"manure" poems
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 1:50 PM UTC
the bed is not very big
a sufficient pillow shoveling
her small manure-shaped head
one sheet on which distinctly wags
at times the weary twig
of a neckless ******
(very occasionally budding
a flabby algebraic odour
jigs
et tout en face
always wiggles the perfectly dead
finger of thitherhithering gas.
clothed with a luminous fur
poilu
a Jesus sags
in frolicsome wooden agony).
25.4k
You seeing me rapping will never happen
Before that I’ll start cappin
Walk off like nothing happened
Since I’ve mastered this art of war
I tend to take things too far
Don’t give a **** who you think you are
Your rap handle doesn’t exist anymore
My rhythms galore, your rhythms manure
Best left in a bag
On your steps
At your front door
Hottest your rap crap will ever get
I’m so polished this is a blemish not a scrimmage
I treat you little *******
Like a teacher’s pet
Up against a Vietnam war vet
Giving you your first shoots
Flipping the script
Double barrel twelve gauge extended clip
Special grip pressed against your lip
Having a hard time talking ****
A pistol whip left your tooth chipped
Fake rappers rapping hard
No street creed; they ain’t legit
This wack imitation ****
Got me ****** off
Don’t get me started
you rip offs should get lost at all cost
dealing with a real boss I can handle a loss
Testing me lyrically, you must be previously ********
Now you are dearly departed
I’m styling on you I’m wilding
Bloodline of Goliath
So go ahead start a riot
With my mic on autopilot
You can get chewed like trident
Eating wack MC’s
essential part of my diet
this ain’t even a battle verse
it’s a gift and a curse
running its course
on my high horse
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
On top of my labour
In the farmyard
I often proffer you
Milk, cheese, manure and hide
To render grand
Your life,
Then how come
You express
Your gratitude
With a knife?
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
I don't do it for pleasure or
Frustration more, to those
******* I try to ignore, *****
About me behind my back
**** are you that bored.
**** if you wanted to know the
**** about me, the manure that
Goes though your mouth smells
Worse than your breath like you
**** that comes from orifice you
Call a mouth.
**** off get a life, what ever makes
You happy **** off and leave me
Out your messed up life. That you
Choose to **** around with someone
Else's life, makes you a moaning
***** through out your life.
********* that should know better
Than to use that thing called a mouth,
**** off get a life or I swear you'll
Hear worse than this come out my mouth.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
Writing for me is simple..
Lyrically ready to maximize my potential..
I have something to say I don't blow hot air like a inner tube...
Tell them liars they need to relax..
I am the type to push it to the max..
Switching gears and lanes until the governor snap ..
I cannot be contain..
Like the green hulk fighting the thing
I wish you could take a walk through my brain..
You would see different things depending on the time of day...
Like dead people, relatives that passed in my memories they live...
Times of my youth when I was a kid...
I didn't smile much.
I was a good kid I didn't wild much...
Pops sold crack so I styled much ...
Gun shots in Baltimore, my pops died once...
In my mind I question a ****
Like are they always ready to ****
Or does life have them Close to the edge..
Of a cliff a jagged hill
And they don't want to die in this dog eat dog world..
So they let blood spill..
I wonder if I was a G would I bang.
Red or blue claim a gang.
Be like Larry Hoover...
A young shooter...
In and out of prison I maneuver
Run the block like a ruler...
Be part of the the trash like manure
Be a coke runner a drug mover..
Corrupting the body of drug users. ..
Would I be known as a survivor
Escaping death more than MacGyver
Embrace the streets as truth knowing that's it a liar...
Nickname my gun human torch cause it fires
I wonder cause honestly I don't have a gun
This poetry is my weapon..
I am only gangsta through my lyrical aggression
Day 1 down...I am up to the challenge.
A poem a day ..to test my talent...
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
Although your red hair looks ace
any colour would flow well with your face;
sewage blonde speckled like an unwashed sink,
decayed purple, ***** pink,
sobbing violet, ***** brown,
snotty yellow on a unwashed frown,
manure sliver with a rotting hue,
***** orange, or suicide blue,
they'd all look good, look good on you.
And yes your scarlet locks shimmer with plush
but everything looks great next to your mush!
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
They're burning the stubbles of yesteryear's fields
Before ploughing.
Walls of fire around every farm.
Smoke blends with the smell of pig's furtilizing manure,
And whenever my nose wrinkles up
I remember my father's words:
*It's the result of millennia of agricultural tradition.
It's the smell of money.
It's the smell of soil to bread.
It's the smell of something far more important
Than nasal comfort.*
He had me at
-Where he should have said-
Organic.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
These are the hard times,
the long stretch of coal-shed days,
the corrugated nights of the antinomian.
I retch at the old doubts and the panoply
of dustbins clattering bright,
their watchers simian in the morning ****
I dress as though dredging up greys,
monotone deep in the GB tradition:
now sandpit tea with oil stain floats
silt dreads the mass of a seven year clay.
Four weeks of shadows drown wind in a storm.
And dreams of my cottage
in days of such calm and late summer happiness
as brought cut corn and strawbs
and horse manure in hugs
until like Zulu tribesmen the birds appeared.
Hunched with expectation
Spears smiling like baddies they rushed me.
I woke pouring sweat like a workhorse
the weakest of defences laid up
my face pulling cellophane over French windows.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
Listening to the song ‘daddy, super daddy’,
Worried and sad thinking about the father long gone,
While reading the news of a father who killed his girl child by hitting her against the wall
To some fathers and children
A father and son didn't feel anything more than that.
Remember uploading in Facebook, the news of the soaring price of tapioca in five star hotels
The tsunami of saliva which the tender yellow tapioca Crowned by curry leaves and red chilly created, is in the throat.
Today noon,
After lots of news
I am cooking tapioca raw
A green bottle is nearby
When the smell of cooking tapioca with salt hit the olfactory senses
Father came
You don’t have to be the Son of God to resurrect the dead
Told Jesus that just the smell of cooking tapioca is enough
Compound divided into patches, ashes, manure,
Properly cut tapioca plants
Mother rushing to get the rice gruel
Between play and squabbles
A lad is walking around with torn trousers, shirtless
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
For sleeping, eating, hunger
Faith,
Tapioca, tapioca
phoo
For rice gruel, mid noon
At twilight when hunger develops faith
For last supper,
Dried tapioca
Lucky that one who was born after an enema
Was not named ‘black sheep’
With a green chilly, raw
In the shade of the green bottle
When I touch the tapioca,
Daddy is dancing
Daddy
Super daddy.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
WASHINGTON IRVING WROTE A NOVEL
ABOUT ICHABOD CRANE
LITTLE SLEEPY HOLLOW
WILL NEVER BE THE SAME
LITTLE SLEEPY HOLLOW WAS CURSED
BY A HORSEMAN MOST DREAD
HE WAS RIDING IN SLEEPY HOLLOW
IN SEARCH OF HIS HEAD
THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN WAS
IN THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR
SO FOR HIM SEARCHING FOR HIS HEAD
WAS NEVER A CHORE
ICHABOD CRANE WAS
A TEACHER MOST STRICT
WEATHER THE GHOST STORIES WERE TRUE
WHO COULD EVER PREDICT
ICHABOD TEACHES THE CHILDREN
OF FARMERS IN THE VILLAGE
BUT ITS THE YOUNG GIRLS OF FARMERS
HE SECRETLY WANTS TOO PILLAGE
KATRINA VAN TASSEL A
BEAUTIFUL YOUNG STUDENT
ICHABOD FALLS IN LOVE WITH HER
BUT WAS IT VERY PRUDENT
HE WAS INVITED TO THE TASSELS
FOR A PARTY MOST RARE
KATRINA AT THE PARTY
DISMISSES HIS WITHOUT CARE
ICHABOD LEAVES THAT NIGHT
ON HIS HORSE HE RIDES
ITS AN EERILY DARK PATH
HIS HORSE DOSE STRIDE
ICHABOD IS SCARED AND SEES
A LARGE DARK MAN
HE YELLS TO THE STRANGER
AS LOUD AS HE CAN
SO ICHABOD RIDES SCARED AND FAST
BUT ALONG SIDE COMES THE MAN
NOT WILLING TOO PASS
ICHABOD NOTICES THE RIDER
REALLY HAS NO HEAD
THIS JUST FILLS ICHABOD
WITH THE MOST SINFUL DREAD
ICHABOD AND THE STRANGER
RACE TO THE TOWN CHURCH
FOR THIS IS WHERE THE GHOST STORIES
FIRST CAME TO BIRTH
ICHABOD RACES TO THE BRIDGE
AND NERVOUSLY LOOKS BACK
THE STRANGER HAS DISAPPEARED
OFF THE GHOSTLY TRACK
BUT HE NOTICES THE STRANGER
HIS HEAD HE DOSE HURL
ICHABOD FALLS OF THE HORSE
HIS WORLD IS IN A WHIRL
THE NEXT DAY ICHABOD'S
HORSE FINALLY RETURNS HOME
WHERE IS ICHABOD
WHERE DID HE ROAM
THEY LOOK FOR ICHABOD
AND FIND HOOF PRINTS
AND ICHABOD'S HAT
SO NOW THE FOLKLORE IS BORN
IN SLEEPY HOLLOW THAT'S THAT
" WISDOM IS LIKE MANURE IT'S NO GOOD UNLESS IT'S SPREAD AROUND ENCOURAGING OTHERS TO GROW"
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.
- Somme Harvest -
In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.
On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.
Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.
Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.
In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.
Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god vomit’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.
Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.
A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.
As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,
The phoenix has nested.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Thorn amongst the weeds
As for what was sown among thorns.
It wasn’t the pumpkin vines: Little did I know:
I watched him daily watering the young plants;
Pulling the dried weeds, and
adding more manure soil to the garden
It took several weeks for me to see a garden full of beautiful
pumpkin leaves and flowers
Little did I know: it was more than vines,
It came with those neuro-protective qualities,
and can also influence pleasure, memory, and thinking:
However, what’s is good for the goose
not necessary good for the gander.
So there I was a little Miss Goosey goosey gander,
Whither shall I wander? Upstairs and downstairs
Or hide behind the old shed, and indulging in high-caloric treats,
Not everyone who uses marijuana becomes addicted.
Nor everyone who writes a piece is a poet, but a good story teller.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
On the southern border
Of a dilapidated, porous house.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I used leaves that have decayed
More than the usual
As manure.
I took handfuls of the sand,
That was measured out
For construction of the house,
And spread over its base,
Without any measure.
I diverted the rain,
That was flowing away lazily,
To its base.
******* trembled
As love swelled up within.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I kissed every leaf,
Without anyone seeing it.
Its veins looked like yours,
When I read them gently.
And when the eyes welled up
I made a ridge under them
With my soiled hands.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will nurture it with love.
I will fight with ants and beetles
And even butterflies.
If it ever droops,
I will pamper it with sweet talks
And pet names uttered in its ear.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will stand guard to it
In rain and shine.
I will tattoo on my palm
Its green, branches and leaves.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
Tears
Spittle
*****
I will pour out the soul of life
Just for it.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
In nights, when I really lose it,
I will hug it and cry my heart out.
I will shower it with kisses,
Drenched with tears and spittle.
I will lie down on its lap,
When the eleven bells crumble.
And when I feel naughtier
I will close my eyes
Get inside it
And hide in there.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day,
It will flower.
And sing aloud, yellow yellow yellow.
The wind, birds and all creepers around
Will take up that song.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day.
***
One day
I will open my day
With its sight
And fade away to next life.
It will wait for me
Till the next life.
***
‘ When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.’
A requiem sung at funeral of Christians.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
God smelled something foul
in the garden & thinking the
man had discovered manure,
god came down & found Adam
fast asleep w/ **** all over his face;
What have u been eating? shouted
the Lord, shaking the trees;
Adam awakened startled,
seeing god's fury: have u eaten
of the Tree of the Knowledge
of Good & Evil?
No! Lord, no! cried Adam,
It was the woman! she made
chocolate lava cake & I ate it,
whined the trembling
creature, face to the ground in
fear & awe; god walking
away shaking his head & saying,
put some clothes on, *******
what are clothes? called Adam;
god sitting down on a rock to
think things over was only mildly
surprised when Eve, bare skin
ethereal as summer rain came
& sat beside him; not exactly what u
had in mind, is he? she asked,
wrinkling her freckled pug nose;
nope, not at all, said god, but it's alright;
my kid's a carpenter; I'll get him down
here to patch things up; Eve stood
abruptly to her feet, heatedly wagging
pert ****** ***** A carpenter!
she hollered; well, I hope he learned
carpentry in medical school, she sniped,
marching into the brush & returning w/
a bowl of fresh fruit: hungry? she said;
| I could eat - - oh-ho-o! so,
u're the smart one!
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.
I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.
I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.
I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.
I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.
I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.
I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.
You have my word!
I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.
I will be perky. I will be green.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
I hate poetry.
I think it's a waste of time.
Trying to think of ways to say things.
And then to make them rhyme!
Some poems are dark and artsy.
Some poems make you laugh.
Some poems make you think or cry.
And some poems are plain ol' crap.
Some poets wear thin mustaches.
Some poets wear fancy hats.
Some poets make up their own words.
Some gilberty hilberty crat.
But I'll tell you this my friend.
That there's nothing in the world more truer.
I'd rather pick up a pen and write.
Than pick up a shovel and move manure.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 12:57 PM UTC
Often I get messages
That say this site is not secure.
Frequently, I can't sign on,
Which is a bunch of steer manure.
The site creators ought to fix
The problem. Could it be that hard?
I think that hackers could break in
And leave a nasty calling card.
So, site creators, do us a favor
And do what it takes to secure this site,
Making it less vulnerable
AND a bit more watertight.
-by Bob B (9-7-25)
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 2:27 PM UTC
*To watch the sun glare,
a rainbow of colors shining this world,
to smell the rain fall
a reprieve from the chaos
splendidness surrounds life
the death of a spider
when the eggs hatch,
the larval caterpillar
wrapped up in a cocoon;
emerges into an elegant butterfly,
the bacterial decay of nature
into flourishing mushrooms,
the ***** of bees
into sweet, sweet honey,
waste and manure
encourage bloom of radiant flowers,
the grace and beauty of youth
becoming the wisdom and dignity of winkled skin,
lessons learned
from hardships experienced*
when in negative light
remember,
there will be another chance to improve
another time to change the next outcome
your view, aspect of the universe
greatly changes the situation
your attitude, your reaction
towards others, towards life
is what monumentally effects the context
so prideful us humans
an ego trip indeed
an argument of the opposites,
a debate of loved ones,
are both sides wrong?
often not,
yet the argument remains
admit your id
profess your apology,
it does not have to
mean that you
are the one at fault,
(though you very well might be)
it does not mean
the other is infinitely correct,
sincere it should be
it simply states,
you are sorry for the distress,
sorry for the difference of opinions,
thoughts, ideas
that could not be controlled,
you are admitting
you value your relationship
much, much more
then your self righteousness,
if you genuinely care
you will listen,
and if you listen
you will be on the road
to understanding
**and only at understanding
can you truly love**
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
Morning smells of Lilacs rapture me,
Taking me back to Kinderhooks Chatham Street….June 21st 1961……not a cloud in the sky.
Lying in bed I open my eyes to the hum of a window fan.
And in the distance I hear a Hudson River barge blast its horn.
This moment in time, well it brings tears to my eyes.
Eleven years old, brown hair, hazel eyes, a toothy smile,
Grins in the mirror, hoping to find a whisker or two…
My cat Oscar sits there on the sink purring out his contentment.
“Oscar” I say, “today I leave for the Freedom Farm”
The Freedom Farm is the one place where I’m free to be me
Without the fear of a negative comment or a boot in my ***
I climb aboard the Greyhound bus with suitcase in hand, And looking down at Mom and Dad....I wave…. So Long Suckers!!
Walton NY, June 22nd, Dunk Hill Road, the smell of cow ****
The land of Milk and Honey, Fields of four leaf clovers and 10’ corn stalks.
It was here that all my friends lived, Shorty the horse, Mrs Blue the Holstein,
And there was Uncle Ike, Aunt Minnie and 9 Cousins. I loved them all!
On this little dairy farm……my potential was unlimited,
Uncle Ike taught me to drive the Tractor, water the heifers,
Milk the cows, shovel **** spread manure and have some **** fun!
Hell Uncle Ike even let me try a piece of his plug tobacco... (Note to self…Just say No Thanks next time)
A summer filled with character building experiences and an eight year olds understanding of work ethic.
But we still had plenty of time for fun and cousin bonding.
My Cousin Tom taught me to ride the cows and honed my spitting skills.
And in my downtime I'd perfect the finer points of armpit farting,
Four weeks of heaven on earth where nothing was impossible.
*Once you work on a farm you get dirt in your shoes. And when you get dirt in your shoes, you can never get it out!"
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
The air is burly
trees harvest soldiers on the line
combines, threads, manure, life--
A whole world lost amidst the flats
Saplings are the next season's
Almonds, Apples, Dates,
Waiting for food shelves and stockrooms
packed in banana boxes and given a place
They will find the plates of capitol city dwellers
They will be engorged far away from their origins
The Sierra-- oh the great plutonic mass
They are grey from age, peppered with white whiskers of snow
They are asking to be known as the interior
Pilgrims who traveled over their spines, seeking these fertile swampland
Now airstrips and dirigibles
The edges of clouds on the valley, the deserts and the mountains like folds of a book
they crackle in the sun and the skin of the earth shrinks in its gaze
Migratory birds dance in the fields, the lowly clang of bell
Bleached american flags tell us this is the land
The land of things and endless breadth
This is only California, but the majesty of it
a gem valley encased by the rocks, in silicates
A roaming place for cows, wanderers, farmers, dreams
Where the only edge of things is the mountains, saying
-Climb me, surmount me, lay me under your deeds-
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
People say dumb ****
Manure doesn't smell to good
Neither does your breath
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
I want to build your high horse a stable
let it rest a while
let it lay down with mine.
I want to mill that hot air
see it put to use
turning wheels
blowing glass
warming the soil after a frost.
We'll skip stones across still ponds which once were cast in judgement.
See all that manure bring forth lush vegetation
so that winged beasts may perch and call to the spring.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC