"milkmaid" poems
I like to do those quizzes
in glossy bubbles that you
find
in Cosmopolitan and
Elle and
Seventeen.
Which girl should I be?
Should I
dump paper flowers
on my milkmaid braid?
Long skirts, long chains, and
Beatles on my radio
during their ‘Indian’ phase?
Should I
paint it all
black, strip life down to
a middle finger,
blare punk at full
scream,
and cram my toes in ratty Docs,
smash all emotion
into smithereens?
Should I
sugar-coat my mouth with
Maybelline, button up
collars, laughs, opinions,
read books on behaving
just like a
daydream,
sip teas, bake cookies, aim for
Ivy Leagues?
Which gilded box do I crawl
into?
Which skin to don
this week?
Which fashion editor-friendly
stereotype to fulfil?
Which girl should I be?
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..."
( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD )
She believed that
deep deep inside her
the flame of a femme fatale
burned brightly.
Could imagine herself stepping out of
some classic Film Noir.
Cultivated herself
to look like Marie Windsor
opposite the dangerously gorgeous
John Garfield.
But her life it seemed had her
stepping into an Edward Hopper.
The isolation and the paint
still wet.
The lonely lady
glimpsed in an hotel window
from a passing train
autumnal rain.
Still she acted always as if
she was in her own movie l
walking around her tiny flat
naked
except for red stilettos
red earrings...red lipstick.
Making up her own snappy lines
to some imaginary leading man.
"Are you decent?"
"Yes""
"But you're....you're naked!"
"You only asked if I was decent!"
The mirror laughed
catching the reflection of who
she could have been
given half the chance.
She never
stood a chance.
She threw a cigarette up in the air
caught it between her lips
her one and only
party trick.
Lit or unlit.
Searching for middle C
on a battered piano
her mind off key
abandoning it
the piano's yellow smile.
She watched the sunlight
carve a block of time
out of the dividing wall.
fading the wallpaper roses.
The bed that was always
empty...always unmade.
She danced to Weill's
Youkali Tango.
Put it on again...again.
Scratching an already scratched record.
The needle gathering fluff.
The porcelain milkmaid...dust.
She disliked the way sweat
gathered under her *******
They were always a little too large.
Hated men staring so hard.
Ahhhh the faded romance
a sunset heart attack.
Couldn't have wrote
herself a better script.
Staggering in her dance
gasping that all too unsubstantial
air as if trying to
catch time
the presentpastfuture
falling out of her hand.
The wooden acorn
of the tattered blind
tapping against
the ***** window pane.
Neon going green.
Then red.
Now blue.
And then green again.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
What had happened tis ecstasy
i know what my limit and limitations...
even i am not perfect in this language
I never laugh at any one......
i know someone misunderstood about me
but i was true
my feelings were pure
...............think again
don't judge me wrong
you are the one i love and will ever love
i feel ecstasy with your thought
mere passion is not enough in relationship
.....relationship is very conscious one ...;
.......i know HISTORY
true love never run smooth
i never would like to insult you
....................think again
what you and your reputation is
i much careful about it .
I never break heart ....
never deals in disguise
forever i liked your manners
.............think again
how could i give touchstone
to my milkmaid sweetheart
never ;
no ;not ;
never in my mind.
How could i forget
you taught me MILTON
john Donne and all...
how could i behave like other passionate shepherd
like them
those who tries to tempt love with beds of roses;
fragrant posies ;fair lined slipper and so on....
......................think again
i know my LOVE was pure and now it is.
Not count me in any psychological theory
it was all humble feelings of my heart..
....you ask your heart
it will give you real answer.
WHAT IS LOVE?.....its philosophy...
is it beyond the physic ?...yes it is metaphysical love.
i tell you my feelings were pure
each and every gesture of mine was pure
i never supply often unrealistic emotional response
to you.....
.......cowards only sin ;
good man
never.....
no ;not ;even in my mind.
o sweetheart please ....it mind.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
What had happened tis ecstasy
i know what my limit and limitations...
even i am not perfect in this language
I never laugh at any one......
i know someone misunderstood about me
but i was true
my feelings were pure
...............think again
don't judge me wrong
you are the one i love and will ever love
i feel ecstasy with your thought
mere passion is not enough in relationship
.....relationship is very conscious one ...;
.......i know HISTORY
true love never run smooth
i never would like to insult you
....................think again
what you and your reputation is
i much careful about it .
I never break heart ....
never deals in disguise
forever i liked your manners
.............think again
how could i give touchstone
to my milkmaid sweetheart
never ;
no ;not ;
never in my mind.
