Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nira Dec 2017
If I collected my tears in a bottle, left it to the sea's mercy
Would you search for my tears among all that water?
Or would you just laugh with your liquid eyes
And lend me some milk and honey, milk and honey
The constellation of freckles mapped on your nose
Remind me of our milky way galaxy, of milk and honey

My eyes are leaking milk
My lips are drooling honey
Me eyes and lips leave behind
Milk and honey, milk and honey

Sometimes my words seem as empty as your promises
And that tears me apart worse than your love ever did
Limb by limb, ***** by *****, kiss by kiss
you dissected my love till I had nothing left to prove
Now I'm left wondering who made mistakes
Who sent me this bottle of milk and honey, milk and honey?

My eyes are watered by milk
My lips are touched by honey
My eyes and lips are flavored with
Milk and honey, milk and honey

Why do your cuss words sound like milk and honey?
You might be pathetic but oh what a pretty liar
Promises dripping with the water from your liquid eyes
If the symphony of my love ever touches your heart
Send me some milk and honey, milk and honey
Till then, I will l lie among the fallen pinecones

My eyes are turning into milk
My lips are turning into honey
My eyes and lips are now simply
Milk and honey, milk and honey

~If I ever wrote about milk and honey
I would write about you~

- n.g. // my fingers are sticky with your milk and honey //
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;

Once upon a time in the city of Omurate
In the southern part of Ethiopia
Omurate that is on Ethiopian boundary with Kenya
There were two prosperous animal families
Living side by side as good neighbours
in glory and pomp of riches
Each family was ostensibly rich
And rambunctious in social styles
They were the families of African rat family
And the Jewish cat family; the city belonged to them
They all enjoyed stocks of desert scorpions from Todanyang
From the savanna desert of Northern Kenya,
The two families also enjoyed to feed on desert locusts
On which they regularly fed without food squabbles
                               Locust themselves they flew from Lowarang to Omurate
From Lowarang a desert region in Kenya, to their city of Omurate
Sometimes the Jewish cat family enjoyed an extra dish
In form of puff adder flesh, especially the steak of the puff adder muscle
Puff adder were cheaply available in plenty at the lakeshore,
Lakeshores of Lake Turkana
At point which river Ormo enters into Lake Turkana
So the cat was happy and relaxed
Even it rarely mewed,  
Neighbours never often heard its mewing sound
The rat also enjoyed plenty of milk with no strain
Easily gotten from the rustled cattles
Cattle rustled by the Merilee; a warrior tribe in Omurate.

That day the cat had gulped milk since morning
Even its stomach was bulging
Like that of Kenyan state officer
The rat had milk all over the house
In the kitchen, milk allover
In the sitting room, milk in abundance
In the wash, room milk all through
On the bed, milk and stuffs of milk
The rat was bored with nothing to be enticed
Sometimes plenty of milk can become a bother
The rat mused to itself in foolish African empathy
That may be the cat is starving in pangs of hunger
With nothing to drink, or may be it has no milk
When the milk is rotting here in my house
It is un-African for food to rot in your house
When the neighbour’s belly is not full,
On these thoughts the rat washed its legs, and hands
Finished up with its face,
Put on its white short trouser and a green top
It stuffed its tail inside its white short trouser,
The rat poured milk into two pots,
each *** was full to the brim
It carried one in its left hand
And balanced another on its head
In its right hand was an African walking stick
For the elders known as Pakora
The rat took off to the home of the cat
In full feat of animal love and philanthropy
Whistling its favourite poem;
An Ode to a good neighbour,
Walking carefully lest it spills brimful milk,
It entered into the house of the cat without haste
Neither knocking nor waiting to be told come in
In that spectacular charisma of a good neighbour,
When the cat saw the rat it giggled two short giggles
And almost got choked by indecision
For it had been long since this happened,
Since the cat had dine on milk leave alone rat meat
The rat said to the Jewish cat that my brother
Have milk I have brought for you
Have it and sip here it is; the real milk,
In devilish calmness the cat told the rat;
Put it for me on the table, thank you,
But my friend Mr. rat don’t go away; there is more
More for you to help me in addition to milk,
Continue my brother Mr. Cat, how can I help you?
Don’t call me your brother; bursted the cat,
For it is long since I ate the rat meat
And you know rat meat is our stable food
In a frenetic feat of powerlessness the rat was confused
In attempt to save itself
it pleaded that my dear elder, I was
Only having plenty of milk in my house
And to us African rats, it is a taboo
To have a lot of food in your house
When the neighbour’s belly is not full
So I only brought you the present of Milk
Please have it and drink,
Without taciturnity the Cat retorted in persistence;
I know and I am thankful for your good manners
But remember with us Jewish cats it is heinous sin
Forget of a taboo, it is blasphemy against the living
God for one of us to leave the rat free from our house
For you rats are the only stable and kosher food God blessed for us
The Jewish rat family all over the world
So shut up your mandibles, I am to eat you first
Then I will take milk later as a relish.

With its herculean paw the cat crushed the rat
With mighty of the leopard culture
Throwing away the white trouser
And green top from the torso of the rat
The cat ate the rat with voracity of the devil
After which it punctuated its mid day appetite
With slow and relaxed sipping of milk
Slowly and slowly as it felt its internal greatness
And hence the African proverbial cry that;
Behold foolish angst kills the African rat!
Michael Kusi Dec 2017
Santa came down the chimney
He was glad the fireplace was not on this time.
He dusted himself off and checked his GPS.
Modern technology
Has made his job so much easier.
Santa remembered when he was using Mapquest
It was not pretty.
Trying to get into homes that did not have chimneys
Was no easy business.
He walked around the living room.
And did not see a tree.
So he took a plant from off the windowsill
And put the presents by it.
This should give them holiday cheer.

Santa then went to the cookies.
He was looking forward to the cookies and milk.
I hope they have chocolate milk
It is my favorite.
He saw the cookies
It was Macadamia nut.
Santa shook his head
It was not his favorite but he had to do.
Then Santa saw the milk
It looked like whole milk.
Santa sighed.
They are not bringing what Santa likes
He then drank the milk
And spat it out.
What is this?
Almond milk?
Why would you do that to Santa
He shouted.
Then ran into the kitchen so no one would see him.
Santa had to wash his mouth out.
All the while muttering
Almond milk, Almond milk?!
Almond milk is not even milk!
It is just potpourri that fakes being milk!
Real milk comes from animals that feed on land.
Not the land itself!

Suddenly a man came to the kitchen with his son.
And asked, What are you doing here?!
The son cried out, Daddy he ate your milk and cookies!
Santa tried to explain, I thought they were mine.
And soon left the home.
He went to his sleigh
And told himself, I really should have reviewed the naughty list.
These trips will be the end of me.
Almond milk and macademia cookies?!
What is this, all nut everything for Christmas?!
Peter 2:2

"Like new born babies, crave pure Spiritual Milk,

so that by it you grow up in your Salvation.

Now that you have tasted ,   know that the Lord is good."

Milk?  Yes, I would love to know your Spiritual Milk, and love to share all the Spiritual Milk that I have grown to know of my own Salvation. Know thyself, and thy Milk.  only seems fitting, before one goes thinking they wish to know anothers milk. Milk of any kind,that is. For I wish follow the Spiritual Milk before I know all the beautiful milks of any love I ever hope to share my life with.    For life I intend to be sharing my all with only one person and with that one person my full and whole life, for life.   What do you wish to do friends? and what Milk do you know of thyself?  beloved in yourself, you are able and worth it. trust, you are, so act accordingly and raise that milk and tithe your ten percent to your ark
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
She served milk toast on Sunday
She served milk toast on Monday
Milk toast is what you might guess
Milk on toast with sugar and cinnamon
That is all
She served milk toast on Tuesday
That is all
Four of the five complained
She served milk toast on Wednesday
All but one cried, “We hate milk toast!”
She served milk toast on Thursday with tears in her eyes
The littlest one saw his mother’s streaming salty fluid
He said, “Momma, I love milk toast.”
The streams turned into raging rivers
Amongst all the wetness came odd quirks of laughter
Momma mustered everything she could
Next thing out was, ”I’m taking that job Dean”
What could Dad say while he sopped up his milk toast?
That is when Momma went to work for the phone company
They never ate milk toast again
Some days you had no cinnamon.
JJ Hutton Feb 2013
swashbuckling kittens wallpaper -- cutlasses, eyepatches, royal blue bandanas --
lined the walls of the kitchen.

"you love it, don't you?" Mathilda asked. she poured me a glass of almond milk.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever. and ever. and ever.
fridge door open. it's sparse. a world weary McDonald's bag and a last chapter beer,
the only other tenants.

"it's neat," I said. don't care much for animals. don't hate them by any means,
but don't go out of my way for them. my analyst says it's Sparks, Oklahoma's fault.
see, when a boy, I had seven---no, eight kittens named Simba. the howl of the coyote
taught me about expiration dates. Had a hard time accepting total loss (e.g., eight Simbas).

"do you feel okay?" Mathilda asked. and I didn't. but I said,

"yeah, yeah. sorry about waking you up last night. just didn't think I could make it home."

"I noticed you slept perpendicular to the futon. with your sneakers on. interesting choice."

Mathilda can be funny. and the almond milk was good. and like I said, I could drink it with
her forever. the ceiling fan, though, rocked off-kilter. she had stray, sad balloons in orbit
around the fan. imagined the balloon with the red-lettered "BOO-YAH" entering the wake
of the wobbling blades. imagined the blades flying off one-by-one. imagined one striking
me in the head and freeing me of a hangover. imagined being in the back of the line outside
the gates of heaven, while St. Peter kept letting the hot, single girls cut in line.

"will you?" Mathilda repeated, I think.

"will I, what?"

"take a picture of me in front of the wallpaper."


"sorry, I've taken like 30 selfies trying to get Grace to re-notice me.
starting to feel like a chronic masturbator."

"what do you mean?"

"well, you know, selfies are pathetic indulgences in narcissism. hell, they can be
necessary, as is the case this time, I assure you---but pathetic, nonetheless."

took the phone. Mathilda stood in front of the pirate kitten wallpaper.
she leaned forward. made a kissy face.

"do you have to do that?" I asked.

"don't bust my *****," she said, "just take the photo. I know what Grace likes."

the two broke up last week. Mathilda in her oh-yeah-wanna-run-off-with-ol-banana-***** fury
threw a ******* party with balloons (they were tethered to things at the time.
the dining chairs, cabinet doors, the wrists of guests, etc., etc.). I left early that night.
I'm straight and not very relevant. so, well, you get it.

"would you like some coffee too?" she didn't look up. with locust clicks she fingered
the screen of her phone, uploading the kissy face, pirate kitten wallpaper picture to
her Tumblr. I nodded.

at the party she bedded two skeletal, Sylvia Plath feminists. self-fulfilling prophecy.
she'd written about the then-fictitious scenario months ago on her blog.
Mathilda called me crying the following morning. between the
shame/guilt/self-pity wails, she advised, "don't ever be the third wheel in a threeway."
noted. she said the three had a silent, last breakfast before they left. and I said something
to the effect of, you didn't let them go near the oven did you?

the first droplets of coffee hissed as they struck the bottom of the ***.

"if only coffee were a woman," Mathilda said. "am I right?"

"if coffee were a woman, I'm afraid I'd still pour her into a fine porcelain cup and drink her."

"you're awful."

and I am. but she doesn't mind because I've been celibate for two years, and she's been
so successful it brings her down. off-setting penalties, the basis of our friendship. or maybe
it's the way we leave things where they fall or rise. natural resting places. Simbas. balloons.

when the brew idles I grab two cups. fill hers three-quarters full. she likes almond milk in it.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever, I swear. to the fridge. the ceiling fan
seems a bit louder. one-by-one the blades. and heaven. and St. Peter, the pervert.
gave the almond milk a shake.

"why you holding on to the McDonald's bag and the practically empty beer?
I think they're starting to smell."

she didn't answer. well, not right away, anyway. and I took that to mean they belonged
to Grace. natural resting places. so, I mix the almond milk into the coffee.

"I know I should throw it out. Grace doesn't even like McDonald's. Do you know what's
in that bag?"

"I don't."



"yeah. one of her friends works there. just cut up some avocados for her."

what sacrilege. made me tired, you know? fast food avocados, selfies,
Sylvia Plath feminists, etc., etc. the ceiling fan sped up, for no reason, I think.
the balloons cast shadows over the dining table. and I could drink almond milk
with a lesbian forever. trust me. just not under those conditions. beeline for
the fridge. door open. snagged the bag of blacker-than-brown avocados
and the bottle of beer.

"stop. she could be back any day," Mathilda said.

and what I should of said was no. what I should have said was Grace,
for all intents and purposes, was dead. and what she was doing
was reusing a dead name. and reusing a dead name isn't a resurrection.
but what I said was, "okay." and I sat down under the ceiling fan.
my natural resting place. almond milk forever. and ever. and ever.
kakashi's wife Feb 2017
dear Jackson,
i saw you again today
with her.
i was going to talk to you until she pulled you into a kiss
and so i left it to another day

dear Jackson,
i saw you again with her
but this time she was looking away
and you looking at her, and i wondered
what were you thinking about?

dear Jackson,
she wasnt with you today
so i sat next to you and you told me
you had an argument with her
so i gave my condolences and you said not to worry

dear Jackson,
you were by yourself again today but came to me
you seemed really down and so i offered you strawberry milk
you smiled, and thanked me
i know she hates strawberry milk

dear Jackson,
you were with her again today
smiling this time and laughing
she had a banana milk in her hand as did you
and so i left

dear Jackson,
i didnt see you today
i wondered where you were
as i sat on the bench
drinking my strawberry milk

dear Jackson,
she was screaming at you today and you screamed back
she stormed off leaving you alone
as you sat with head in your hands
and i drank my strawberry milk

dear Jackson,
i gave you another strawberry milk
and you thanked me with a small grin
and we sat there drinking
and enjoying eachothers company

dear Jackson,
you should smile more
it really suits you
its just a shame that today
you smiled because of her

dear Jackson,
there was a strawberry milk in your locker
and she said it was from her
and you accepted it and kissed her
forgetting she hated strawberry milk

dear Jackson,
its been 5 months since weve spoken
and i sit here every day wishing
and drinking my strawberry milk
as you smile together
i was going to talk to you,
but whats the point.
inspired by milk and love
The milk is emptying
The milk is in drops
Drops down an earth
The milk of life

               The milk of love
               Is emptying……….
              A child is thirsting for

Crying for milk
Milk is genious
Milk is white,
Not black,
But mind is black………..
                   Like an
                   Empty sky..

By: Williamsji Maveli
Seán Mac Falls May 2012
Body of ocean, milk and sky,
We are tangled in the hope of night.
The lips of the milky way, creaming us,
Stains and is **** with a taste keening;
All is creation.  My meteors crash
Into your ruptured Earth.  I flame
Upon your must and moisted furrows
And my toes are locked, rooted in yours.

Body of ocean, milk and sky,
In the deserts of the day you are true
Oasis.  The curves and waft of your sands
Seethe and sodden my barren plains,
Are erasing all my wandering memories
Of an endless sky and now your eyes
Are the only stars I know, and your skin;
A sheet that holds the heavens shimmering.

Body of ocean, milk and sky,
Your ******* are the heaving of grasses
And wind, loft and laden in the rounded
Hills, a hoard of ****** bread, bountiful,
Ripe and strange.  Your hair is an endless
Savannah, your valleys are gold and honeyed
With milk, seared, filled by my penetrating sun.
In passion we play; low on earth and deep in sky.
Waverly Feb 2012
You and your gold doorknockers,
those two rings
of golden milk
in your ears,
I love you for the things
that go into your ears,
for the Odysseys
and Onegins
and all the love letters
of Abelard and Heloise
that make all that milk
into a cream.

Your hoops
hang high and tight
until you forget to take them out,
I like when you forget to take them out,
and in the mornings
I wake up
to your low-tolling jingle
in gallons
and the liveliness of your jaw
saying things
that wake me up
with a natural cheeser on my face
and questions galore
in my dry mouth
and lungs.
Dreams of Sepia Sep 2015
well I'm not
getting out of my pyjamas,
so the cat will have to go
One p.m, a week's ***** dishes in the sink
mind like a bog

& the new radio
doesn't work

& I want my coffee
but my purse
has had enough
of spending sprees
a POUND it says?
You *****!
You *****!
Forget all about that!
You spent everything
on coffee yesterday, remember?
hanging out in posh cafes
& all for what?
There is no milk!
Unfortunately, what's going on & how I'm feeling right now.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
sometimes it just takes a clear sky to clear your head,
i can remember the days of waking up
to earl grey of england, thick, bulging clouds,
none in the shape of cauliflowers,
or as some would claim: castles made of clouds;
it would just seem like a nuclear holocaust
happened - and that's how it really is,
the body's barometer, thankfully it's there,
and i can blame something outside of myself
and call it a mood, or a ****** cognitive narration.

unlike today, clear sky, crisp wintry blue,
slightly hazy on the edges of my vision,
and slightly pink, monet pink,
thin pink, nothing that could be compared
to a grapefruit pink, a fluorescent pink,
no... thin pink, thin atmospheric pink
teasing purple while dragging a bit of orange
behind with it.

and my breakfast, a cigarette and a glass
of quasi-skimmed milk,
ah, quasi-skimmed - ever so often coming
out of school i used to buy a pint of
full fat milk and drink it before getting
on the bus home... those old bottles of
milk that the milkman still delivers
      in the night... you could still buy them
in shops... haven't seen a bottle like
that in a shop for ages...
    last time i drank a bottle of milk like that
i stole one walking home,
left a pound and took the bottle...
   it's the tobacco hangover...
the phlegm needs to stay down...
milk lines the throat, while i smoke and
taste iron from cigarettte...
   semi-skimmed milk and a top of water...
at least the colour is still pristine ******
white... unlike the skimmed milk in red
cartons that looks: grey, or bruised...
but the effect is the same, but hardly.

yet what's the prompt though?
it's too early to be writing something sober...
just a word i used yesterday concerning
a book... anti
                                       c, h, i, r, s, t...
doesn't the concept usurp the third person of
the original trinity? i mean, who was he supposed
to be? pure animality of a dove, a symbol of peace?
these days philosophers say that the third person
isn't a person at all... but a suggestion of a community
of believers, a bit like the islamic *ummah
for centuries christianity was founded upon
the principle that the holy ghost was a person,
some kind of mediator between the son on earth
and the father in heaven... and perhaps even a transitional
tool for the son to embody the father via
the move from the earthly realm to the heavenly realm,
a "philosopher's stone" if you like:
christ's body of flesh and ash on earth, turned into
some ethereal body-substance in heaven...
    but these days, well, that link has faded,
the concept of community is gone...
         every older person will be cited as having said
that at some point...
     is that an argument to suggest that the holy ghost
was always a person, i.e. the paraclete?
well... if that be true, as c. g. jung suggests...
the notion of the paraclete ever arriving would usurp
the authority of the pope...
                or any eastern partriarch...
but then there are the philosophers who say that the holy
ghost was never a person, but a concept of a community,
a body, indeed, as any person might have:
but a collective body of believers...
   but given our modern times, or esp. the example
in england: there is no community of believers as such,
that has disappeared a short while ago,
the number of attendants of the church of england
has wavered to a slight nudge in %...
        evidently what has died is not god per se,
but the community established by the creed -
                  god is dead, well: a third of him...
in that context i completely agree -
   then what is happening has already been happening
for some time...
   and he sits at the left hand of the father...
no one else, but the antichrist, and with him
the spirit of the times: the zeitgeist...
       the one that states: revolutions and counter-revolutions,
for the ones one dispersed will shower upon
those formerly affirmed in ethnic and base root
of their lands to subsequently disperse.
    for has not the concept of the antichrist dispersed
the concept of the holy ghost?
unless of course one is to believe that the paraclete
is true, but rarely spoken about in mainstream
                at least in england, a third of god is dead,
that is: the holy ghost: a body of believers: a community
has vanished... for one, the urban environment has
killed off the once held belief that people could
live in small communities...
                                 we're all practically strangers
around here, even if we've lived next to someone
10 metres away from us for 10 years:
there's really no point making alliances now,
nor ever.
               the best we've accomplished with the death
of the high street, is a very nice looking prison...
our neighbours sometimes drop packages of
delivered goods that can't fit through the letterbox
while we were away...
   it's almost like living in someone's agoraphobia
la la land... that said: if that third of him ain't dead...
it's definitely sick, or in the process of dying...
adding the fact that for some the islamic ummah
is so tempting... because it actually is a community...
well... what do you know...

              time to get seconds of my breakfast.
Allen Robinson Jul 2016
A life giving
filled with
bountiful nutrients
Whole, 2% or skim
A classic favorite chocolate
cold or hot in my favorite mug
Mother's milk, milk and honey,
goats milk, buttermilk, milk ****,
almond milk, milk of magnesia,
soy & rice milk to name a few
Used to bake and cook fine
international dishes
or simply served ice
cold with a large slice
of cake or warm baked
cookie is always a most
perfect of combinations
Even in our very favorite
cereal, not just for breakfast
To feel grow by making a
thick MILK moustache
& showing it off for fun
all a part of growing up.

The pure  milk of life;
is not in drops;
not in a jar;
not in a bottle.
A new born
is crying for milk.
Milk is genius;
Milk is generous;
Milk is precious;
Milk is white
Milk is mother
But mind sometimes
is like a barren sky;
  No more drops;
               No more love !                
  The milk is emptying;
dropping down
The milk of life
The milk of love
is emptying;
    A child is thirsting for
A child is crying for .....
Revelations of Bluffed Words-Poem Page 16
(All poems in this series are, translations from Malayalam, originally written in author’s mother-tongue, “Malayalam’”, the language of Kerala, in South India.)  

The two elegant bulging tissues;
my thought  is on female issues;
Everyone loves it; nurture  it;
One touch on its ******
It becomes beautiful;
so adorable; so attractive;
No muscles; No hassles
All Nerves ending
at the breast;
The essence of life;
Milk of love
It is emptying from her;
The milk is in drops;
Drops down to the
Thirsts of babies in and around
The milk of life;  The milk of love
   A child is thirsting for milk......
Crying for milk
Milk is genius
Milk is white,
       Like an empty sky.......
When it comes to ****,
all eyes  lead to the ******,
which is the center
of  areola of sensation;
the aroma  of human
life and love..
I am fortunate to sip milk drops
from my mother’s *******. .........
By Williamsji Maveli

calm Jan 2018
Music blaring violently loud
You can hear it every word even though he's wearing headphones
Not concentrating,
He quickly goes through cupboards
Finding a glass
Then slowly but surely pulls open the fridge door
He wants a drink of milk, like when he was seven and rushing around the garden til his chest hurt
Having the time of his life
Until he needed a drink
Water? Yuck. Boooooring!
Juice? His mother would disapprove of that until after dinner.
Milk? Seems like the only good option.
The boy, now a man at 22 again, chuckles to himself as the song ends and he remembers what life was like as a child.
So innocent, so pure.

Then the song ends. A new one begins.
Your song.
His hand unwillingly jerks, spilling milk on the polished-to-perfection-counter,
He curses and puts down the bottle, sliding the cap on as tight as possible so he feels he still has strength in him.
He curses repeatedly,
But not because of the spilt milk.
But because he forgot.
All pictures were deleted from phones, all text messages ignored, all social media blocked
But he forgot about the song.

He hurries to find something to mop it up
And he tries hard not to
But he lets the lyrics pour into his brain
And he begins to crumble all over again

He remembers.
He remembers you telling him
"There's no point crying over spilt milk."
Yet his eyes are prickling with tears.
He chuckles because he thinks that's what he's doing
He believes that he is crying over spilling milk on his polished-to-perfection-counter in his tiny flat in the large, daunting city.
But he isn't.
And deep down
He hears a voice telling him he isn't.

But he won't listen to that voice.
He has to get over you.
He has gotten over you already.
Angry, pathetic tears fall down his face
As he sinks down to the ground
Looking into nowhere
But seeing only you

His hands tremble ever so slightly
As he fishes around for his phone
Buried deep in his pocket.
He begins to whimper slightly
But tells himself he is a grown up
And how he needs to act like one.

He slowly and uncertainly unlocks his phone
Which no longer has a selfie of him and you as a lockscreen
And fingers shaking with regret
He presses 'delete'
Just as the song ends

And just like that
Tears pour out of nowhere
As if he was suddenly hit on the back and they were pushed out
As if he was a bottle of milk
And someone's arm jolted
So what he had been holding in for too long
This is another oldie, as you can maybe tell from the way I wrote it. I've always liked this one of mine, even though it may not be my most well-written piece ever. I just love the emotion in it is all. Hope you enjoy.
Terry Collett May 2015
Goats milk? The woman said,
yes, I think I know a man who
can get you some, he keeps
goats you see. I nodded my

head. Our daughter can't drink
cow's milk brings her out in a
rash and gives her a funny
tummy. How old's your daughter?

The woman asked. About two
years or so, I replied. Yes, goat's
milk'll be best. She walked down
the path and off and I shut the door.

My daughters were playing some
game upon the floor, my wife
upstairs with our year born son.
We're getting you some goat's milk,

I said to Chan our second daughter.
Won't the goat mind me having its milk?
She asked. No,I said, it likes to share;
some for you and some for her.

And me? Danni said, I like goat's
milk, too, as I’m only three, and
three a small number next to two.
Yes, I suppose you both can, I said.

But not baby, Ole, she said, he's too
small, he has mummy's milk all to
himself. The girls carried on with
their game. I got ready to go to work

and the long walk there at a school
for boys a few miles away. I smoked
a quick cigarette watching our girls at play.
Aa Harvey Apr 2018
Milk a cow of all its milk

Milk a cow of all its milk.
Silk feels like a Dairy Milk Silk.
Fire your conscience and burn in Hell’s eternal fire.
Hire yourself a team of lawyers, if you decide to get any higher.

Mean what you say, but don’t be too mean.
Leave a puddle of tears in a tantrum,
When you have had enough of smoking your leaves.

Times they are a changing.  I think it’s a sign of the times.
March to war to administer peace,
Before the funeral march in March.

Water down your bottled water,
Before you get a problem like before.
Mother Nature is trying to tell you,
It’s time for you to become a Mother.

Dance a dance of lust and romance,
With anyone who loves you to dance.
Build up your hopes and fill up their lives;
Be happy together in the restaurant, before you get the bill.

Daughters don’t trust anyone;
For even a saint can bring the slaughter to your daughter.
Dress a Queen in a wedding dress.
An ant is still just an ant, even if you have named it Anne.

Break a promise to yourself of independence.
Fix it up with make believe and find a new romance;
A new way to dance the horizontal mambo.
Work for free, to find release,
Of money causing problems…Oh!
And don’t forget to quadruple,
Your first and last by-pass.
Sell your soul to Santa Claus;
Mom’s gone to Iceland to buy some Reindeers in packs.

Phone home E.T., there is no-one home.
Speak a little louder, use a megaphone.
Space – The Final Frontier.  
If you need to find some space;
Face the music, sing an encore,
Replace your hate with a smiley face.

(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Tommy Randell Feb 2017
Put Guinness on a mermaid’s tail
And it will turn to milk
Put that milk in a glass of tea
And drench away your ills

It will make all old men frisky
It will make all young men strong
And the mermaid’s tail will vanish
To give all men what they want

The seal will graze the meadow
The salmon swim the lanes
All Tax and Debts will vanish
We'll ride the gravy train

The taps will run with pennies
The pumps will pour with gold
There’ll be no lack of plenty
And the Craic will not go cold

But, should we drink this liquor
That has such a magic touch?
Could a glass so filled with wonder
Be filled with just too much?

Is Mermaid's Milk a fishy tale
Too marvellous to be true?
Have the Old Wives and the Fairies
Gone a step too far, or two?

Young men in their innocence
Old men in their prime
Should they fish the strands and beaches
Through the hours of Opening Time?

Well for the good of all the Craic
Pass the teapot down the Bar
If there's magic in the Mermaid's brew
I'll drink it by the jar

But let me never not drink porter
It's the Blood in Ireland's veins
For with Mermaid's Milk or The Guinness
My thirst is still the same.
A poem I wrote to be said at Irish Trad Music Sessions. It is my joy to play the Bodhran (drum) and recite a few tales and this one often gets me a cup of tea or two.
Umi Feb 2018
Mixing tea, let's say lavender with something as simple as milk
Must sound silly and weird at first glance, as both come with their
own tastes and flavors which seem to not match at all.
Even the most unmatching couple can find bliss, harmony and
perfection in their very relationship, however.
Such as for the tea;

The milk manages to soften, embrace, advertise the taste of lavender
while leaving a pleasant aftertaste which is alike a ghost poorly
detectable, but present nonetheless after all.
With some sugar to sweeten this experience, it becomes divine,
something I would never have thought of, of such an odd couple.
The image of the lavender becomes overdrawn by the milk,
Engaging in a pure, creamy, brief white which reflects light just
in a majestic sense.
This is a taste to become lost in whilst reading a book in the best
of lightings, together with someone who causes your heart to race
and just turn ablaze

~ Umi
Riley Swett Nov 2019
Your memories stain my mind like your lipstick

On my mugs. The scent of you intertwined with coffee.

At this empty table I sit, my body a shell.

I remember you across from me, adding milk

Into my cup. I can still picture the past

Too well. I can’t say this isn’t fair.

From the moment you saw my eyes wander at the fair

I knew you no longer wore your lipstick

For me. What we had was now in the past.

We still kissed, but now we wouldn’t share our coffee;

No longer did we share the small things. Milk

No longer in my cup, bitter brew filling my shell.

I miss your presence, allowing me to shell

Out the love I held for you. Is it fair

To want you here? I want you to add milk

To my cup even though I hate it. Your lipstick

Stain, still on my mug, mixing your flavors with my coffee.

I still haven’t wiped it off to protect our past.

I wasn’t this addicted to you in the past

But I’ve begun to hate this empty shell.

I’ve never hated sharing love with you. Now coffee

With you no longer exists. Not after the fair.

You no longer stained mugs, you only placed somber lipstick

Upon my mouth. A mouth who can’t stand coffee and milk.

I don’t know how I took it for so long. Milk

Made me sick. What happened is in the past.

It matters not where you place your lipstick

Whether your stains are on my mug, or my shell-

There is no question that this is fair.

I didn’t appreciate your love in our coffee

Now I cannot tell you how much that coffee

Means to me. How much I miss it with milk.

I wish I could say what you did wasn’t fair.

I still cannot rid myself of our past.

I want to wipe you off my mugs, off my shell.

You’re gone, but I can still see your lipstick.

I sit alone, drinking coffee with our past.

No longer is milk filling my vacant shell.

Is it really fair to long for your lipstick?
This poem express my lost love and my longing for the small things we shared together. This is written in the form of a sestina but not strictly in iambic pentameter.
The Terry Tree Dec 2014
In fields you walk with cloven wanderlust
With blankets carried on your back as fleece
Protecting fellow sheep-fold innocence
From devious behavior in the flock
Smiling as you bleat and stride as golden
Reflecting rays like sunlit drops of milk

A lamb of God your knowledge is your milk
Your curiosity breathes wanderlust
A message from the ancient one baas golden
Engraved upon your heart and curls of fleece
Observe the blessed range within your flock
Stray not for you may lose your innocence

A fog in hills may blind your innocence
Beware the wolf will take more than your milk
And with each day you bond among your flock
Behold the beauty of group wanderlust
We thank you for your warm and cherished fleece
That soothes us as earth's twilight breaks golden

Glory to the impossible golden
For myths of your spiritual innocence
Merely trumpets what liberates your fleece
The holy grail is your chalice of milk
Discovered in a cave of wanderlust
Restful within the shadow of your flock

What joy is raised in stables of your flock
An offering of ritual golden
Pasture of thirsty hearts in wanderlust
You teach us to hold fast to innocence
How precious is the richness of your milk
Our comfort is to rest our heads on fleece

A new dawn to behold an age of fleece
A new dusk to protect an ancient flock
A new day to preserve the gift of milk
A new memory to hold futures golden
A never ending age of innocence
A satiated age of wanderlust

Fruitful wanderlust of black sage fleece
Shepherds innocence to a white cloaked flock
Prepare ye golden moments with thine milk

Poetic Form | Sestina
A sestina is a form of poetry that uses a method of repeating words at the end of each line. It has 6 stanzas of 6 lines each, with an envoy (or tercet) of three lines to conclude the poem.
LJ May 2016
You age like wine
but you are mine
Young and old

I age like milk
but I am fine
A clever fool

You age like wine
blessed and saved
loved and wanted

I age like milk
brave and alive
strong and sure

You age like wine
sweet and immature
naive and suave  

I age like milk
pretty and patient
loaded and free
Women age like they mature we are clever but overloaded!
Men age like wine...... as they mature they are finely antiquated!
"Don't fight Feminists".... just an observation and debate I had with comrades!
Phoebe Caitlin Aug 2013
Suspicious milk
There when I got home
In a tub
Surrounded by water
Or milk blood
Ostracised from the fridge
Left alone to die
Did you commit milk atrocities?
****** innocent milk bottles?
Or maybe you're a secret agent
The names skimmed
He's like the FBI in your fridge!
He's like the CIA on your cereal!
He's like the MI5 for your cookies!
Did you get all that
Full fat?
After those Oreos!
With their twisting
Dunking their souls into the blood of our young
Or maybe not
Cow juice, alone on the breakfast bar
Not that far
Milk on the sill, defrosting.
Sydney Ann Nov 2014
Mu chocolate milk has been removed
My parents are so hard to fool!
They saw my mostly chocolate milk
The bottom caked in choco-silt
And now my happy wants to wilt
Goodbye my tasty chocolate milk!
Sometime everybody's gonna throw you down
Talk **** and look at you as a clown
Life is just a big bowl of soup
Everyone's in a group and I'm siting in ****
Well I couldn't give a ****
And I wouldn't give a ****
People spike their ego and stick to it

There wasn't a clue
Not a person knew
Emotions were starving
When I needed help, I used to look for you

It's like you didn't exist
Not a single trace
Wish I could still say a lil' somethin' to your face

Always when I needed you, you were never there
You were living a dream and I was in a nightmare
Everyone is never who they seem
You and I were never on the same team
Just sugar coat it with cream

My milk and cookies are there for me
No one else is around
To pick me up off the ground
But I don't give a ****
Cause I got milk and cookies

It's been a while since I heard
Last time it somehow resembled a ****
Things used to be so great
Right before I walked out that gate

This was only a one way ticket
After that all I heard was a cricket

But I still wanted to hold on
I turned to look back but you were gone

This problem was never solved
All my friendships dissolved
Guess I didn't fall in orbit to revolve

My milk and cookies are there for me
No one else is around
To pick me up off the ground
But I don't give a ****
Cause I got milk and cookies

I'll never submit
Cause you'll never admit
To all the *******
These cries seem unfit
all rights reserved
Wake up in the morning, clock says 8:23. Step into the kitchen, feeling that something is missing.
Open the fridge, Outa milk??? How could this beee?! I went to Sam’s Club - he stocked me up extra plenty!!!
I need to make a dash to the store, but if I get on the bus, this could take an hour or more.
So I quickly dress, not at all to impress. Just throw on my clothes and head out the door.
Standing outside in a panic, I start scratching all over my body like an addict.
Cereal and milk, I gots to have it!
Leaving me no other choice, I hop on the bus. My hands are shaking, making me look like a fiend.
Then I notice Bomb-Shell Betty, the ’98 prom queen, sitting in the back not looking so pretty.
I remember when she was going steady with TEDDY GRAHAMS - dude used to give me his answers to all of the math exams.
Sitting in front of me are four ladies who go by the names of FRUITY PEBBLES, COOKIE CRISP, HONEY COMB, and SUGAR SMACKS.
Who are they fooling??? Never skipping a beat, they are always getting their KIX turning TRIX on 126th Street.
They are quite the lovely bunch. I believe their **** is going by the name of CAP’N CRUNCH.
I am feeling kinda desperate today, thinking about spending time with FRUITY PEBBLES, but she only takes cash, and all I have are CHEX.  
My impatience is starting to run thin cause all I can think about is running in the store and grabbing a gallon of milk.
Then the bus stops… Who can it be? Oh, it’s my old neighbor, Tom Foolery.
He has a mouth full of chrome and wears ten pounds of jewelry.  With tattoo-covered arms, he enters with his pal, LUCKY CHARMS.
The two sit next to the 126th crew.  They are spitting game - that is really lame.
They are bragging who is better at shooting hoops. They just sound like a bunch of FRUIT LOOPS.
So I chime in and say, “I can eat more RAISIN BRAN than any other man throughout the entire land without going to the can, and if you don’t believe me, just ask my POPS!”
They look at me with complete shock.  Not a word to be heard, they turn around.  I sit there in silence, feeling like a big nerd.
Bus stops again.  A pale man enters on in.  He is tall and thin, wears a brown suit, and has a funny grin.
He looks kinda scary but seems ever-so-merry with his hands locked with his BOO BERRY.
Finally!! Through the glass I can see the supermarket is slowly approaching, and all I can say is, Yippy Frickin Skippy! Bout time.
Just before the bus stops, I jump out the window and drop to my knees, kiss the ground, and scream, “Hallelujah!!!”    
In the front of the store stands General Mills, recruiting potential cereal box models.  He asks, “How ya doing?”  I mutter, “What’s it to ya?”
I run towards the back where the much-needed milk is shelved.  I grab me a gallon and head to the check-outs.
Aisle one has no one in line, so this is a clear sign that things are starting to turn out just fine.
Then suddenly I see a white sign with black ink stating, Chex not Accepted…..
LIFE can be a *****!
Anybody remember Teddy Graham cereal?
her milk is him

her eyes are full of good tidings,
washing my body with lavender soap cake,
all the dirt crumbs of a hard life drained
into a circle of holes that carry away carings,
to places where their squeaking can’t be heard

her hands, pillows for a head so sorrow-weighty,
her body, her hips, a bed upon to rest,
and he wonders,
how did he exist before she become his nest,
her hair of grass, now, a coverlet for twigs and strings,
when then he laid his body down for disturbed sleep

her milk is him, a restorative that refreshes his content,
how did, once upon a time, he let existence subtract
his time on earth without any relativity, time unrecognizable,
he was in no one place, pathless, subsidizing nothing,
unable to distinguish tween the straight and the curved

her milk in him, whitens his soul, she calls out,
you are my shepherd, my king, my David,
my white marble sculpture of our current existence,
when you drink the white of me, it is I who is fulfilled,
when you write of me, your milk is me

Luke 24:44
Then he said, “When I was with you before, I told you that everything written about me in the law of Moses and the prophets and in the Psalms must be fulfilled.”
Iraira Cedillo Mar 2014
Come! Supper is ready
Come! Boys and girls now,
For her is fresh milk
From the good molly cow.

Have done with your fife
And your row de dow dow,
And taste this sweet milk
From the good Molly cow

Whoever is fretting
Must clear up his brow,
Or he'll have no milk
From the good molly cow

And here is Miss *****;
She means by mee ow,
Give me too some milk
From the good Molly cow

When children are hungry,
Oh who can tell how
They love the fresh milk
From the good Molly cow

So when you meet Molly
Please say, with a bow,
"Thank you for your milk,
Mrs.good Molly cow."
By Iraira cedillo
JM McCann Mar 2015
The carpet all around me
my little island lonely to no one.
Little flourishes in the carpet  twisting back on each other
and back again,
rolling endlessly this way then having a change of heart
and bending back the other way.
Flowing freely on its canvas.
The stunning flowers, looking surprised as
I focus on it.

I sit, a lethargic tiger, my picture of myself.
The television perched ready
for the next greatest thing.
My head, static on my shoulder,
a boulder resting on itself.
The gentle hum of air conditioner.
With great effort
I gaze slowly out the window,
up past the air conditioner,  
past the base of the metal frame
where the tree idly stands.  
My eyes lift past them, to the heavens
The clouds content where they are, slowly pulled along.
A greater force heaving, making gentle progress.

The edges of my chair start to form.
My arm resting on the soft fuzzy border,
my stomach hazy in deep territory,
my toes out beyond the border.
In a disjointed synchrony I make my way to
the fridge. The blank door swung open
rotting milk, and a once great fish.

The milk fading, a gentle
fade, not hurrying, but the milk, not taking its time.
A  tad yellowish but still white.

The milk a long fierce journey,
perhaps having bounced around the world,
for it to be as is now.
through turbulent oceans, did it see the endlessly taunting
of the ocean? What did I miss?! Did it see the gentle waves
thrash mercilessly? Did it see the infinities of life?
Did it see the octopi dying for the young ones?
Did it see storm clouds change course for their safe passage?
Did it see nature play its hand?
Even if it saw nothing at all,
I envy the milk with the hint of yellow!
Doorways without doors the milks unknown voyage.
It of course could have easily just came from
a farm down the road in a truck with a billion
other containers of milk, on a well traveled path,
the only question, why?

I sigh knowing, the best I’ll get is “an answer” trying
to sell me some more milk. Though the best questions
should never be properly answered.

No answers in the fridge, and I’m still hungry.

The smell of the fish overpowers me.
The smell of the ocean, of the seas of
what we did to them!
Of how the same fish, epitomizing
turned noses, once part of something grander than us.
We have seen the tops of the world,
flew down rivers and
cut through the skies,
held enough power to send a man
to the moon and back in the palm of our hands,
yet never been to the places that the fish has been.
We have clear lines and boundaries, yet
No walls separate what we haven’t seen.
No limits.

A  school flows by,
barrel rolls and flips, each individual
showing off amiable bubbles.
A collective direction, no agreements
just space, the sandy floor free of motion.
The floor free quiet, a gentle bed.
Taking their time, a place
to be but never of the essence.
A lump in the distance,
a dip behind them. Slowly becoming
something more, something grander.
A mast starts to form a gift from above
no gentle giveaway.
A hellish panic.
The alarms bell ringing panicked
sailors, a vault flows by. Nobody looks twice. The
earth slowly swallowing the meal, as
if to enjoy each taste and make it last.
The fish intrigued.
Ignorant of the history. Wooden ruins, choral
the dead ship alive!

A shadow crosses the sun.
A sleek shark shows its hand.
The school flees the table.
The shark chases demanding to be payed.
Flying towards the old gift they dive into
the maze.
Only coral in the doorway to the left.
He keeps pursuing.
The group scatters.
Pretenses over
some failing.
Sharp teeth cut indifferently.
New respect for the fragility of water.
Not just joy when they swim now, but a heartbroken celebration
flying along the streams with a learnt respect.
Celebrating each other.

My shadow, catches me off guard, flees up
the wall and up past the celling.
I watch it go and
stumble and look down to see what caused me
to see only my feet and the floor. Oak wood strips
make the floor solid. Endless minuscule canyons
carved below me. Wavy sand dunes and craters sit atop the canyons.  
Rivers flowing separating sides.
Rocks calaborating, blocking paths,
creating treasures.  

Surely somewhere down there a couple holding hands,
a dingo eyeing its next meal watching intently,
solely focused on the ****.  
Perhaps a number of tourists, impressed with the landscape,
snapping pictures of the stone valley.
All wondering at the rocks, meticulously placed.
Tourists cooling off in the rivers.
  Maybe just maybe though
a pair of strangers bump into each other on a
narrow trail, and instead of passing by,
both of them will leave all the better for it.
To defy nature and prove to the landscape, that
people can exist in your world and respect
your customs but play by different rules.
That we have made progress! Not just in phones
but in the barren glory of canyons.
Maybe then the stranger will bump into
the tourists and offer out a hand.

Then the couple will make love,
the tourists will take more photos,
the dingo will eye more food,
the drumbeat will likely stay the same
but maybe just maybe though
the stranger will start something
and help out another stranger,
New music to all who will listen.
Lost completely but with no need to be found.
Any feed back is always welcome! Hope this does something.
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2017
Body of ocean, milk and sky,
We are tangled in the hope of night.
The lips of the milky way, creaming us,
Stains and is **** with a taste keening;
All is creation.  My meteors crash
Into your ruptured Earth.  I flame
Upon your must and moisted furrows
And my toes are locked, rooted in yours.

Body of ocean, milk and sky,
In the deserts of the day you are true
Oasis.  The curves and waft of your sands
Seethe and sodden my barren plains,
Are erasing all my wandering memories
Of an endless sky and now your eyes
Are the only stars I know, and your skin;
A sheet that holds the heavens shimmering.

Body of ocean, milk and sky,
Your ******* are the heaving of grasses
And wind, loft and laden in the rounded
Hills, a hoard of ****** bread, bountiful,
Ripe and strange.  Your hair is an endless
Savannah, your valleys are gold and honeyed
With milk, seared, filled by my penetrating sun.
In passion we play; low on earth and deep in sky.
What happens when the good girl goes bad
like the spoiled milk she left out?
Because I couldn't seem to get up.
I think it was something about acknowledging that I'm alive, I'm here.
Wouldn't it all be easier if I wasn't?

When the good girl goes bad
because she worked her *** off on that paper and only got a C.

When the good girl goes bad
because the world doesn't treat her right,
but I guess it must because that's
how come I'm the good girl.
Not my depressed sister sitting in her room;
not my other sister running around, destroying everything I had to work for;
most definitely
not my other sister who always seemed to be your favorite but is now smashing plates in our backyard,
'cause I guess that's what happens if you get too close to you.

When the good girl goes bad,
you get angry because
I'm supposed to be your perfect child
not supposed to be
your ***** up child
your lonely child
your lazy child
your anxious child
not supposed to be
your good for nothing child
your dysfunctional child
your doesn't give a **** about anything anymore child.
why don't I ******* give a **** about anything anymore?

When the good girl goes bad
your life falls apart,
because clearly
you had enough to deal with already,
because clearly
this is all my fault,
because clearly
you don't have the time to face your good girl
because clearly
that's all on me.

When the good girl goes bad
because you left her out on the counter all those years, sitting there to rot.
And though I know that you can't waste your time putting it away, 'cause you never cared for it anyway,
maybe you shouldn't have bought the milk if you didn't want to drink it.
And I know the milk should take care of itself
but I tried and that only works for a couple of years
before the good girl gone bad falls far off the counter, spills across the floor,
and the only thing left is to throw that nasty old milk away
because your bread, eggs, oil, etc. need your attention
and it's just too late for the good girl.

When the good girl goes bad
because she never asked to be the good girl
or maybe I did, I don't really remember,
but not like this.
I just wanted to be loved
but little did I know that
the good girl just sits there
keeping herself afloat,
but the boat can't guide itself if it wasn't given eyes.
The boat can't patch itself if you keep telling it its still brand new
when its really old, broken, and covered in holes.
You shouldn't put a boat in the water if you know its going to sink,
but I guess you only really need a couple good boats
so you can just toss the good girl.

When mama's little good girl goes bad,
she feels guilty
because she was told she'd always be
the good girl.
Though, its hard being the good girl when you don't have any windshield wipers for your tears at night.
But the tears at night aren't supposed to exist
I'm still mama's mother ******' good girl,
please pretend I haven't gone bad.
I added to what was originally posted. I was having some technical issues and decided to just post what I had before, but this is the full poem (5/16/18)
He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He put the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
Into the coffee with milk
With a small spoon
He churned
He drank the coffee
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He emptied the coffee with milk
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He lighted
One cigarette
He made circles
With the smoke
He shook off the ash
Into the ashtray
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
He got up
He put on
A hat on his head
He put on
A raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
Into the rain
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
And I buried
My face in my hands
And I cried

— The End —