"milkmaids" poems
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round,
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the **** hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
5.1k
Ascend and crown the sky, amazing lark
You cannot know what joy you bring
To this winter-weary heart
Bumble on, friendly bee
You do not know how vital is your art
And what relief to see the tiny leaf unfurl
On the grand old oak
Who shunned all vestments through the winter's chill
But now puts on his greenest summer cloak
Come swallows, fast and low
Perform your aeronautic feats (like spitfires)
Swimming through the air
Skimming o'er the growing wheat
Comfrey on the river bank
Milkmaids in the meadow damp
Cow's parsley with its lacy bobbin' heads
Dandelion's golden threads
My heart feels part, as if re-born
Of this rejuvenating summer dawn
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 5:31 AM UTC
memory
and the city lights fading behind me
the wheels turning in the night
the tears called upon to save you have decayed
faded into the cake of makeup
stretched on your parody smile
put a candle on that babe and celebrate another year
twenty miles outa town
stopped my buick
'neith the highway sing
and in the cool desert moon
made love to another woman
just to have another falling star to chase
shes a little cracked but she can smile
yes she can
and that's a ray of pure sunshine to this broken heart
that's a glass of gladness in the chambers of sour
i owe a thousand apologies
but none of them east of the mississippi
so i head to sunny florida
spend all my time in the rain
writing letters home to the mountains of the moon
serenity is just another girl after all
isnt that what she would say
a fun pile of hot packed in skintight jeans
but just a girl
tried to find a narrow path in the thorns
attempted to get round the snags
but milkmaids and **** kings
are all too sure that id fail someday
and they wait with bated breath for me to be
on my knees
but im making a new lifetime outa the dust
im carving a new hope outa the curses laid on me
ill make it because im resolved like iron ink
but im rusting like rainwater
and there is nobody i can hope not to offend
i had thought to find your hand to hold
and standing here in the rain
wish itd work its way out
im so weary of the futile chase
but you left on a train headed north to go find my enemies
to deal out some measure of justice
im resolved like iron ink
rusting in the american sun
nobody's treasure
born to wait
come home someday
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC
They were prison cells
Driving deeper into me
Watching my colour drain
Clearing all sorrow
And then the heat would come
* * *
Gently shovelling away the clouds
Poised on the mountains on the horizon
Creeping in like rolling carpets
Gorging on the ropes of life
And then digging in tightly
What the slips of sentience said
Yellowing grain fields and dimes
Hearty bellows on the chimes of the day
Greeting the returning milkmaids
Reaching out to the night
Dreams and fantasies always simmer
Dissipate in the breeze of the dawn
Trimming the woods of their roots
Grooming the phantoms lovingly
And wandering stars.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 10:08 AM UTC
I bet you're #$@&%*! other girls
who don't brush ***** out their curls
the type that rides santander bikes and
can't fall for people their mate likes, who
play piano when they say they will,
and write about romantic things, like walking tightropes
blowing glass or #$@&%*! in your room in spring
I bet you read to them in Latin, bet
they think you're chatting... utter #$@!
and that there's fairy lights above their beds
where you've cuddled all their friends,
it's almost poly, am i wrong? platonic head, you all get on
yes, and they sing
and look like disney when they're close
they're milkmaids, pornstars, near divine
no plasters needed, they shave fine
;
anyway,
I bet he'd love to #$@& them too,
because they're handy with their hands,
they have craft tables or play the bass in some punk band
and when they go to galleries they understand
why some artists are grouped with others when
to me it's all whatever, i'll see them all whatever
oh and bless! their kisses mean things
and mine are ill-thought-out and grime
they remind you of the time, with me it's always getting late...
i'm an r/truecrime date-
i think that dahmer's in my teeth
not great for someone scared of meat...
and when you, when you, when when, when, um, i
i bet you're #$@&%*! them and more,
i bet he'd love to do it too,
his ice clear veins like Finnish waters
your endless thirst for Athens' daughters
but i don't really want to know,
don't need you randomers to call;
no cigar shops, sketchpad summer,
not the clash or prop-up vogues
what i really need is sunlight
and myself
i miss her most
Jun 15, 2021
Jun 15, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
I am finished with being a muse –
The victimized wet-dream of art
Who, slowly turning on a dais
Raised on superficial planks,
Will soon be a forgotten toy
That once loved, now has lost its charm,
And crushed into a corner waits
Till memory renews its rank.
The gods can have this blessing back.
I'll mar my face and tear my hair
And burn my robe and crown of gold
And wade in mud up to my knee,
Or suffer cows and sweat for milk,
Or brave a sea of mug and chair.
Oh, silver platter-washing, I
Would gladly be ordinary!
Yet, bar-girls also have to feign
And feint from lofty thoughts of He.
And milkmaids, too, are often set
Upon a stool above their wish.
From scullery to cloudless mount,
If privy parts inverted be,
You serve the wielder of the wand,
Obliged to lie down as his dish.
May 3, 2019
May 3, 2019 at 10:30 PM UTC