How could i forget
you taught me MILTON
john Donne and all...
how could i behave like other passionate shepherd
like them
those who tries to tempt love with beds of roses;
fragrant posies ;fair lined slipper and so on....
......................think again
i know my LOVE was pure and now it is.
Not count me in any psychological theory
it was all humble feelings of my heart..
....you ask your heart
it will give you real answer.
WHAT IS LOVE?.....its philosophy...
is it beyond the physic ?...yes it is metaphysical love.
i tell you my feelings were pure
each and every gesture of mine was pure
i never supply often unrealistic emotional response
to you.....
.......cowards only sin ;
good man
never.....
no ;not ;even in my mind.
o sweetheart please ....it mind.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
The color green with drops of dew spreading on eternally
The darker woods to meet the green over on the edge
A meadow, dandelions grow waiting to be wished upon
The insects crawl upon the earth not caring, knowing, needing
She meets him here (in thought) too often situations running wild
As in her mind he comes to her with only her upon his brain
No other girl; reality can't touch her in the meadow
His breath descends upon her close, her lips anticipate the same
This wish this kiss electrifies with new decisions made and kept
She sighs alone not knowing if his lips do taste of sweet or brine
He himself becomes translucent, wavers, bends, and slips to nothing
Only here where wishes come to be as real as flesh and bone
Have two lips met so real to her and yet so obviously not
Perhaps someday, even today, who knows the answer, no one does
But for the moment she's alone to wish in fields of dandelions.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 10:21 AM UTC
Never marry a milkmaid
as she will
milk
You dry
:)
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
A small candle-lit flame
Lights the way
Along the dusty corridor,
Meager warmth it provides
As I shuffle quietly over
Warped and weathered floorboards
That sigh tiredly under my feet,
Blank orbs skim over
Hand painted portraits
Looking only for one,
I pause at a high arched window
A servant left it ajar
To catch the midsummer breeze,
Moonlight spills softly
Over rolling hillsides
Fresh with midnight dew,
Swallows slumber softly
So the bats fly on in euphoric glee
Unto the fruit trees,
Wistfully I leave
The picturesque scene
For my own bland world,
Moonlight leaks through the cracks
Of this high and lofty house
That only befriends spirits,
A gust of air stumbles down the hall
Only to tumble around blindly
Yet steals my flame when it sulks away,
I continue on without pause
The way known by my limbs
As well as my mind,
Hollow and barren is my heart
Since you left
For the bittersweet life after death,
I reach for your likeness
But fingers touch
Only cool, cracked paint,
Her portrait is gone
I hear someone screaming
And realize it is I.
~~~
"Whose cries were those
o' servant?"
"Why those were my masters
dear milkmaid."
"Why does he scream so?
Such agony, I've never
heard the like."
"His wife died nigh on ten years ago,
and long since has her portrait
been gone by his own request."
"It cannot be so?"
"'Tis. Ere' night he wanders
the halls in search of her,
but only to be foiled
by his own hand."
"Ah the poor soul."
"Aye and in the the morn he remembers
naught.."
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 5:05 PM UTC
wander five feet above,
on a shivering branch.
pink, nubile and unprepared.
south is the wind
and face it, as it pours milkmaid dutch
down the weighed, sagging ravines on your cheeks.
rain climbing eyelids,
wave falling on the sea wall.
“a rumor spread about an area where a virgin’s blood was painted on an electric line.”
****** lacquer your teeth.
assume mother’s mantle,
live in deliberate anonymity.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
I'm feeling real heavy.
One shoulder pressed like a plow
into the soft give,
a grey mouse folded inside
my trusty tin can.
Cheek nuzzled against the pillow,
like a cat's against the milkmaid's knee.
A mole,
I dig my own earthy cellar.
Quiet, safe in cotton.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Erin
by Michael R. Burch
All that’s left of Ireland is her hair—
bright carrot—and her milkmaid-pallid skin,
her brilliant air of cavalier despair,
her train of children—some conceived in sin,
the others to avoid it. For nowhere
is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin,
gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair!
How can men look upon her and not spin
like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air?
They buy. They ***** to pat her nyloned shin,
to share her elevated, pale Despair ...
to find at last two spirits ease no one’s.
All that’s left of Ireland is the Care,
her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’.
Keywords/Tags: sonnet, Ireland, Erin, hair, red, carrot, skin, pale, pallid, fair, devout, children, sin, adultery, gay, skirt, skirts, men, lust, desire, passion, arousal, radiance, nylon, nylons, tights, stockings, pantyhose, beer, ale, alcohol, ***** spirits, drink, drinking, pub, bar, club, care, worry, anxiety, grin, smile, green eyes, leprechauns
Mar 7, 2020
Mar 7, 2020 at 4:37 AM UTC
"It's quite a pretty hell,
quite a pretty hell,"
said the wilting woman
to her plastic window self,
a half-tint fetch, etched
in the eye of the weevil
threading the black dough
of the crosstown bus route.
The nightclubbers behind her
exchange glances and hold hands
as she begins to hum to herself,
but the unvarnished melody
lodges in an angle of odd brain
& soon I'm humming it too
as I step into 18th Street's maw,
already bristling neon sweet
with milkmaid dress hems
threshing ruptured doorsteps -
turning up my street I catch
a last sight of the shushed bus husk
crawling away northwards
with only a scratching hum inside
for its heartbeat, and a face lost
in the catacomb of its reflection.
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 11:07 PM UTC
Autumn is the priest of pride.
Her shadows lifts a gentle fragrance
that farmhands duly celebrate.
The coffin makers drink a sweet nectar
that lifts their souls.
The milkmaid idolises memories of her first love.
August is this flame
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 4:33 AM UTC
*I'm watching the red lights of an airplane
One of its passengers notice the glow
of a tiny brick house with a man at the window , his thoughts
are training , his creativity sailing , his passion for
midnight poetry waning , his demons complaining
The volume of thought fading
It's really no different from all the other homes
All the other Jills and Johns , the would-be vagabonds
The starving music minstrels , we're just tag-alongs ,
trying to decipher right from wrong , standing in
the corporate soup line for our bowl to be filled
Mouths agape like baby birds , a spool of film repeating
act one of a movie , some nerd gets the girl , the milkmaid
becomes queen , a Hollywood hunk saves the world
Fly on jet airliner , may your occupants find life's pearl
Clarity in the daily whirl , the worm in the bottom of the Tequila bottle
Send them safely to their families full throttle* ...
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
Feed me a question darling milkmaid
Not the nourishing liquid but a perplexing
Openness of the vast curve with a dot
Dropped like an atomic bomb
What is left after all the ties are cut?
Is there a but or an and or maybe...
Multitude of dots to signify
My directionless struggle
To abandon the uncomfortable
Safety with it’s dangerous allure
And grotesque predictability
Promising to swallow me whole
As if the dark void inside I can’t let go
Has substance beyond any measure
What is left of the dairymaid
After the king is settled for what was
Expected
Of someone else
That he never was
And they never knew
And she never spoke up
Waiting patiently
For her women’s share of beating
Hated more than hell
So powerful she was in her
Dangerous powerlessness
Until the last breath
She held herself under his thumb
Proper girl, ********** held by the brackets
Of what others couldn’t comprehend
And the ear already heard
And the eye struggled to find
Spontaneity buried 6 feet under
The past of shameful
Helplessness
The burning bush
The king proclaimed
A shameful rhetoric
Which held none of his
Essence
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 11:53 PM UTC
Harry casts bullets every **** shift
He beats up his wife and watches TV
At any time he could sneak away to his neighbor
But he goes to the garage to play the blues
Maria is a granddaughter of a witch
She burns candles and sings sad songs
Her grandmother seduced all the men in town
And the girl lives alone
So many strange people
So many sad eyes
Resembling a steeple
Their hands clasp… And time flies…
Kelly works as a milkmaid at a farm
Village children come to her with a jug
Every night she prays to God to send her a baby
But her doctor says there is no such drug
The wino priest Austin carves wooden birds
Every night he waits for UFOs
Fifty years on, there’s no signal from space
And on the grave of his son there’s a fresh red rose.
So many strange people
So many sad eyes
Resembling a steeple
Their hands clasp… And time flies…
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 7:56 AM UTC
Haiku
With a lump of clay
Her hands erected a vase
Sensual flowers
Haiku
Experienced fingers
Squeeze the cow's teats tenderly
A dreaming milkmaid
Haiku
Yesterday was sunny
Today the sun also shines
Tomorrow who knows?
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
no wolf
walks here
no serpent
slides
no eight-legged
steed rides
just a soul alive
still, born of
a milkmaid
under earth
Lokabur
in me who
treads this
new earth
silently...
Nov 16, 2023
Nov 16, 2023 at 10:48 AM UTC
Fields are sown with muckle corn,
And ruby roots, and dust of bread,
And tended by a buxom girl
With plaits wound round her golden head.
Her womb a dripping, ripened fruit,
Eaten by a sleeping babe,
A product of her fervent lust,
Seduced amongst the summer hay.
A flashing smile, and muscled thigh,
And hand gripped round her slimmer curves,
The smoke and ale upon his breath
commingle with her urgent love.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC