"piglets" poems
A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs
When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens
Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn
Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
Anne was in the bath
splashing soapy water
over her small *******
you were by the door
looking anxiously about
what if some one comes in?
you asked
the doors locked
she said
but we’re not meant
to lock the door
when we’re in the bath
you said
meant?
you’re all full
of laws and rules
Skinny Kid
laws and rules
are meant
to be broken
that’s what
gives us
our freedom
you looked
at her damp black hair
her *******
like two wet piglets
I shouldn’t be here
you said
you dragged me
in here
she threw
two handfuls of water
over her face
spitting out
what got in
her mouth
shut the moaning Kid
it’s not every
10 years old kid
who gets to watch
a woman bath
you’re 12
you said
well a 12 year old woman
bath then
she said
taking hold
of a sponge
and washing
under her arms
where dark patches
of hair grew
I ought to go
you suggested meekly
no I might need you
to help me
out of the bath later
I can’t stand
on one ******* leg
can I
she said
now get your
skinning backside
over here
you moved slowly
from the door
to the bath
and watched her reluctantly
wash between
her thighs
you can scrub my back
she said
I can’t reach behind
without rolling over
and almost
******* drowning
she handed you
the soapy sponge
and you rubbed
her back
with one hand
trying to look away
not notice
not to take it all in
lovely
she sighed
lovely Kid
and you scrubbed harder
and then handed her
back the sponge
and stood back
looking at the steamed up window
thin rivulets of water
running down
the frosted glass
now help me
get up and out
she said
and pass me a towel
you held her hand
as she heaved herself up
and she stood there
like a one legged Venus
and you gave her
the white towel
from the chair
and helped her out
on to the floor
making wet foot marks
as someone rattled
the handle
and called through
the bathroom the door.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
The water
in the bath
is quite hot
and soapy
Elaine's mum
has run it
put in her
own bath stuff
Elaine lays
all stretched out
her feet at
the tap end
the water
soapy hot
caresses
her small *******
she hates them
and loves them
they tell her
she's growing
into a
young woman
her childhood
almost gone
they look like
small piglets
drowning there
she muses
she hates it
when at school
in P.E.
when the girls
point at her
look at those
small *******
they tell her
the boy John
whom she likes
at the school
doesn't look
or seem to
but maybe
he does gaze
secretly
she muses
and that thought
undoes her
he looking
mentally
he touching
each of them
how to get
such a thought
out of mind?
she sits up
in the bath
she'll ask him
if he does
when at school
the next day
but she won't
she knows it
but she'll watch
as he talks
of bird's eggs
or new seen
butterflies
where he looks
with his eyes
what beneath
her white blouse
and small bra
bunched up lies.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
angel's can shout through demons
if they have to
here in the valley of time slips and air borne rock
land of meteor splash and ufos
sprit friends
a fantasy gift you give yourself
but if you see some of them
its the worst day of your life
those streaking trajectories
as straight as a pencil path
sending a migration of aliens
weird ovoid's with ****** binocular vision
like Helix pomatia
****** crawlers
while eight legged locomoting moss piglets
that look like a thousand blinking
one eyed gob worms
hurtle in decent
perhaps landing in the Yucatan
barbarian headed asteroids, critter ridden
mixed of spirits and denizens of deep space
from the parametric edges of Bals
glittering kingdom
shoot suns down from the sky
far flinging those crater bashed demons
into predatory gardens
elixir's of war and death
wave screaming reveries
through red cities
of nightingale floors
nautilus agents plummet
into brawling plots of ash
shattering a million spines
of **** ***** monsters
in a bulls eye break neck rodeo
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 6:00 PM UTC
.
gate opens, piglets piled under sun come running out singing
.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 2:30 AM UTC
Don't ever tell me that
I need a man to ground me,
To stable me, to protect me,
To reign me in;
A man to be the bit in my mouth,
The collar at my throat,
The bars of a cage
Like I'm some wild animal.
If I did need a man,
I don't need to feel
The weight of his control
Crushing down on my ribs,
The incessant ticking of his
Calculator mind
Playing overhead like muzak.
For the love of all good,
Do not suffer me
The cautionary tales told from a lover's lips.
They slither down my throat
With their false slimy sweetness,
"I tell you this for your own good,
Baby, I promise, I love you."
But their faces twist with the words
And their hands clench,
And you know they're really just
Waiting for you to shut the hell up,
You're making a scene.
You can't pair a poet
With a grounded man,
The same way you can't pair
A lily with a flytrap,
A rhinoceros with a lapdog.
I was not meant for the life
Of a housekeeper,
Bound hands and feet
To the homestead,
My sole purpose in life
To cook and clean,
To serve and produce
Squealing piglets succeeding
In his pigheaded line.
I need more than that, so
Don't try to force feed me my "man,"
Mr. Sensibility, Mr. Every Woman's Dream,
Mr. Right,
I don't want him.
Give me a man who writes,
Ballads and sonnets and epics
With words handcrafted
By decadent Grecian gods,
Who spends his nights bent
Over an antiquated typewriter,
Rushing to get the mid-dream thought
Down on paper.
A man who paints his soul,
Turns a blank canvas
Into an emotion,
Raw and real and ravaging,
Who will wait patiently
While his model fidgets
Just so he can get
The slope of her neck just right.
A man who plays music
Sweet and soft and slow
Serenading me to sleep
When the night is cold,
Who hears songs in
The rustle of rabbit's feet
And the whisper of slumbering breath.
I don't want a man to hold me down,
To show me how to act.
I want a man to create with,
To fight with and play with,
A man who loves with encouragement,
And not reprimand.
I am not a mistake to be corrected,
And I don't need a man
That will convince me otherwise.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
I saw an old blue jay today
unashamed of his baldness.
His beautiful crown reduced
to wispy sprouts of gray,
every which way
like a patient after chemo.
*Beauty cannot exist
without suffering*
I saw our rabbit’s kits yesterday,
they looked like little piglets
nestled in her nest of fur and hay,
plump and tender bodies,
tempting feasts for
creatures of the night.
*Peace cannot exist
without fear*
I saw a hummingbird this morning
and heard her vibrating chirp.
Cautious yet eager she
bobbed and dipped for sustenance
a thousand miles from home
like a prisoner of war.
*Home cannot exist
without longing*
I see an orangey moon tonight
pierced across the breast by clouds,
in halves instead of whole.
A symbol of the way things are,
a broken world that
few take time to notice.
*Consciousness cannot exist
without ignorance*
I looked in your eyes just now
and saw love.
Sickness, disease, danger and fear,
loneliness, loss and uncertainty
is, was, and forever will be
washed away in their blue,
at least for me.
*Certainty cannot exist
without love*
Of this I am certain
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
Ponies run wild in the fields,
the long grass mixing with the hay.
The beautiful flowers meet the ponies feet
and the sky is clearless today.
Two young boys, up a brown oak tree
clearly expressing their minds.
Clearly and freely as the ponies below,
making use of a waste of time.
Piglets are growing beyond near,
sown from their mother's seed.
Free to grow, large and outward,
free to have all that they need.
The oak tree is brown and new,
and does little to stop the sun.
The sun illuminates its landscape,
the landscape near and gone.
Electricity is sky blue,
and wonderful in daylight.
The stupid horse will get scared,
try to run - try to fight.
It can't win.
The two boys know this,
as they relax in their tree.
They're farmers, but not out of choice,
but out of who they were born to be.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
How do I look in this dress?
Walt’s wife asked him as she
Did a twirl in the bedroom.
Yeah, fine, Walt slowly replied.
But you’re not even looking at
Me, she said. Walt turned his
Head from the small TV screen
And gazed at her. Yeah, you look
Fine. It’s not too short is it? She
Asked. No, not too short, Walt
Said, his eyes looking at the TV
Screen once more as the ballgame
Hotted up. How about my ***
Does it look ok? Sure, said Walt.
Sure, what? She asked, my ***
Is too big in this? Is that what
You’re saying? Yeah, Walt replied,
His eyes focusing on the pass of
Ball. How can you be so insensitive.
Why you’re not even looking at me.
DOES MY *** LOOK BIG IN THIS?
She bellowed. Walt turned around
And at stared at his wife sticking out
Her *** No, no, he said, just right
Honey, the best *** I’ve seen today.
What other *** have you seen today,
Then? She said. Walt sighed, he’d
Missed a good hit. What do you
Want to know now? Walt asked.
Whose *** you seen today? She said.
I haven’t seen any *** Walt replied.
He studied his wife as she twirled
Again. That’s a bit short isn’t it, Walt
Said, and a bit tight. Makes your ***
Look like two piglets under canvas
Fighting to get out. A hairbrush flew
Across the room missing Walt’s head
As his wife stormed into the bathroom
And slammed the door. That’s ok Honey,
That’s what we ******* husband’s are for.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Elisheva pinned back
her hair, her thick lens
glasses enlarged her eyes,
she eyed her lips
fresh red lips ticked.
She pressed
her lips together
as she’d seen
her mother do
to spread the red.
She put away
her makeup case,
clipped up her bag.
Tuviya took in
her plump frame,
his eyes wandered over
the tight jeans and top.
She had ordered
latte and cake.
The counter girl,
thin and pale,
took money
and tilled away.
He followed her
as she walked
to a table
in the corner
where another sat,
a female of older years,
plump but not fat.
Elisheva mouthed words,
gestured with hands.
Tuviya studied her
with an artist’s eye,
took in fingers, nails,
gestures and moving lips.
Imagined her
in his studio,
the sharp light,
the battered sofa
holding her frame,
her hands in lap,
her naked *******
like piglets
in deep sleep.
A girl served Elisheva
her drink and cake,
then walked away.
Tuviya drank
his Americano,
his eyes moving over
Elisheva’s moving hands
and lips, the taking
of the latte and cake,
red lips opening
and closing
like fish on land.
He painted her
on his mind’s canvas,
set her down
with inner eye,
shaded in
the dull beyond,
filled in
with inward paints
her outer being
as he saw.
He could have
snapped her
with his Smartphone
camera, captured
in the state of now,
but it may have
spoilt it all,
he thought,
somehow.
She licked her fingers,
removing crumbs
and cream of cake,
mouthing each one.
He smiled,
imagined another game,
which she’d not play,
he thought,
least not here
and now in this cafe.
She talked on,
her fingers clean,
the dampness shining
in the overhead lights.
Tuviya closed up
the studio in his mind,
put away
the inner paints,
the canvas set aside,
she on the inner artwork,
on battered sofa,
legs spread wide.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
The grumbling piglets of despair
search for mumble truffles everywhere
they scourer the forest with their snouts
this is to them, is what life's all about
Nosing through decaying leaves
underneath the oaken trees
snouts twitching saliva running
with their little stomachs rumbling
The farmer does not have a clue
that his piggies are on the loose
he's in the kitchen having soup
made from little piglets juice
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
Fenola is washing up
the dishes after dinner,
Eileen watches her
from the table
in the kitchen,
Fenola talking about
her day at work,
about something
someone did or said,
but Eileen is watching
Fenola's body move,
the way the hands
(pink-gloved)
lift and plunge
in the soapy water,
the way her hips
move so sexually,
the tight bottom,
the way the skirt
holds her,
the black tights,
she thinking of later
after supper,
in bed,
after talk and kisses,
then thinks
of the night before,
the lights out
(just moonlight through
the slit in the curtains),
the perfume of her,
the kisses on her body,
the exploration
of each body in turn
or at the same time,
the soft words
of encouragement,
the later messages
of yes and yes
and there and there,
then Fenola turns
and says:
and her husband didn't
even remember
their anniversary
silly fool,
and she(the wife) said
he'd be for it
or rather he wouldn't,
and laughs
and Eileen laughs too,
taking in the shaking bosoms
as she does,
the sweet little piglets
lying there,
and all Eileen can do
at present
is stare.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
There was, every spring, a new batch of pups,
Yipping, nipping, clumsy ***** of ***** fur,
Looking for all the world like speckled tennis *****
Before they’d learned any hard lessons
At the hands of a racquet.
They chased their tails and each other,
Not to mention various other denizens of the barnyard:
Frantic chicks, cranky piglets,
The occasional bemused draft horse,
And sometimes they chased us as well,
Yelping childishly, rolling with us on the ground,
Nipping bare fingers and toes,
Afterwards lying on the ground asleep,
Looking , save for the rhythmic twitching of their paws,
Positively angelic.
Come late August,
The time would come to set them on the *****
We’d long since stopped thinking about it,
Much less questioning it
(I had, one year, asked my father if the puppies had to go
One time too many until,
With a look that brooked no further conversation,
He said flatly It’s what they’re born to.)
So we went on with the business
Of the soft, slow late summer
Until one evening just after sunset
We would hear the baying of the hounds
Out toward the back fields,
Mechanical and workmanlike at first,
But soon strained and syncopated with excitement,
And at some point there would be
A cacophony of cries and snarls
Until such time there was only silence.
The next morning we would visit the dogs,
And we’d pet them and rough-house a bit,
And there might be an oddly rouged spot
On their coats here and there,
Or one of them might sneeze out a tuft of fur
That didn’t rightly belong to them,
And every year our Uncle Bryce would slyly opine
*You boys may want to be a bit more careful
Around their mouths now, hear*?
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
Animal Wind God
Births Earthquakes and Snowflakes
Wolf Water God
Smells of Blood
Falls from Heights
Rises from Depths
Pain is Given
and Taken
Without guilt
Look!
Nature has come to be the way it is
Beauties and Brutalities pile upon each other like Piglets
Absurd God Unashamed God Raw Rough Pawed God
Sky God Slug God Star God Seed God
Pure Instinct of a Beating Heart God
Humans Strange with our love and hate,
Our good and evil,
Our doubt and hope,
Our questions,
One of which being:
If there is a Creator, is it Reflected,
Found,
Manifested
in its Creations?
Poison Arrow Frog God
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
Now I was young and easy. Led
entranced under plum tree blossoms
drifting along the sloping drive
to white-washed walled Stud Farm.
This ecstasy of being cool pig-pink
sunk happy in a mud brown wallow.
Then I was bold and carefree,
working among the barns
busy about the happy yard
on the farm that was home.
Young once only, in my kingdom
as Time let me live my dreams.
It carried me over and over again
in daytime walking or running,
it was lovely, the sweet scents:
fragrant hay field’s cut grass
and herbage fully sun dried.
Or, I pedalled in evenings
led by bicycle-dynamo-beamed
light under the stars to sleep.
Above me the barn owls were
claiming skies of swallows clear.
Coppice hooting in preludes,
there bats about soon flitted
where tiny glow worms flickered.
Then to dawn awake: the farm,
mist-shrouded as a roamer white
dew cloaked, returning to hear
***** crowing from hen coops
black cawing crows in the trees.
Glimpsing the same clear sky
changed from yesterday
into today’s white and blue.
The same sun but born again.
The distant church bells ringing.
Nothing I cared for more
than pink piglets new born,
just meadow-birthed lambs
and black and white calves
that would take up my time:
to hold me to the farm forever
released from orphanage hold.
Oh! I was so young and easy.
In the mercy of its means,
Time held me as I was flying
while I threw off captive
chains - at last unshackled - free.
Tobias
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Harvest Time in the Fens
St. Michael’s Church, Chesterton
A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs,
When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue,
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens,
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens.
Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn,
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn.
Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And now comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all.
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
*The Sunday paper comes twirling out of a passenger window
Stealthy Deer are watching my Snow Peas with binoculars from a distant terrace
New Hampshire hens announce their morning eggs , Yorkshire piglets attempt to awaken , roll over instead
The Christians are off to early service , the agnostics are
working on their lawn tractors , the atheist are glued to
Good Morning America and the farmers and I have already been
up four hours*
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
What day is it?
Miss Ashdown asked
waddling up the aisle
you looked at the board
taking the chalk marks
the hand script she'd made
then she said
Benedict
write it on the board
you looked at her
standing with arms crossed
so you walked blushing
to the blackboard
and chalked up January 25th
is that it?
she said
but what day is it?
what feast day?
you stared at the numbers
and letters
I don't know
you said
going bright red
the room narrowing
to her standing in the aisle
her arms crossed over
her large *******
like piglets
under a blanket
at rest
sit down boy
anyone else
have any idea?
Monday?
a girl suggested
no you fool
Miss Ashdown said
it's the Conversion of St Paul
the girl put down her hand
and bit her lip
and stared at you
as you went by
her eyes were watery
like one about to cry
and you sat down
studying Helen's
bright red ribbons
holding
her plaits of hair
as she sat in front
of your desk
that tiny
patch of skin
showing above
the collar of her dress
between where
her hair almost met
then raised your eyes
to the blackboard
where the Conversion
of St Paul
in large script
was set.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/5/2019
Sitting on the perch the rooster boasted:
soon the king of swimmers I'll be
and laurel wreath I will get:
Cos the champion of champions I am in this respect!
The hens, excited, clucked in admiration,
small yellow chicks silently listened in awe,
oinking happily were the piglets,
and the ducks? Like crazy they laughed!
Wieslaw Musialowski 10/15/2001
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC
the sheep cleared his throat, a ballad he bleated
but pulling wool over eyes, he really had cheated
as he simply had boldly repeated
what had been writ with the pen
haphazardly by chicken-scratch hen
pig used a sty -lus for wife, piglets three
wrote stories and poems, wrote them with glee
he wrote them
to bring home the bacon, you see
until he found out the bacon was he!
duck had no luck whatever the weather
for her writing she used a quill feather
when it poured down with rain
the duck near went insane
instead of paper she should have used leather
rooster read his work right out loud
he crowed and was so very proud
but on 5 a.m. he insisted
the rest were asleep and persisted
they didn't get up so they missed it
the dog had no papers nor did the cat
so no point in having a pen, given that
but (poetic) license(s) they had
they weren't really too bad
so with their claws they scratched on a mat
oh yes, on that farm were smart creatures
they could write great poems and features
the farmer called in a fit
look, the cow she has writ
but, the *** brayed out, it's udder ********
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
I WARNED you
YES I warned you of the horror that was to come
But you didn't listen and the invasion has begun
From cracks and crevices in the ground
From dark caverns in the hills
ESIOTROT emerged to devour and to ****
Granny woke this morning
Cried out in great despair
Her carefully tended rose beds
GONE
No longer there
They ate the leaves
The bushes and trees
And even devoured a hive of bees
Nothing could survive
They swallowed frogs
Then the cats and dogs
Took piglets from the stye
Gathered by the bakery
Devoured all the apple pies
Why did you not listen, take no note
When I warned of things to come
You said you knew best
I was being a pest
When I said ESIOTROT would come
I looked outside, to my surprise
The tyres from my car had gone
For nothing is safe
No hiding place
When the invaders come
Now if you don't believe in ESIOTROT
Then take a mirror in your hand
ESIOTROT will be revealed
When you turn the word around
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
Miss Pinkie
(she had dropped
the Mrs
after her divorce)
undressed slowly
she was an older
and plumper version
of Marie Antoinette
I lay on her bed
looking at her disrobe
so why
did you leave
the convent?
I asked
things happen
she said
you realize
what you are missing
or will miss
the moon was held
in the corner
of her bedroom window
like a fresh minted coin
and what was that?
what was what?
what was it
you were missing
or feared
you might miss?
children
marriage
***
she said
plunging
on her side
of the bed
and I have my son
and maybe
a grandchild one day
she turned towards me
her big blue eyes
searching me
I smiled
she had a similarity
to a hippo sunbathing
on a river bank
Mahler was playing
from her Hi-Fi
in the lounge
she put a hand
on her hip
her ******* moved
like piglets at play
sure you don't want
another drink?
she asked
no I’m fine
she ran a finger
along my thigh
my pecker stirred
from its slumber
her fingers walked
along my groin
her nails
were bright red
she had
the kind of touch
that could have
raised Lazarus
from the dead.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
I had run out of it i'm out of it
mind you my mind that ran away
first by feet then by train
paxil was her name a rotundish
hard skinned pink pill of a ****
so sleeping a tossing flipping
dreaming dream i witnessed a mess
messing up a dream:
this slot of sliced land jutting
with clapboard housing a shouting
with roaches a toasting the best
of a meal they boasted
the strangest of stranglets in
a land of strangler piglets;
two step eddie backed up to a window
owned by a rider, says he with
back to a drive-thru widow, 'take
this shotgun, won't need it, take
this broad sword too, and take this
forty-four again won't need it,
i'll keep this grenade cause it
needs me more -- see that man there
, snagged my lawn cutting his own
, watch me walk over there.
Two-step walks over there and pulls
the pin and once again they do like
they do the owner of that window
was a copy-cop over 44 and says
to eddie, 'don't pull that pin you
sons of guns, sons of burning suns!"
Pin pulled, trigger pressed two slugs
in the valley of the deepest cracks
of two buns and all is done.
And the female dog under the oak
toking-tree says to her male friend,
'your banging will wake up the
recently dead if you don't stop
banging and start more slapping instead;
no-step eddie tells the devil he
needs to brush his tooth but forgot
his teeth brush under the bush.
Never cold turkey Paroxetine
and slip to sleep on a Monday.
:: 06-26-2018 ::
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
Kiss The Officer
Good luck. Duty calls
for which she is paid
in lone righteousness,
I'm afraid. Patrol
clean towns with sidewalks
Not To Be Slept On
while more sweet piglets
snort through the mundane,
saving for Swine Week.
North High wrestler:
baby molester.
All those wasted prayers.
Courage emerges
among the new ash
of my burning brain.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 7:18 AM UTC
Joyously we would meander through the peach groves in the month
of April ... A hundred blossoms on every tree , simple everyday beauty as far as my young eyes could see ..
Grape arbors under diligent care , wisteria filled the cool morning air ..
The morning dew , wind blew life into rolling hillsides , Springs new calves played tag in the afternoon sunshine ..
Guineas always longing for new places to forage , piglets in the henhouse , Brown rooster wing to the ground , dancing a warning !
Noon heat and four o'clock showers , the church bell in town struck
every hour ..
Bethel Church would come alive on Sundays , joyous hymns that echoed through the country ..
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 8:07 PM UTC