling
Love love me so
Bleed, bleed these seeds
Of desire that grow
Sustain me darling
Tell me I'm your girl
Need need you sweetheart
In this forsaken world
I offered my heart on a stick like a lollipop
Just one more year and we could open up shop
We'd have enough,
You'd make me yours
Then I'll do your washing and
I'll sweep all your floors
My heart beats darling
I wish for you now
Sow these seeds with your wicked plough
I NEED you handsome,
Do you love me now?
Do you love me if I bend down and take being milked down like a cow?
Cow, sow darling, I'd be them all
Every barnyard animal, I'd do a four legged crawl
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
If I lay down to the floor and pray without a priest,
Will you give me a thought,
Jot my name down at least?
If I was holy as Mary
Sweet as a bud
Would you love me then
Though I act like your ****
Would you kiss me dear, would you hold me near
This trash, abandoned receptacle,
This can, ******* hopeless: perpetual. . .
I'd do anything for you
Watch me moan, pine and weep
I'd be anything for you
Go without food, love, sleep
Go without a brain to sustain, and I'll sacrifice my time
I'll shut up to all men
I'd scrub holes for every dime
I'd be like your mother
Or hope to aspire
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me if I bend down and take to being milked like a cow?
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
It will never tell its secrets
Old boards, an audible moan
Holding up the sagging roof
A crumbling foundation of stone
The years have done their damage
The summers of scorching sun
All the wet and icy winters
A battle with nothing won
An old harness in the corner
Wearing its coat of dust
A plow no longer plowing
Growing a harvest of rust
If we would only listen
Oh, the stories it would tell
Of barefoot kids in the barnyard
Mama ringing the dinner bell
Tonight will be the last night
That it shadows in the sun
Tomorrow it’s gone forever
The old barns race is done
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and ***** cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.
Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
4.5k
This is the sparkle jams
the worldwide reunion
bossa nova bossa nova
and the spiraling citadels too
so we've left center sparkle
tippie-toed around barnyard animal numero dos
and now its frankincense
fester more please
best suit is now being worn and they really don't like it
I'm disappointed sometimes with my clothing choice but who cares
why not right go blowout fashion booming large
it's panic attacks and leftover cheese nugget from last saturday
now I'm with the in crowd
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
Candleabra's flickering flames
cast a shimmering dancing
shadow of me,
upon my golden coffer overhead,
brought about by a sudden gust
of window-wind... God's finger-breeze...
Master airy-finger puppeteer
you are
dance the leaves
about my Autumn yard...
Push and stir
soft light newly blanketed wintry snow
on lifting eddies,
causing flying fancy, barnyard dancer's dos-a-dos
among infinitesimal,
and featherweight
delicately frozen
crystal-looking flakes...
Push tiny tango waves
upon reflected sparkling silvery lakes
that crest s l i d e then fall
And spectator trees
that enciricle about the watery ballroom-lake
surface-floor,
then with airy fingertips
clap, clap together
the loudly whispering and rustling leaves
that applaud
the watery dancing waves below...
And with windy fingertips
sail white billowing cotton like
vapor-sails
across an unplowable
oceanless
spatial blue...
Glad God
You mostly are
puppeteer of every star
Dance sundries of objects
on your play-ball planet
and puppet-likened stage
And let me laugh
in zestful rage
about danceable things
that can be danced,
that can be danced
on windy-finger days...
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
she worries the hem of her white cotton dress
in her delicate hand
while her other hand nestled softly in mine
she looks up to my eyes
and smiles
as she gathers me up
to the hay in the barnyard
where she lay with me
and indulges me of her delights
we lay in the cool air
and she is curled up in my arms singing to me softly
the summer birds dance in the open sky
the summer afternoon sun glows golden in her eyes
she looks up into my eyes
and without a word need to be said
and in my heart
the sunlight is devoted to her face
a worshipper of the only real beauty in the world
it caresses her delicate features
and paints my perception of her
she is a masterpiece of love
paints my vision of her
her vibrant laughter and smiles run
round in my heart
making themselves a home in my heart
and making my heart feel at home
she worries the hem of her white cotton dress
i lean in and kiss her lips
with the heartfelt adoration
of every ounce of my soul
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Over eight years a family friend,
his daily antics always on display,
morning and afternoon walks and talks,
his joyful baths in his small pond while
he playfully bobbed and dove beneath
the spray of my garden hose.
This was no human being,
a handsome Mallard Duck instead.
The self proclaimed King
of our barnyard clan,
always strolling and patrolling the
grounds, waiting for us, quacking
his greetings, excitingly flapping
his flightless wings at our approach.
His loneliness petticoat showing, he
followed everywhere, seemed to live
merely to be in our company, eat corn
from our hands, living precious minutes
of needed shared congeniality.
Two morning ago he was not there,
we searched and called his name
but he had completely disappeared.
A coyote perhaps, or bird of prey
our King taken and gone away.
Our lives are diminished by his loss,
Though only a bird, he was our
dear companion, a convivial friend.
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Today I mourn his loss.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
Poor old Clarence Posey
His neighbors are so nosey.
They peek in through
His windows and
They catch him wearing hosie.
They don’t come in
They just stay out
They stay judgmental;
They scoff and pout.
They have no pleasant
Words to say.
They run through all
Synonyms of gay.
Pity Clarence Posey
His neighbors are too nosey.
No matter which
Fabric he likes to wear
They dislike what he chosie.
It isn’t like
They dress themselves
Some way that could
Be seen as flattering.
They’ve guts and butts
Like barnyard stock.
To see them naked
Would be a shock.
Poor old Clarence Posey
His neighbors are all nosey.
They’re nothing but
Awful aunties
That catch him wearing *******
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC
COOL your heels on the rail of an observation car.
Let the engineer open her up for ninety miles an hour.
Take in the prairie right and left, rolling land and new hay crops, swaths of new hay laid in the sun.
A gray village flecks by and the horses hitched in front of the post-office never blink an eye.
A barnyard and fifteen Holstein cows, dabs of white on a black wall map, never blink an eye.
A signalman in a tower, the outpost of Kansas City, keeps his place at a window with the serenity of a bronze statue on a dark night when lovers pass whispering.
1.9k
Out Behind the Barn
me and Jimmy Dickens
were in the barnyard feeding chickens
we were both 11 about that time
when up the road came Susie Kasper
with her cousins Ted and Jasper
a couple of teens headed for a life of crime
they signaled out to us
I could hear Teddy cuss
they walked up and whipped out a couple of butts
they said here take a puff
if you like this I got better stuff
so I did just like a dumb old klutz
I coughed and I wheezed
I farted and then I sneezed
my eyes were leaking like a sieve
Jimmy was smarter I guess
but he too finally said yes
took a hit and felt the burn of a shiv
we both puked as they laughed
it was there very special craft
they always managed to make you look like a fool
but they patted us on the backs
said boys now just relax
you won't learn a lesson like this in no school
then Susie gave me a big wet kiss
wow sure wasn't expecting this
I was in a trance until I heard this horn
it was my mom back from the store
she yelled someone help me with this door
but I was busy gettin educated out behind the barn
Gomer LePoet....
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 3:44 PM UTC
Desire woke,
carried football kisses
and barnyard blushes
The great American pastime,
getting ****** under the
bleachers with a towel spread
over the grass during the game
Voices rip through the halls
breeding rumors strong enough
to plunge shame so deep
into the heart of a person
that it may never crawl
back out through your throat,
the venom spewing from your lips
as dark as the blood spotted
on the backseat of your
father's car, that night
Through the cracks in the
armor, every girl carries this
burden in her chest: *** is shameful,
it's not to be talked about, and
there are boys out there who cannot
wait to take advantage of your
one warm and vulnerable heart
She found her own monster, one
with blue eyes and a blonde ponytail
like the cowboys in the movies, an Idaho
farm boy with hot breath like the smoke
of a gun, she gave him her secret when
she was fifteen and at night she screams
when she thinks of it, his ***** hands
and where he put them, lightning sparks of
the pain she can still feel, it sticks inside her
and twists, the wound growing larger
every day, she knows it will never leave,
her own ****** spot to carry
Patterns forever crawling up her spine
in the shapes of his fingers, and someday
when the one she loves drags his fingers there
she will never lose the memory of that night,
her promises to herself left broken and bleeding
on the mattress, her crime of passion shattered
in the wake of what she's done
Engulfed in shame like ink dripping dark
from her hair, she's ***** and she knows it,
she's filthy and she swears they can see it
in the bright ****** of day where she can't
hide from the pushing and the smile on his face
split wide, it's the Joker with his ****** grin
She spent years falling for wisps of dreams
she could never quite grasp, those fleeting Sundays
fuzzy outlines in her mind, lust comes with a price
she says, and she means it when she says that she
will never love again. It was a contest, who could go
the farthest without taking that final step.
She lost.
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
Got an idea for a pretty poem?
Hold that thought
while Yung Joc finishes plz.
In the barnyard
in the suburbs
Blacktop recess was the best recess
cos we were kettled together
90s nostalgia is limited to lame t.v shows
why don't no one talk about the wet overcast no more?
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 3:31 AM UTC
a possum is smoking a cigarette on
top of a small barn in the field.
inside the barn, a mama births
a batch of baby sheepdogs
their eyes still caked shut--
a world awaits.
as the possum finishes his last drag,
i watch the trees in the yard
get up & walk away.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
Out Behind the Barn
me and Jimmy Dickens
were in the barnyard feeding chickens
we were both 11 about that time
when up the road came Susie Kasper
with her cousins Ted and Jasper
a couple of teens headed for a life of crime
they signaled out to us
I could hear Teddy cuss
they walked up and whipped out a couple of butts
they said here take a puff
if you like this I got better stuff
so I did just like a dumb old klutz
I coughed and I wheezed
I farted and then I sneezed
my eyes were leaking like a sieve
Jimmy was smarter I guess
but he too finally said yes
took a hit and felt the burn of a shiv
we both puked as they laughed
it was there very special craft
they always managed to make you look like a fool
but they patted us on the backs
said boys now just relax
you won't learn a lesson like this in no school
then Susie gave me a big wet kiss
wow sure wasn't expecting this
I was in a trance until I heard this horn
it was my mom back from the store
she yelled someone help me with this door
but I was busy gettin educated out behind the barn
Gomer LePoet....
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
Three times in my life I failed to deploy my armies on time,
failed to unstrap my armor and lay down my shields,
expose my chest, honest.
Take me.
Three times there has been an eclipse for which I wasn't equipped to see.
Sometimes I'd mistake your occurrence with that of a natural disaster.
I'd take cover.
Not willing to pardon my fears for a chance to dance with a hurricane
who identified himself as a tropical storm.
They say the difference is miles per hour.
We all know the difference is in how they allow themselves to be perceived.
On the days you touched down
beneath my armor
your aftermath was a smile that broke my face.
I was born with a need for earthquake scars but you
came to my landscape with conquer chest
convinced my natives to dance different.
You showed up with hunting, soil aggregation, and medicine.
I laid down my virgins for you in sacrifice.
In silhouette.
In your presence all my armor turned to tent sheet
transparent in the moonlight
until the fire went out.
Three times in my life I failed to peel back my Band-Aids fast enough.
Offer up my wounds for healing.
Yes, there is blood beneath these words,
there's a man on the other side of this voice, clutching
on a stone he soon realizes- his heart.
He's done slain the last of the dragons,
come back to a vacant cave, weeping
he talks to the skeleton that surrounds him,
swears the sky is as thin as his flesh,
swears he hears a voice on the other side
talking in terms of confession.
Three times in my life I can say, you're married now.
We speak to each other through veils.
It doesn't matter how much liquor we drink in tandem
or the size of the table between us
or the volume and shape of the laugh
or the impression that's left by the hug,
you're married now.
I was right to feel like a farmhouse on the wrong side of a tornado warning.
Where everything weighs nothing.
In the midst of a drought I retrofit my barnyard with castle walls,
pine over how I'm perceived,
pray for rain,
and practice my best impression of a storm cloud
because there's a man on the other side of this wind tunnel
and I'm tired of letting him down.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC
Hippity hippity hobo hopped a train in mobo, whilst mobo and toe-do flowdoed down dits bitsy mountain. She-ha and he-haw hast rode bikes to sleetah where burritos were bandits and bandista's on barnyard fence. Smoky and choky were high on mangozee and tis they loved posies of the same tilling field. Geuber and Gruber maketh infants as scoopers whilst dust is their slooper,
Slippery dipsy dask.. . uncle tis and Mrs tas. Tadpole Bennie, neon jenny, Mike and shunny.. Bunnies of two..honey's of few. Crick-crackle pop the hobo didst hop, as I caught him, as he fell, he bumped his head and yelled...( Hobo forever)
As I smiled to his passions...
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
and i can feel you in my nerves and i can see you in my skin and i can't look away from your
your soul is so promising just a hatchling of a chicken i am with my head cut off running loose in the barnyard
barnyard lazy days are what i had and then i saw you and colors everywhere sprockets and gadgets and loose-runnings and shoes
shoes without feet only energy only anticipation exhilaration in our eyes looking feeling touching
touching toes with no shoes on cold toe warm toe is a good sensation a broadening horizon a war zone in my belly
my belly rises and falls in time with yours the sun is up and stars are hiding we slept soundly fingers crossed between the others and then we knew it was
it was everything we read about from old men's minds in starched collars with big dollars who dreamt these things couldn't have them sat in foyers with long pipes smoke filling lungs tears filling eyes
tears filling eyes because i can feel you and
and i can feel you in my nerves and i can see you in my skin and i can't look away from your soul.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
I used to have a dozen hens
They laid a dozen eggs
And every egg hatched out a chick
With skinny chicken legs
And each and every one of them
They laid a dozen more
My poor old barnyard **** is tired
And really really sore.
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 5:33 PM UTC
A stained glass window come alive
Ten thousand butterflies , so alive
Monarchs on a barnyard board
Such beauty made by our dear Lord
I never knew that this I'd see
It's beauty there in front of me
It is the greatest thing of all
Alive on Capistrano's wall
They make the flight away from cold
Now here they struggle just to hold
A place inside this natures frame
Their life the goal of this strange game
A moving silhouette I see
Ten Thousand Monarchs in front of me
This thing of beauty five feet tall
On a Capistrano barnyard wall
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.
The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.
The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.
Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;
The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.
The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.
Archibald Lampman
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
Silos breaching the skyline,
Large ****** of the landscape.
The smells of the barnyard are pungent..
Although not unpleasant, really, rather pleasant.
These old farms all along this winding road,
They've stood tall for a century or two.
Their clap board and stone attest to a time
When what was built was built to last.
The pictures taken don't quite take in the charm,
The nobility, the steadfastness, the breath of a solid life
People seem as scarce as hens teeth, not a soul to be seen.
Just horses lambs cows and cats and dogs.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
Peacock summer (yolk & barnyard coffee shop for strawman Sal)
cactus palace, alps figured in stonework train terminal/Dylan hollering (I am the vessel for the ghost of me)
transmuted nostalgia, blank graffiti gaze/the alchemic architecture of skyscrapers replacing skyscrapers (an image made more blinding, the child raised to be dissociative & intolerant. I miss the oaken texture of your voice)
bulbous glass humidity, I am poet/poet build word house/in surrealistic wood/fireplace made of naive rainbow and the bones of a whole universe (Sun paints its terror on the back of my neck while I sit here watching a Supermodel with a 3 thousand dollar paisley pattern olive dress walk outside towards Gastown, her rings are worth more than a boreal dream)
Japanese weddings in Elizabethan gardens/grey Fenrir cloud-beast approaches with its faint dew/kites strewn between the Willow trees/Canyon instrument drum/ponderer creates masks of flowers/she sinks into the soggy earth/her primal home (I value those who are humble and beautifully so)
the more poems I read, the more mosaic my soul becomes like world-tree (roots collecting together, vibrant stems of skeletons & Springtime goliath)
do not fret the newspaper will never stop screaming, your cigarettes will never run dry, the ***** platform will never stop bathing itself in the city,
God, to answer your question
yes I am still godless
& yes I am happy
growing thin in the phantom pull of your vastness
(to essence of Lavender)
the sea its
own travelling
fortress
invulnerable
to time
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 9:17 PM UTC
There was, every spring, a new batch of pups,
Yipping, nipping, clumsy ***** of ***** fur,
Looking for all the world like speckled tennis *****
Before they’d learned any hard lessons
At the hands of a racquet.
They chased their tails and each other,
Not to mention various other denizens of the barnyard:
Frantic chicks, cranky piglets,
The occasional bemused draft horse,
And sometimes they chased us as well,
Yelping childishly, rolling with us on the ground,
Nipping bare fingers and toes,
Afterwards lying on the ground asleep,
Looking , save for the rhythmic twitching of their paws,
Positively angelic.
Come late August,
The time would come to set them on the *****
We’d long since stopped thinking about it,
Much less questioning it
(I had, one year, asked my father if the puppies had to go
One time too many until,
With a look that brooked no further conversation,
He said flatly It’s what they’re born to.)
So we went on with the business
Of the soft, slow late summer
Until one evening just after sunset
We would hear the baying of the hounds
Out toward the back fields,
Mechanical and workmanlike at first,
But soon strained and syncopated with excitement,
And at some point there would be
A cacophony of cries and snarls
Until such time there was only silence.
The next morning we would visit the dogs,
And we’d pet them and rough-house a bit,
And there might be an oddly rouged spot
On their coats here and there,
Or one of them might sneeze out a tuft of fur
That didn’t rightly belong to them,
And every year our Uncle Bryce would slyly opine
*You boys may want to be a bit more careful
Around their mouths now, hear*?
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
Blue plastic cows
munch green polyester grass
on a hillside next to a warm
pale blue farmhouse in Iowa
on a sweet Sunday last June.
You knew how to dance
in the barnyard under the roof
your father built last spring
when the sun was shining
through the clouds for once.
My feet stirred up months of dust
which got into your cornflower eyes
and turned your eyelashes brown
until I couldn't see you, just the
light shining from within.
The indigo Tuesday rain
painted streaks down your arms
as you harvested my heart
from among the tired wheat, ready to be carried off
into the flour mill, where it could get some rest.
But you left me standing there when
your father died on a Wednesday night
under a brilliant full moon after the kids had all gone home;
there was a rock at the bottom of my shoe.
The dream was never built to last.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC