"udders" poems
Human directives, veracities unverified
Bellies belching with anger, murderers
Udders dripping hate, foundling banters
Hunters striking the hungered, unfortunate
Glare sight to seek the truth, hold me lets sink
Tear motions and debates of inequality
My Dafur, the realm of the fur, demise
All armed in Sudan, the arid, a battlefield
Emergency alarms sirens from 2003
The indefinite complications and hunger
A land of the displaced, starving nomads
Hear me out in these non-dissolving conflicts
Guantanamo bay detention a prison vicious
A base for “war in terrorism”, reciprocal laws
Inhumane human interrogations persists
A breach, a revolt, the hunger riots devolve
Force-feeding, torturous measures applied
All undressed, humiliated, genitalia exposed
A Rwanda slain in divide and rule
Civil clashes, mashes, all trashed
Swaying war rapes, tapes, the raves
Machetes slashing necks and hands
A lust of power, a genocide slaughter
The Tutsi slewed and unsewn from a patch
Autocratic regime boring divisions
Territorial ethnic cleansing, a holocaust
The oppression of Jews, Romanis, Poles
Homosexuals, the disabled and mentally ill
Indifference pooled in pits and camps
The institutional social indoctrination
The honor and killing to expose shame
The violation and dishonor of moral fabric
For what is “good”, “bad”, fixated moral values
Buried waists and head, awaiting stones to hit
Confessional secrets of only what lays within
A torment watching witnesses, all dangling
Marxists calls ships to stow ashore
Masses kidnapped, confused in deceit
Invalid contracts awaits signatures
The white immigrants to be enslaved
All aboard, now abroad to revolve labor
Wage packages taken to pay for freedom
Humans bought and sold to be owned
Slaves yorked and counted as assets
Bounded to serve plantations and homes
A human, non human, a chattel, a slave
A debt ******* offended and *****
Untamed and made to obey a master
A falling global strings unturned
Tunes strumming hate, war and pain
Human trafficking, violence, inequality
Child abuse, civil conflicts, capitalists
Commercialism, zero hour contracts
For if we have no rights, I have none
For if we have no peace I have none
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
Floating on a stream of delicate warm milk
I gather handfuls of froth udders tepid silk.
Chilled hands collect warmth on a cold night,
Fulfilled memories of past moments do ensue.
Each one descends into foamy warm truth
I pick out the choc chips going down smooth.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
To the boy who broke my heart.
Thank you.
Because you have given me something so much more sweet.
The way her eyes reflect my ear to ear smile as we joke about
Our futures.
Who we want to be when we grow up
And who we don’t.
The way she can always make me laugh harder than you ever could,
My stomach sore.
But not from the skipped meals you forced me into.
Because I was never beautiful enough for you.
The way my parents confuse my heterosexuality for homosexuality
Because my “love poems” are always about her.
The girl
Who knows my soul like the back of her hand
My darkest secrets.
My biggest flaws.
And she doesn’t use it against me.
Romantic feelings are not the key to life I always guessed they were
when you have found the person who can make your life worth living.
Your best friend.
The one who kissed the reflection of you engraved in my wrist.
And no I will never be gay.
But I love her.
She always knows what I need to hear.
When I look like I have never looked in a mirror she still udders the word beautiful
And knowing that I will never believe it she still tries.
She is just as stubborn as I am,
And she has dedicated countless hours to repairing me,
The job you always said you’d take in the first place.
Telling me that the most broken are the most beautiful.
And I know that is true,
Because she is broken just as much as I am.
She has put her problems aside for me,
Spent countless hours rewiring the desire to go back to you.
And now I cannot help but realize that I deserve better.
To the boy who broke my heart I am happy now.
I am enjoying the small things for the very first time.
As we go camping and I show her the best way to light a fire,
And she does my makeup to where for a moment I feel I am beautiful.
The Monsters cracked after we have stayed up for an exam,
The late night conversations that are always the ones most memorable.
These are the best moments of my life,
And they weren’t shared with you.
To the boy who first broke my heart.
Thank you.
But gratitude is not forgiveness, and I would not advise coming near me again.
Because she has had a target on your head since the very first tear.
And I know that even when you’re gone she will always have my back
Because that is what true friends do.
To the girl who has made my life complete –
I adore you.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
RED gold of pools,
Sunset furrows six o'clock,
And the farmer done in the fields
And the cows in the barns with bulging udders.
Take the cows and the farmer,
Take the barns and bulging udders.
Leave the red gold of pools
And sunset furrows six o'clock.
The farmer's wife is singing.
The farmer's boy is whistling.
I wash my hands in red gold of pools.
3.1k
The 7 wonders of the world
Is quite a sight to see
But it don't compare to what we have
In the hills of Tennessee
Uncle Zebs cow is a big ole thing
Quite a sight to behold
That cow's so big that when they milk her
Her udders even have to unfold
Cousin Zeke has a six-legged mule
And man that thing is fast
One time he raced a bobcat
And the bobcat finished last
My granny's teeth are made of wood
Of course, they were bought from a store
But ever since that termite season
She don't use them much no more
Aunt Imojean has a twine collection
That she started when she was three
I guess if we unwound that thing
It'd reach clear 'cross Tennessee
Cousin Jake has a rattlesnake
He pickled and stuffed in a jar
He caught that thing a year ago
Trying to run off with his car
Uncle Randolph has this chicken
Who howls and barks at the moon
That poor chicken is so dadgum old
That she has to be fed with a spoon
Uncle Sam has the seventh wonder
An invisible moonshine still
We ain't seen it since he made it
But it's somewhere on that hill
So, after you think you've seen it all
You haven't seen anything yet
Come to the hills of Tennessee
And see things you'll never forget
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:07 PM UTC
A Finn-Dorset clone,
Now not the alone.
Born on 5 July in 1996,
She died on Valentine's Day in 2003.
The celebrity sheep she died at the age of six,
Produced not from the common ovine ***
Somatic Cell Nuclear Transfer created her, read on.
Named after Dolly Parton,
'Coz of her admired *****
Somatic cells were taken from a sheep's udders,
Extracted not without the sheep's jitters.
This sheep was the donor.
However, these cells were enucleated,
And the enucleated nucleus was handled.
Injected it was into a Finn-Dorset's embryo,
Oh yes, the embryo was without a nucleus.
This sheep was the recipient.
Without a folly, born was Dolly,
Resemble she did the donor.
Not only in its visible phenotype
But also in its invisible genotype.
Differ she did but only in her mitochondrial DNA.
Her birth did open a new portal,
Now pet lovers get their pets cloned.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 11:16 AM UTC
_the mythic Esther notwithstanding_;
the only Jewish Miss America was
Bess Myerson; Miss New York, &
exemplar of classic beauty c.1945
studying German philosophy
living on the upper east side;
surrounded by rich Park Avenue
Jews - spewing Nietzschean
Nihilism causing them to _shudder_
at the thought of relatives dragged
from homes never to be seen
again; they don't want to hear
that **** - my buddy Mingus Jr.
bringing mechanical bebop to
his constructed paintings;
on
the other hand, I'm going on & on
about Heidegger & Schopenhauer,
Brian Eno, David Bowie, Hegel,
****** Goebbels & Riefenstahl;
my paintings are violent; as if
Jack the Ripper & James Whistler
were the same guy; all women are
beautiful by nature, but I would've
done it different - put the snooch
on top, the udders on the bottom,
*** in front, arms & legs splayed
out to the sides; yes, that's better,
Diane Arbus, Ann Frank, Hannah
Arendt, Dori Bernstein, Alison
Linefsky & Eva Hesse are more
beautiful than Lilith & Eve mixed;
I hate being called a antisemitic;
it's a painful reminder that at the
moment I don't have a Jewish gf
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
molded ***** sky
broody welling grey udders
rain to be cast or snow ?
Mar 3, 2023
Mar 3, 2023 at 9:41 PM UTC
This is not the best haiku in the world ...
... its just a tribute.*
(to HaikuDonnajones and her Dean).
.
At the crack of dawn
me and dean go milk our cows,
pulling the udders.
Our cows milk is good
for cheese, yoghurt and butter,
very nice in tea too.
Vegetarians
are great, make good customers,
Vegans not so good.
What the hell is this
new coconut milk anyway?
Or soya butter?
I don't understand,
its not real dairy goodness,
its all fake dairy.
Our cows are organic,
no artificial cow feed,
just grass and fresh air.
After milking cows
me and dean have our breakfast
to give us energy.
I may turn Veggie,
but love my deans big sausage,
bacon, eggs fry-ups.
Our goats have kids to,
tidier than our own lot,
don't complain as much.
Me and dean are happy
with our kids, cows and our goats,
on our dairy farm.
© Pagan Paul (01/04/18)
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
Have you ever milked a goat?
well, I have not
But I've read about it in books
Before this bookish knowledge was bestowed upon me
I had mistaken goat udders for faucets
Imagine my surprise upon opening a book,
to see that the milk must be extracted by hand, by machine
but not once was the handy faucet turned
so I ventured to a goat farm
and there I was mistook
for the most crooked of humans
apparently I had that look
in my humble opinion
I was merely forsook
for the look of a nooked crook
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC
You had heard, and so the story ran. From where
The hills begin to rise, and then sink the ridge
In a gentle slope, down to the waters edge. Who would
Strew the turf with flowery herbage,
Or curtain the springs with green shade?
Who would sing to the Nymphs?
Can any man be guilty of such a crime?
Singing swans shall bear aloft to the stars,
Heifers browse on clover,
And swell their udders, to my song.
The Pierian maids have made a poet,
But, however, I trust them not.
I sing nothing worthy of my Emily;
Cackle as a goose among melodious Sparrows,
And here by the flowing streams,
Earth scatters her varied concaved hues;
Here white Orchids bend over cave,
Vines weave shady bowers.
Come to me; let the wild waves lash the shore.
You've heard me singing alone,
Beneath the cloudless night. My measure bathed
In loves sway; do you keep my words?
Why art, do I gaze at old constellations rising?
The stars to make fields glad with corn;
And gift grape upon the sunny hills.
Time robs us of all, even of memory; oft as a boy
I recall that song I would lay the long
Summer days to rest. Even voice itself now fails me,
Now the whole sea-plain lies still,
And eerily silent; every breath of the murmuring breeze is dead.
My last task this…, to win my dove.
Relieve me of this burden!
Can I trust my streaming eyes?
Or do lovers fashion their own dreams?
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
is protection from critical thinking
a safety net: if you don't tell,
i won't tell
it's the heart of security
in a land where babies are being spray-tanned
handed skin cancer and a shiny crown
where the people hand over their ***** for t.v. stations to gleefully shove in their overflowing purse
where the Bible is a buffet you pick and choose from,
fearful that you'll accidentally let something blasphemous touch the rest of your plate
where *** is such a taboo that teachers risk getting fired for even mentioning the word
******
and men learn everything they know about how to treat a woman
from the internet
and high school.
two very unbiased, reliable sources
brimming with respect and wisdom.
where it's natural to drink milk from a hormonal, sick cow with a machine ******* at its udders until it dies
but a mother nursing in public is
disgusting
and all the other ladies avert their eyes so as not to catch a hint of a glimpse of another woman's
*******
**** politics gangs government rapists religion
its
all
the
same
game
i can;t think of a system that
isn;t corrupt
and i think the knotted, gnarly, ancient root of this dying tree
is the idea that
love
comes
with
conditions.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 11:36 PM UTC
Don't go by the river
Unless you are a rabbit.
Because rabbits can go on
Grand adventures to distant
Bouncy houses owned by
Fire breathing
Toads.
Men and women
Are like muffins.
I'm not sure why
Or if they are
But they should be.
Jumping is always bad
Unless it's not.
Beware the pencil
Unless you are wielding a
Muscle-bound rubber chicken.
If you aren't
Jump for your life.
I hate you
Except I don't.
A definition for literally
In the dictionary
Is not literally.
What is a man
But a sack of rice?
Eyes are squishy.
You are breaking the mold
And becoming misshapen.
Suffer me to
Dance!
Drop the bass
And then pick it up
Clean that bass off of the floor!
That was a very fragile bass
And you broke it!
Du hast.
Heavy metal!
Huminaminaminaminaminamina
That's enough
That was a lie
Or was it?
Pervert.
Looking at my elbow
Save that for the bedroom!
Rock on.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 9:40 AM UTC
The sheep in the nearby pasture
Heard what the cows had done
In the building of their rocket ship
And they too wanted one
A few of them shaved for pocket change
Black market wool brings a hefty price
While some went out to Las Vegas
To try their luck at the roll of the dice
First thing they did with the money
Was to spring for Sherman's release
The only one in the family to go to Harvard
Though it was for experiments on his mind which apparently they fleeced
Right away they noticed something odd about Sherman
Something that just wasn't quite right
But passed it off as genius quirkiness
And let that idea slide by
They told Sherman what it was they wanted
Said he had a mad...um...master plan
All the sheep turned and Baaa'd together
What was that, that he just said?
For weeks all they heard was banging and clanging
From inside their farmers shed
The only activity they saw outside
The massive delivery of Dominos crazy bread
One day the shed doors flew wide open
There stood Sherman as mad as acid rain
No doubt among the sheep in the pasture
He was Bonkers, Loony, Loopy...okay Sherman's insane
As he drug his creation into the open
Not a one in the crowd uttered a word
Till little Bobby Black Sheep spoke up and said
Is that a cows udder?...is that what they think that they just herd?!
Sherman took that moment of bewilderment
To swing onto udder #4
Strapping himself inside of his contraption
And shooting off for the stars
Sherman is still up there circling the planet
Did you hear about the phenomenon in Spain?
Just the other day something amazing there happened
There was the pouring of milk instead of rain...
But we know how that miracle happened
And that it came from the udders galore
Cause when your traveling through space like Sherman
What else would udders be for
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
you have come
to me,
this early evening
with
a need,
to worship
at my *******
and who am i
to deny a man,
in his need
you bare
my udders
to the world
and sigh
in adoration.
before your
thumbtip
traces the
bluevein river
that arose during
the suckling season,
years ago
and has never subsided
you are fascinated by it
for me it is a blemish
upon the milky hills
your where your fingertips
trek and wander
those same hills rise now to
ripple and bump under
your roving sheperding skin
and your tongue asks,
seeks, direction in the vale
between
with pressing lips
and murmuring breath
that thumb
intrepid leader
of the pack
has found a peak
and with rubbing
caress has claimed it
for his own
not to be outdone
your lips grasp
and flag the other one
but be careful
my wonderful
mountaineers
i feel
an earthquake coming on
as you quest and worship
at the two peaked temple
i sigh and mewl and groan
some goddess i am
when i am the one who begs
you the peon for mercy
but soon the peon
shall become the god
and the goddess,
a pilgrim.
then i begin
a sacred sojuorn,
in the southern regions
as i worship
and love and own.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
I like cows;
cows seem to like Me,
maybe we ought to get together sometime;
chew the cud,
talk udders--
YEAH,
that'd be good,
we could crap on daisies
in the meadow,-
watch them grow-
**** in streams
add a liddle-- YELLLOOOWWW,
eat only the greenest grass
yeah, that'd be good,
I just need to learn to mooo.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,mooo,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,MOOOOOOOOO.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
in the great history of commerce
there must have
at one point been a truck
load of milk mechanically suckled
by machines in chugging glugs
off bloated udders
and at the same point tons
of honey harvested industrially
from swarming workers
stored in vats
stacked at the back of some
huge juggernaut
pointing at each other at
the point of
gluttonously sputter speeding
on toward heft-hauling
highway impact -
and both drivers snapped
that freeze frame money shot -
them shattering
through to promised lands
of milk and honey
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
steaming, pleasure drips
milked from the bloated udders
of faceless others
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 10:45 AM UTC
I celebrated yesterday
that my mother is still alive, like how plants exist
and the sun has not fallen from the sky yet.
She has broken six bones.
She has had six different casts, all were green
but her favorite color remains purple.
She shattered the porcelain of our toilet once
with her torso and lost two ribs,
she was basically a man who can **** his own ****
I picked her up every day
except for yesterday, because she is still alive
almost as miraculous as Mother Nature.
Cows have the ******* of Mother Nature
delivering spotted babies who do not **** sweet milk
worker bees after labor, laboring
packing their new udders with fresh, sweet milk.
I never ****** from my mother’s breast
either, I am basically a cow she’s basically a man
I mixed my own formula in pink bottles.
She asked what my favorite color is yesterday.
It was the first time,
I said, “it is still pink,” but she said
she thought it would be blue because I am a feminist.
No, no, but yesterday I was only her daughter.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
Old MacDonald has a farm and a love of poetry
And every night in the pale moonlight
He writes new verse in his own sweet words
And reads them out to me
I love you like my favorite hen who lays the biggest eggs
To hear her squeak and hear her squawk
Reminds me of the way you talk
And you both have spindly legs
I love you like my old sheep dog, the one that smells like cheese
He's past his best and mostly deaf
And has the worst **** awful breath
But he's always keen to please
I love you like the milking cows that waddle thru the town
Their bellies scrape along the floor
They barely fit through the old barn door
And their udders dangle down
I love you like the ***** sack that's hanging in the sty
Its wrinkled up just like your skin
Its great to stuff my potatoes in
And its always warm and dry
Old MacDonald has a farm and a love of poetry
And every night in the pale moonlight
He writes new verse in his own sweet words
And reads them out to me
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
Dawn's golden notes stream
across barn's yellow beams
supporting stables hemming horses
cavorting cows sagging udders
melding with yellow hay
bouncing glistening pitchforks prongs
as the song begins.
Dust, glittering as if a nebula, each speck of it freed of
ground, twittering around like birds wading sound.
Spread out, as if a picture, dots of bright ethereal
in their luminescence lightened blinking out
as if frightened, but then heaving about
in the barn's barren air circulating redoubt,
sparkle yet again,
and again,
until they are drowned dark black out
by the opening of a barn door.
Little of moment's loves
Transform our precious
Frail pleasures
Into eternal loves
Unless there is a decision
to greet the old and mundane as
new,
as if dust were stars.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
Love is like the wind,
you can feel it,
but you can't see it.
Love is wide as the ocean, too wide until
we are lost in the middle of the sea udders.
Love is like a season,
it comes and go,
and change circumstances.
and I ask myself,
Why is love created?
if only to feel and cannot be seen,
if it leaves us in the middle of somewhere,
and if it only to come and go and never stay?
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
Thank you to those mother's.
Inhabiting the field.
Always with a pregnancy.
To increase their cow juice yield.
Marched, by order of the dairy man
Off to the milking yard.
Whereupon,they meet the dairy fairy.
Who drains their udders dry.
These cows they make me happy.
Their generous donations.
Cover all the cereal bowls.
And coffee cups throughout the nations.
For me.
Black coffee in the morning.
Is not the nicest thing.
Fetch the milk from the shop.
Praise the cows.
Don't ever stop!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
( this work is livicated to the six children who will die
in the so-called "third-world in the time it takes to read it)
Drip, drip, drip says the stand-pipe
in the shanty town
as the young mothers gather round
plastic containers on the ground
listening to the drip, drip, drip
of life ebbing away
the riverbeds have all dried up
the wells are mineshafts to the past
the irrigation channels of their *******
are polluted now by the Cuckoo's Nest
the powdered-milk...the dust-bowl fields
the quotas met......the land reveals
the hand that rocks this cradle
is the one who lays the table
with "third-world" debt their able
to rob and **** and disable
as the dehydrated bodies blow away like ashes
the multi-national faschists........
with vampire banks decashes
the breast-milk of the masses
witha ****** drip, drip, drip
from the ******* of the mothers
the corporations smother....
the babies in their sleep
the cuckoo comes as a thief
with a free sample and a brief
case full of deceipt............
may I make a suggestion?
"ASK SOME QUESTIONS"
As you eat your chocolate
and drink your coffee
and smear ice-cream on your lovers body
and NESTLE down to the land of noddy
to dream of countless trucks and lorries
ferrying the cow-juice and the slurry
burning the forests in such a hurry
more cattle and cash and burn and $lash
leaves a gaping ****
in the dried-up flesh of Mother Earth
and 4000 babies every year
yes 4000 babies every year
return to the DUST....
BOWL..............BREAKFAST BOWL
CEREAL BOWL..........SERIAL KRIME
CORN and MILK spells CORPORATE CRIME
dished up for your childrens belly
in front of telly-tubby tellies
Chocolate bars and candy treats
robbed from the swollen teats
of mutated udders
whilst the cow's baby brothers
are herded into crates
and served on rich mens plates
the mothers stand and wait
and listen to the rate
of the DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
of spilt milk down the drain
the governments explain
and bury their shame
under mountains of grain
and excess champagne
and if you BEG
you get Easter eggs instead
served up by the "head"
whose saviour bled
with a steady DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
and I scream and jelly
and biscuits and cakes
make bovine mistakes
and cheesy diseases
from the milk that turns sour
reminds us every hour
of this KATTLE KULTURE HERESY
of babies dying constantly
with a DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
What 'll happen
When the Earth begin to dry up
When its seas and oceans dessicate,
And when its mighty rivers
Are perennial no more;
And when all its inland
Lakes,ponds and tanks go dry
And when large tracts of agri-fields
go barren,bereft of water,
And grains grow ********
And the forests are green no more;
Oh,I foresee the sufferings of cattle'
The giver of milk and milk products,
Their fodder become scanty,
And they are lean,frail and bony,
With udders shrunk and with little milk
That even their calves couldn't suckle;
I foresee the atmosphere with
multi-punctured ozone layer;
And the rays of sun becoming
Painfully hot and penetratively scorching;
Making living unhealthy and frightening;
I foresee men clamouring no more
For gold,platinum and silver
And not even for money;
But,instead fight against each other
in house and in open places
For food and water!
Food and water sell
At prices sky-rocketing ;
I foresee violence erupting everywhere
For food, water and shelter;
And soon, the world turns
A battle-ground for survival,
Heralding an era of survival of the fittest!
All these woes are because
We failed to live in harmony
With the bounteous Nature,
And chose in arrogance to
Live on our own,
And these owes are
The curse of mother Nature?
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC