"mooing" poems
Christmas Eve was coming
There was plenty to be done
There were protocols to follow
There were programs to be run
Presents needed wrapping
Elves had duties of their own
They've been doing it for centuries
They could call Christmas in by phone
Reindeer games were scheduled
Christmas Carols to be sung
There were toys to be assembled
There were bells that must be wrung
Christmas Cakes...no problem
For we all know there's just one
It gets passed around each Christmas
And that is half the fun
But, back now to the reindeer games
Donner wasn't there
But, neither were three others
It gave Santa Claus a scare
He called the elven vet in
Said "find out what it wrong"
"If I don't have all my reindeer"
"It'll ruin Rudolph's song"
The vet came back directly
Hoof and mouth was what he said
The reindeer must miss Christmas
They were all confined to bed
Santa couldn't take it
Reindeer home...what would he do?
He thought real hard about an answer
Where would he find something that flew
The vet said, "I've an answer"
"But, no questions...just your trust"
"I'll get your gifts delivered Santa"
"I just need your magic dust"
Santa said "do your best Doctor"
"We can't have Christmas end like this"
"Are you sure you have an answer?"
"We can't give Christmas time a miss"
The vet and elves went searching
They formed a team like none before
They went around to the animals
And then they knocked on Santa's door
Santa looked at what they'd brought him
His reindeer gone, but here they stood
A team had been assembled
It made Santa sink into his hood
Harnessed up before him
The vet had two dogs and a bear
A ****** goat, and donkey
And a bald, blind cat...stood there
He smiled and said "Dear Santa"
"They may not look like that much now"
"But, they'll get you where you need to be"
"And they'll be led by a brown cow"
If you hear some noises
From your roof, like bleats and barks
Some, meowing or some mooing
And other strange sounds in the dark
Remember, it's just Santa
With his new team for the season
Rex, Rolf, Billy, Ben, Bessie, Joe, and Mike
and a bald, blind cat who's freezin'
Merry Christmas to all and to all....don't look up!!
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
Loosing this battle.
Hoping I don't catalyze.
Found myself mooing in meditation.
Lost in space...
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
Hunting has a noble heritage, for sure
Bringing us together, it forged a species
Keen-eyed, communicative, feared by the fierce
So who am I to begrudge you your sport?
I, too, love wide open skies, tramping over bog and fen,
I even quite like dogs!
I imagine nature might reveal herself to you
In signs jealously guarded from the armchair carnivore.
I can almost reconcile your harsh percussion
With the croak of the raven, the sloshing tide
And the chewing and mooing of cattle.
But the pheasant! For the love of God, the pheasant?
It can hardly be a battle of wits!
I've seen him as he sits, a big, red bullseye
On fences and *****
Startled by every day he survives.
How stirring can it be,
Picking off the ones the cars and lorries never got?
When you carry him home,
Better off dead,
Hang him in your garage for a week
Feeling like Henry VIII,
Cut him down, slit him open and find the crop
Stuffed not with heather shoots and beetles
But with half a pound of store-bought grain
(Generously laced with antibiotics) -
I hope the realisation creeps up
That you may as well have asserted yourself
In the hen coop,
Blasting away at befuddled poultry
And saving yourself a walk.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 1:33 AM UTC
met a man once
and he took me to a steakhouse
the type where tuxedo men come back
with a twee bite-sized piece of meat on a plate
he ordered my steak for me
and though it glistened
the slab barely satisfied
the crack in my teeth
i was starving
and he kept talking about
business deals
and networking
to the type of cars that make him hard
which one of these thousand ******* forks
is best to stab?
making friends
with a bunch of pruned men
chatting business
he introduced me
she speaks Spanish
how exotic
raw and juicy
STEAK
sure does go well with potatoes
i started ordering loads of wine
when they all agreed that it was time
to make America great again
i downed even more down my throat
‘till I was seeing spuds in Versace
drinks for everyone!
we ordered like five bottles
so drunk
that I started mooing
but if this gasbag ever hopes to get laid
he’ll need to go to the slaughterhouse for that
meanwhile, let the bartender do the milking
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
strait crazy
saintly mania raving.
new age jainist phasers
sang they praises
like
'hey mr bojangles,
go mangle up the angle,
shake shake shake the frame
& they'll thank you later.'
...sorry not today.
I'm feeling under the
earthquake weather.
wallowing wonder
following the devil
thru the desert
on great endeavors
to make it rain feathers
that sound like thunder.
famous as ever
nameless as heaven
to say the least
I'm slaying beasts that
came from me
in the first place.
this is lovehate.
lovehate lovehate.
& it's useless.
just lemme set the mood.
it's stupid
brutish beauty
mooing truly bluesy
marks & bruises
infused with martian
harmony incarnate,
caramelized carnage
set to soothing violent music.
broke record store cliché
faded to frustration feeding
a creaturely need for creation
& hellish lust for selfdestruction.
-nothing special-
just an absolute mess who
dilute the stress through allusion
allegory alliteration
hallucination delusion
***** it's a celebration.
tell the rest those losers
that got left I'm doing my best
even though I'm pretty upset
with how it's all panning out.
oh well I guess.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
Softly and steadily we munch
A roller motion action
As we gently pass over
Living in a contented silence
Randomly we each call
Hollow pipes we are played
By the holy organist
As life plays its tune
Understood be very few
As we submit to the herd
And spiral around a oneness
Mooing and mooing
With a great gusto
We send out O's
circles spiraling
Softly blowing bubbles
With an oily shine
We are carried forward
In these bulbs of light
Air filled with vibration
Caressing and holding
Our community with
An invisible film
As we all feel this
Light headed embrace
And the golden ring of community
Is placed on our finger
We say "YES YES YES "
For we love her very much
Living free of hierarchy
As everyone is equal
Servant and master
Divorced from the conflicting
Ties of politics
We are as level and free as
The planes from which we graze
Living a freedom faraway from
Rank and power
And enjoy the vast out stretching
Places where our hearts unburdened
By mountains unfold into unlimited spaces
Collapsing within each breath
We spread our Love with the ease
Of melting butter in the African sun
Far and wide
In the mating season
We may bumble around
Like bumper cars
As you can not underestimate
The force of each individual
As we bang and bang our way
Through life until opportunity knocks
Until life says yes
As our our stubbornness
Is not just the perfect No
But the perfect Yes to
And mothers reward our newborns
With her loving milk
The perfect colostrum
A silky bliss
In the expansive community
Of wildebeest and cattle
Where endless love
Can spread like water
We can learn so very much
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
New feels the sun, new feels the light,
New day, yes it is a new morning.
Passed has at last the night,
A new day is here before me,
Gone are the stale moments,
New day, yes it is a new morning.
Forget what you didn't get,
Flowers have again bloomed,
Now the cows are mooing,
New day, yes it is a new morning.
So just feel the new sun, feel the new light,
Come here, oh my friend, let me hug you tight.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 3:02 AM UTC
AHHHH PEACE AT LAST!
The goat is in
the kitchen.
The chicken is in
the living room.
The dog is in
the bedroom.
The cat is
on the mat.
The cow is
mooing in the window.
The humans are out
visiting other humans
in the next village
if one could call it that.
The landscape is asleep
in the sun.
The animals have the house
to themselves.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 4:44 PM UTC
Watching the sunrise in the East,
As it says goodnight to my dreams,
Rooster crows,
Cows mooing,
Light everywhere,
Cold shower,
Gets my heart racing, with the beat of rock song,
Breakfast;
Coffee bitters, and fresh cream,
Eating pancakes with strawberries, whipped cream, and syrup,
Clock hands moving by too fast,
In spite, I'm watching the sunrise in the East,
Dropping my crumbs on the floor,
One last sip of coffee,
Put dishes in sink,
Check smartphone for calls,
Grabbing my jacket and car keys,
Heading out the door,
To find out,
What the day has in store.
Copyright © 2015 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
Cinnamon
winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******** history.
Isn't it?
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.
Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 4:01 PM UTC
Raindrops on my phone
Sitting out in the open air
Have to change my ringtone
Or write a poem and share
Raindrops on my phone
Have to go in now
Still about that tone
What about the mooing of a cow
Raindrops falling outside
More and more
What if it causes a tide
That won't happen I'm sure
Cold seeping into my bones
My blanket is near
About these tones
There's none I prefer
Rain has stopped falling
I'm out in the open air
No one is calling
I'll write a poem and share
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:00 AM UTC
The cows are mooing,
sheep are bleating, and the wind --
disperses the seeds.
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 3:15 AM UTC
The day he died
The sun rose just the way
It always did on cold December mornings:
Frost crystals on his back,
Breath steaming in the winter air,
A few sparrows chattering,
Molly at the barn mooing news:
Milking time!
Frozen water tank!
Hunger pains!
And where was Farmer now?
So he yawned and stretched himself,
Looked at the house whose walls
Allowed his master's voice to filter through thin, cold air:
Heard an oven door squeak wide,
The telephone ring,
Morning voices and the creak of floors,
And then the door cracked open.
Full scents emerged:
Fresh baking from the oven,
The farmer's coat and boots,
Laundry soap in fresh washed jeans,
And a bowl of food with milk
Steaming for him.
The diesel tractor coughed and roared,
Semi-warm from its head-bolt heater sleep,
and sent thick cloud plumes to winter sky
Before the engine warmed enough to move
The wheels' crunching pressure, packing snow.
Breakfast down, and morning chores to follow,
The St. Bernard stretched himself,
Pushed through the old iron gate
And followed in the tractor's track
To see the morning feeding in the snow.
No one could tell him he was getting old,
And maybe was a little stiff and slow
To follow tractors as they plowed their way
Through newly fallen snow.
An hour later, the man, the tractor and the dog
Had made their way below the farmstead hill
To feed a sheltered herd just out of wind's cold way.
What happened next is painful still to say.
The tires sank through crusted snow and spun
But forward movement failed it in its rounds;
Reversed, a chain came loose and outward flung
to pull the faithful follower down.
So what is there to say about a friend whose harm
And death came accidentally at my hand?
I knelt there in the snow and held him in my arms,
Sobbing sorrows... begging him to try to stand.
But he only looked up at me with brown, sad eyes,
Hard broken from the crushing of the wheel,
And moved his tail a little bit to show he was content
To lie there in my arms, and shuddered once and then was still.
The cows looked on impatiently,
Steam rising from their hides,
And saw me bawling on my knees
and begging mercy from my silent God.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
Standing here on the edge of this LOFTY CLIFF, Simply Admiring the "HANDY-WORK" of GOD... I was Listening to the Hundreds of Thoughts "DANCING" thru my mind, sort of like a Scroll, so I could "BACK-TRACK" and consider for "REVIEW" that which had passed . AND..with tears in my eyes as I thought of all those in NEED,,.... Why not create a NEW-KIND OF COMPANY,,"made-up" OF *all kinds of skills ! ! SO MY *MIND INVISIONED A COMPANY , that needed *people with the following **SKILLS = ( #1)= A person needed with melodies Racing thru his MIND ,so that couldn't help but "NAUTCH" from office to office.... (#2)= A person who wakes "MOOING" AND knows how to use "Neats-Foot-Oil" ... (#3)= A person to screen all Previous "POLITICIANS" for their "NAVVIES" *skills.... (#4)= A person with the ability to teach "LAPIDITY" to others, so we could "CUT-DOWN" on use of copy machine... (#5)= A person to be Director of our Company "PLAY" { party}. Titled "RETURN OF CONE-HEADS" and make sure the "OBCONIC" attraction is in a "FULL-POWER" Position.... These first FIVE ,the company is in "NEED-OF" pronto ! !_____ My thoughts ,were now directed to the "NON-STOP" ringing of the *APPLICANTS SEEKING JOBS PHONES" ____WOW..... I'd Better HURRY back to the "CLIFF-EDGE" .. There Must be THOUSANDS Seeking to Get these jobs! ! "GOSH"--I BETTER COME -UP with some NEW-DEPARTMENTS --- ( let me know if *Y O U * have any Ideas for *NEW-KIND of Jobs! "I CAN GET BY WITH A "LITTLE" HELP FROM MY FRIENDS" ___DO YOU?___HAVE OPENING TIME FOR FRIENDS ???
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 3:58 AM UTC
Jumping up and down on the time mattress
making sure it's under my feet
and opening one vortex
while hopping to the next
the terrible robots try to follow me
screaming they will catch me soon
so I try to hide on the dark side
on the dark side of the moon
I wish the cow would stop mooing
the spoon would find it's way home
the rotten cat with it's fiddle
would go back to the moon base dome
where has my bed gone now
I could really do with a sleep
I will have to eat some cricketers
and give my poems to Pete
That planet is at risk
but that is not my problem
this temporal displacement
will send me home again
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dedicated to my loving brother Peter Andrea Kourtis...... Love yer Bro X
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Choir don't need no Gath Brooks
Lordie lord, spam that yawns across earth's lawn,
set your glory upon holy sky!
Baby talk, HA! That's processed Kraft
cheese or strength, babbling to silence avengers.
Do you see or does your finger point
to Moon, Stars and Kautempathkan.
What is a man that you can't remember,
Or a son who can't care of man?
You've made a name of nameless less.
Memhkotainya, name it with dignity.
Show some respect for the handywork,
they stare beneath our feet.
Bleating and mooing,
and Yes, beasts in field,
chicken **** and fish,
sea lane routes
to Us, our way
Nobly in your ***** named.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
You park your lard *** **** on the skin of a cow and call it your new leather settee,
strap your feet into hide worked boots and stride across the Earth, all at the height of fabulous fashion.
Slap another slab of flesh on the barbecue and call it steak
(rare please) right next to the rack of ribs sizzling,
another brimming mooing cattle truck pulls into the abattoir,
and they say all the farts,of all the cattle, we keep eating, is destroying the climate all by themselves, but you wont find that information on the menu in a fast food shop serving burgers by the millions, or the main discussion at a barbecue, because lets face it, the meat in front of your nose has done all its farting, and its far too late to help save the World by some form of self-denial.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
Out in the range,
Beyond all cell phone,
The peace of the valley,
The mountains around,
Where elk graze and deer run,
Where horses call home,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.
The wind cross the hilltops,
The water below,
The cattle out grazing,
Hawk and eagle stand watch,
Fences and dirt roads,
Pastures and fields,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.
Rainstorms and snowstorms,
Thunder and hail,
Content beneath covers,
Warm arms to hold,
Comfort me, cuddle me,
I'll be by your side,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.
There's peace in the stillness,
There's warmth all alone,
Just two souls and hillsides,
We're never alone,
Isolation is a comfort,
Out out of reach,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.
The barking of ranch dogs,
The mooing of cows,
The horses they knicker,
I sigh like the wind,
The bird songs and crickets,
The sounds of out here,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.
Out in the range,
Beyond all cell phone,
The peace of the valley,
The mountains around,
Where elk graze and deer run,
Where horses call home,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.
~A Ranch Wife I'd Be by Bethany Davis, June 7, 2014
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
It is the feeling of having previously met,
Not necessarily as a professional vet,
Dairy animals mooing to attract.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
She had a beautiful smile.
It made a glow in the country darkness.
She was unconventional for a city girl.
She wanted to live in a village.
In the openness of a community.
Farm in the morning
And take a nap in the afternoon
Under a tree.
She didn’t like the buzz in the city
Nor the honk in traffic during rush hour.
She preferred the peace of the village
And the mooing of cows just before dusk.
She wanted a life there. In my village.
Wrapped in traditional fabric — leso
And traditional ornaments adorning
Her hair, her ears and her neck.
Her thirst quenched by River Nam’s cool waters.
She wanted all that but not for herself alone.
She wanted it with me.
I was a village boy in the city.
The city lights shone life into me.
The buzz in the streets kept me alive.
I wanted to live here.
Go to work in the morning
Meetup at the coffee house in the evening
Retreat to the gated community by nightfall.
I didn’t like the routine of the village
Nor the darkness when night came.
I felt neat under the suits
And accomplished wearing leather strap watches.
The ice cold bottled water always felt redeeming
And take out felt like living the dream.
I wanted a life here, with her by my side.
But I left it all for the village
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 3:22 PM UTC
Dearest Patty m.,
we admire, admit to raw nailed jealousy
when we read the works superior
with the greatest worn scruffy complementary compliment
a poet
can give to
another scribe
*How I wish I had written that,
those very words!*
confessing before the world
with our own humility
at the daily dawning of
realization that
morning brings freshness and
insights needy for release and
aborning and the trace of humiliation
that we’ve all ready
been breached bested
by others,
once again…
BUT
we do not bow!
no courtly arm sweeping,
back bent, at best
a nod of a head
then
privately
we gasp, rent our clothes,
throw the body flat to the floor,
observing seven days of mourning
reserved
for when we morning moan,
daylight groan and loan out our
croissant moon mooing cries to
bemused muses
in the clouds supervising,
as tears of, an admixture of,
an elixir of joy, compassion
and thus refreshed by someone’s
new infant’d christening
we ***** we resurrect, gamble,
throwing ourselves complete like dice,
in to a roll of
stunned stupor of high inspiration
and then make out best work
ever yet
but never do we bow, scrape,
bend the knee, maybe the head,
we mourn our lesser failings
and smile as we flash words
from our eyes,
stored in our mindsets,
our, my best, will
always be yielded up
next
——
addendum
———
seven years ago
in a separate guise,
he ssid it differently
maybe better?
:<•>
epilogue
read my face
incapable of,
deprivation
but how now silent
bow my head to Will
for teaching the way of words
traced upon
a fool or a king's tongue,
two too human,
so that poet may ken
his senses keener,
all for the better,
for the betterment of all
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 1:57 PM UTC
Jane stood
in a field of kale
waist high
gazing toward
the Downs
you stood beside her
your hands
just touching
fingers feeling
warmth
cows nearby mooing
we’ll have to go up there
in the summer holidays
she said
take a picnic
mum’ll pack
it for us
she likes you
you gazed at her
sideways on
her dark hair
tied with ribbon
her grey coat
buttoned to the neck
coming to her knees
that’ll be good
you said
I went with my dad
way over one day
while he was working
amongst the trees
and I found small skeletons
amongst the fallen leaves
don’t what it was of though
probably a squirrel
Jane said
or rabbit
did it look like
it could have been
a rabbit?
no idea
you said
it was small
could have been
a squirrel I guess
I put it in a glass tank
along with chalk rocks
with sea fossils inside
she nodded and smiled
she held your hand tighter
and she drew you
though the kale
toward the edge
of the field
where cows
were eating
the fenced off
kale crop
and you walked
onto the dusty road
between hedgerows
and down the lane
by your cottage
the lane narrow
the hedges full of birds
and song
and you sensed
her hand in yours
her fingers thin
entwined with your fingers
and on you walked
by the small stream
at the side
the smell
of the farm
in the air
the cows
and hay
and she there
beside you
her hand
and your hand
her coat sleeve
brushing against
your arm
her eyes
full of dark beauty
her lips slightly open
no words just breath
on the air
and you feeling
that joy of just
being alive
and being there.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 8:22 AM UTC
Crystal cups contain lost calls,
Scores on walls from grisly brawls.
Antique, dusty china dolls.
Cows are mooing as they fall.
Mystic, glittering gypsy *****
On these floors, her babies crawled.
Ceaseless clamor in the halls.
Oh the stories in these walls!
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 8:28 AM UTC
which were the center of the Earth.
A rill, a gentle excite that rolled from side to side
touching the verdant moors and bridging the tepid winds
through the mirthy wood.
She
afluntered, pivoting in circles,
pronouncing an aubade for a throng
anthropolatrating agelasts.
Her palms and dactyls outstretched. A chilliad had passed, still her astereognosis never produced the fields and trunks before her. Amending the acronycal light an aeolistic caitiff arose, piercing the crowd, rising to her circumference. This clapperdudgeon and callet woman rang out in a cacophony of sharp jabbering, then another blellum arrived, then another carker, soon they were all cloffin at the pyre.
Her lips
instantly wet, her mouth broke its pursed chastity, and among the meek she suddenly was overcome with an incredible basorexia.
And so she began, bussing left to right, osculating
the buffoons and bavians.
Some cullion tried their way
towards & towards
and then disappeared in a comestion, another dratchell roused himself, sudorous and covered in culch. The concilliabule was dwaible now, those who weren't prying for her kisses were dwaling about frantically croodling, mooing, even barking. This wild frenzied lot of basiation and baisements. Beazing in the dying sun she began to crose and cough. Her blood and spit, her saliva became estiferous and unstable, she began to eroteme herself, her healthy figure was now ectomorphic. Her thoughts were unsettling, she began to fantasize her own decollation. Some sauntering madman with a sleek leather overcoat and an enormous hatchet hunching over her. It overcame her, this auto deicidal ideology in addition, the sweet kir began to wear off, and all she could feel was lackluster, emptiness, indifference. Eventually her acrasia overcame her and in her accidia and overbearing mania she took her own life. Her head slipped from her shoulders and rolled casually past her body, her knees collapsing before her feet, before her torso. And the abderian men and women cackled,
just sat and stared
her life, her love, all gone and disappeared.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
yes, I see it
no, its got to be from the smoke
I know, it does make for some great sunrises and sets
oh, can you hear the cattle mooing this morning?
makes for peaceful coffee time...
Brian Hill - 2020 # 273
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 10:50 AM UTC