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A calf that is sucking does not bellow.

Ghanaian proverbs
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A Famous Dog Story

The story I am about to tell you it well may be true
For the one who told it to me for to give him his due
Is one who does not make up stories nor neither is he
One prone to imagine it would seem to me.

We were swapping dog stories myself and old Lew
Of dogs we heard tell of and dogs that we knew
Of dogs who are honoured in story and rhyme
The history of their greatness has lived on in time.

But the best dog story he told me was one I heard before
When I was a young school-boy going back five decades or more
The greatest dog story that he can recall
Perhaps is the greatest dog story of all.

A story from early Spring the weather was cold
The red shorthorn calf had strayed from her mother a young five days old
In the field by the farm-yard the cow bellowed around
But her calf did not reply and was not to be found.

The farmer searched for her with Shep his brown cattle dog
But no trace of the calf in the field by the bog
He then thought the calf may have strayed and in a bog hole drown
Still no trace of the young heifer though the bog he searched up and down.

But in the gray dawning of the very next day
Old Shep the brown dog to the yard made his way
With the red heifer calf suckling on the end of his tail
That the clever dog had dipped into a full milk pail.

The mother cow was delighted her calf she did lick
And none more relieved than the old farmer Mick
As he patted his dog you're a hero he did say
This a famous dog story that lives on today.

poem by Francis Duggan
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True Confession

1
Today, recovering from influenza,
I begin, having nothing worse to do,
This autobiography that ends a
Half of my life I'm glad I'm through.
O Love, what a bloody hullaballoo
I look back at, shaken and sober,
When that intemperate life I view
From this temperate October.
To nineteen hundred and forty-seven
I pay the deepest of respects,
For during this year I was given
Some insight into the other sex.
I was a victim, till forty-six,
Of the rosy bed with bitches in it;
But now, in spite of all pretexts,
I never sleep a single minute.

O fellow sailor on the tossing sea,
O fleeting virgin in the night,
O privates, general in lechery,
Shun, shun the bedroom like a blight:
Evade, O amorous acolyte,
That pillow where your heart can bury -
For if the thing was stood upright
It would become a cemetery.

I start with this apostrophe
To all apostles of true love:
With your devotion visit me,
Give me the glory of the dove
That dies of dereliction. Give
True love to me, true love to me,
And in two shakes I will prove
It's false to you and false to me.

Bright spawner, on your sandbank dwell
Coldblooded as a plumber's pipe -
The procreatory ocean swell
Warming, till they're over ripe,
The cockles of your cold heart, will
Teach us true love can instil
Temperature into any type.

Does not the oyster in its bed
Open a yearning yoni when
The full moon passes overhead
Feeling for pearls? O nothing, then,
Too low a form of life is, when
Love, abandoning the cloister,

[...] Read more

poem by George Barker
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Bellow Can Only Be Bellow

BELLOW CAN BE ONLY BELLOW

Bellow can only be Bellow
Kierkegaard-Kierkegaard
Kafka- Kafka
Joyce- Joyce
Borges- Borges
Pessoa-Pessoa
There is only one of each of us-
And no matter how many pages we write
And how many names we give ourselves and our own characters
No matter how many styles we invent
Each one is only one-

And so this small poem too
Will not be for anyone else
Any more or other
Than so much else
Which has already failed to give me the kind of name
Only the truly great have-.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Milkcow Calf Blues

(Robert Johnson)
Tell me, milk cow, what on earth is wrong with you?
Tell me, milk cow, what on earth is wrong with you?
Well, well, you have a new calf, hoo hoo, and your milk is turnin' blue
Your calf is hungry, and I believe he needs a suck
[Spoken:] Now, you know that calf done got hungry
Your calf is hungry, and I believe he needs a suck
Well, now, but the milk is turnin' blue, hoo hoo, and I believe he's outta luck
Now I feel like milkin' and my, cow won't come
I feel like churnin' it and my, milk won't turn
I'm cryin' plea-hease, please, don't do me wrong
You can give-a right milk and butter, now, baby, you-hoo, will stay at home
My milk cow been ramblin', hoo hoo, for miles around
My milk cow been ramblin', hoo hoo, for miles around
She been troublin' some other bull cow, hoo hoo
Lord, in this man's town

song performed by Eric Clapton
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Escapade

In our lovely city of Chennai,
A big trench was deeply dug, nigh
To the neat pedestrian platform,
For laying pipes of forms and so on.

There came a corpulent buffalo,
And on the muddy trench low,
Espied its calf struggling in woe;
With celerity, it sprang down to tow.

The passers-by, saw the two-some,
Bracketed in the trench—so awesome—
Some passed by, speaking with pity;
The playful brats in glee, sang a ditty.

Some passed by engrossed in their own care,
Some flew past with no time to spare for the pair;
Something must be done to retrieve—some thought—
‘ Nothing by us could be done'—so some fought.

Some youth got down to the trench,
And got badly hurt in the wrench,
Ah! They lifted the calf with gay success,
But the big buffalo they couldn't harness.!

Meanwhile there formed a crowd around,
And some pronounced 'Let's the police sound.'
The police force spurned with disdain,
'To extricate a buffalo is not in our domain.'

Some inclined the ‘Blue Cross' to call,
And some ushered in the Fire Engine to haul,
Each according to their own fine thought,
Acted to bring the struggling buffalo caught.

The ‘Blue Cross' van hastened to the spot,
The men tossed strong ropes looped in a knot;
The animal ran hither and thither in fear,
They couldn't capture it though sincere.

From a far away place landed the fire-engine,
Even their efforts couldn't the buffalo pin!
Next day to arrive with improved elements,
The exhausted men left with wry laments.

Then the twilight gave place to dark night,
And the crowd dispersed from the location right.
The poor calf borne to the platform stood lonely,
And the buffalo was inside the trench standing impatiently.

[...] Read more

poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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The Calf and the Giraffe

Once upon a time was born a gentle brown-eyed calf

Who lived near a zoo and met a tall, wise giraffe.

The calf said to the tall, wise giraffe, “Come and run with me.”

The giraffe replied, “I can’t since I live within these walls you see.”

The confused brown-eyed calf asked, “Can’t they let you out.”

The giraffe smiled and asked, “Do you know what a zoo’s about? ”

The gentle calf said, “You did something wrong so you’re in jail.”

The wise giraffe laughed and explained that his was a happy tale.

He said, “For everyone who visits the zoo there’s so much joy I give.

As one day you’ll love your babies and teach them how to live.

So let’s enjoy every day and look forward to what’s in store.

Then both of us can give to others since that’s what life is for.”

poem by Gregory Huyette
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Sister Ray

(reed,cale,morrison,tucker)
Duck and sally inside
(alt: a drug hit sally inside)
(alt: doc and sally inside)
Thanks to lenny laakso (llaakso@fhs70.iii.net)
Theyre cookin for the down five
Whore starin at miss rayon
Whos busy licking up her pig-pen
Im searching for my mainline
I said I couldnt hit it sideways
I said I couldnt hit it sideways
Just like sister ray said
Rosey and miss rayon
Theyre busy waiting for her booster
Who just got back from carolina
Said she didnt like the weather
Theyre busy waiting for her sailor
Whos dressed in pink and leather
(alt: who said hes just as big as ever)
Hes just here from alabama
He wants to know a way to earn a dollar
Im searching for my mainer
I said I couldnt hit it sideways
I said I couldnt hit it sideways
Just like sister ray said
Cecils got his new piece
He cocks and shoots it bang between three & four
He aims it at the sailor
Shoots him down dead on the floor
Aw, you shouldnt do that
Dont you know youll stain the carpet
Now dont you know youll stain the carpet
And by the way have you got a dollar
Oh, no man, I havent got the time-time
Shes busy sucking on a ding-dong
Hes busy sucking on my ding-dong
Just like sister ray said
Im searching for my mainline
I said I c-c-c-couldnt hit it sideways
I said I c-c-c-couldnt hit it sideways
Just like sister ray says
Whos that knocking
Whos that knocking on my chamber door
Could it be the police?
They come and take me for a ride-ride
But I havent got the time-time
Shes been sucking on my ding-dong
Shes busy sucking on my ding-dong
Just like sister ray said
Im searching for my mainline

[...] Read more

song performed by Velvet Underground
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The Odyssey: Book 12

"After we were clear of the river Oceanus, and had got out into
the open sea, we went on till we reached the Aeaean island where there
is dawn and sunrise as in other places. We then drew our ship on to
the sands and got out of her on to the shore, where we went to sleep
and waited till day should break.
"Then, when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I
sent some men to Circe's house to fetch the body of Elpenor. We cut
firewood from a wood where the headland jutted out into the sea, and
after we had wept over him and lamented him we performed his funeral
rites. When his body and armour had been burned to ashes, we raised
a cairn, set a stone over it, and at the top of the cairn we fixed the
oar that he had been used to row with.
"While we were doing all this, Circe, who knew that we had got
back from the house of Hades, dressed herself and came to us as fast
as she could; and her maid servants came with her bringing us bread,
meat, and wine. Then she stood in the midst of us and said, 'You
have done a bold thing in going down alive to the house of Hades,
and you will have died twice, to other people's once; now, then,
stay here for the rest of the day, feast your fill, and go on with
your voyage at daybreak tomorrow morning. In the meantime I will
tell Ulysses about your course, and will explain everything to him
so as to prevent your suffering from misadventure either by land or
sea.'
"We agreed to do as she had said, and feasted through the livelong
day to the going down of the sun, but when the sun had set and it came
on dark, the men laid themselves down to sleep by the stern cables
of the ship. Then Circe took me by the hand and bade me be seated away
from the others, while she reclined by my side and asked me all
about our adventures.
"'So far so good,' said she, when I had ended my story, 'and now pay
attention to what I am about to tell you- heaven itself, indeed,
will recall it to your recollection. First you will come to the Sirens
who enchant all who come near them. If any one unwarily draws in too
close and hears the singing of the Sirens, his wife and children
will never welcome him home again, for they sit in a green field and
warble him to death with the sweetness of their song. There is a great
heap of dead men's bones lying all around, with the flesh still
rotting off them. Therefore pass these Sirens by, and stop your
men's ears with wax that none of them may hear; but if you like you
can listen yourself, for you may get the men to bind you as you
stand upright on a cross-piece half way up the mast, and they must
lash the rope's ends to the mast itself, that you may have the
pleasure of listening. If you beg and pray the men to unloose you,
then they must bind you faster.
"'When your crew have taken you past these Sirens, I cannot give you
coherent directions as to which of two courses you are to take; I will
lay the two alternatives before you, and you must consider them for
yourself. On the one hand there are some overhanging rocks against
which the deep blue waves of Amphitrite beat with terrific fury; the
blessed gods call these rocks the Wanderers. Here not even a bird

[...] Read more

poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Sucking Mannual

sucking gets top priority
comparison with any other
annihilation
just give flesh-bomb to suck
pilots would obviously miss
the atom to drop

sucker's lip get expertise by birth
in anticipation with any other
anticipatory capitulation
mom's baby is the first to frame
as micro-observatory species

sucking everywhere keeps
its thumb as protagonist
leaders suck the people
with hot and sympathetic words
marketeers suck the customers
and money sucks multi-power
to flag hegemony with high boots

sucking never gets bore
only objects demand variety
Peacocks know many details
the secret of sucking, so honey
don't get lost to live warm the rest
simply take care
when cigar burning if you suck
it will suck your breath last at its cost

Pranab k c
10/09/2012

poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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The Journey Home

The elephant was on her way,
Her calf was close nearby,
You should've seen their bodies sway,
Both marching, heads held high!
'Keep up with me! Left, right! Left, right! '
The calf was telling Mum,
The two of them were quite a sight,
Since so far had they come...

For many miles, the calf endured,
Without a thought to stop,
But Mum, of course, was quite assured,
His legs would flip and flop...
His trunk would droop and trail the ground,
His pace no longer fast,
With barely strength to make a sound,
As even more miles past...

And sure enough, she heard those words,
That parents often get...
The journey home, it's for the birds!
'Hey, Mum, are we there yet! ? '
'A few miles more! ' she told him straight...
He moaned and groaned, of course...
It's just right then, though life was great,
He'd rather be a horse!

Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2012.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'The Journey Home'.

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
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English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire

'I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers'~Shakespeare

'Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too,'~Pope.

Still must I hear? -- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse?
Prepare for rhyme -- I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar today, no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their justice in a golden scale;
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.

Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Fable L: The Hare and Many Friends

Friendship, as love, is but a name,
Save in a concentrated flame;
And thus, in friendships, who depend
On more than one, find not one friend.

A hare who, in a civil way,
Was not dissimilar to GAY,
Was well known never to offend,
And every creature was her friend.
As was her wont, at early dawn,
She issued to the dewy lawn;
When, from the wood and empty lair,
The cry of hounds fell on her ear.
She started at the frightful sounds,
And doubled to mislead the hounds;
Till, fainting with her beating heart,
She saw the horse, who fed apart.
'My friend, the hounds are on my track;
Oh, let me refuge on your back! '

The horse responded: 'Honest Puss,
It grieves me much to see you thus.
Be comforted-relief is near;
Behold, the bull is in the rear.'

Then she implored the stately bull,
His answer we relate in full:
'Madam, each beast alive can tell
How very much I wish you well;
But business presses in a heap,
I an appointment have to keep;
And now a lady's in the case,-
When other things, you know, give place.
Behold the goat is just behind;
Trust, trust you'll not think me unkind.'

The goat declared his rocky lairs
Wholly unsuited were to hares.
'There is the sheep,' he said, 'with fleece.
Adapted, now, to your release.'

The sheep replied that she was sure
Her weight was too great to endure;
'Besides,' she said, 'hounds worry sheep.'

Next was a calf, safe in a keep:
'Oh, help me, bull-calf-lend me aid! '

'My youth and inexperience weighed,'
Replied the bull-calf, 'though I rue it,

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 15

Ac after my wakynge it was wonder longe
Er I koude kyndely knowe what was Dowel.
And so my wit weex and wanyed til I a fool weere;
And some lakked my lif - allowed it fewe -
And leten me for a lorel and looth to reverencen
Lordes or ladies or any lif ellis -
As persons in pelure with pendaunts of silver;
To sergeaunts ne to swiche seide noght ones,
' God loke yow, lordes!' - ne loutede faire,
That folk helden me a fool; and in that folie I raved,
Til reson hadde ruthe on me and rokked me aslepe,
Til I seigh, as it sorcerie were, a sotil thyng withalle -
Oon withouten tonge and teeth, tolde me whider I sholde
And wherof I cam and of what kynde. I conjured hym at the laste,
If he were Cristes creature for Cristes love me to tellen.
' I am Cristes creature,' quod he, 'and Cristene in many a place,
In Cristes court yknowe wel, and of his kyn a party.
Is neither Peter the Porter, ne Poul with the fauchon,
That wole defende me the dore, dynge I never so late.
At mydnyght, at mydday, my vois is so yknowe
That ech a creature of his court welcometh me faire.'
'What are ye called?' quod I, 'in that court among Cristes peple?'
'The whiles I quykne the cors,' quod he, 'called am I Anima;
And whan I wilne and wolde, Animus ich hatte;
And for that I kan and knowe, called am I Mens;
And whan I make mone to God, Memoria is my name;
And whan I deme domes and do as truthe techeth,
Thanne is Racio my righte name - ''reson'' on Englissh;
And whan I feele that folk telleth, my firste name is Sensus -
And that is wit and wisdom, the welle of alle craftes;
And whan I chalange or chalange noght, chepe or refuse,

Thanne am I Conseience ycalled, Goddes clerk and his notarie;
And whan I love leelly Oure Lord and alle othere,
Thanne is ''lele Love'' my name, and in Latyn Amor;
And whan I flee fro the flessh and forsake the careyne,
Thanne am I spirit spechelees - and Spiritus thanne ich hatte.
Austyn and Ysodorus, either of hem bothe
Nempnede me thus to name - now thow myght chese
How thow coveitest to calle me, now thow knowest alle my names.
Anima pro diversis accionibus diversa nomina sortiturdum
vivificat corpus, anima est; dum vult, animus est; dum scit,
mens est; dum recolit, memoria est; dum iudicat, racio est;
dum sentit, sensus est; dum amat, Amor est ; dum negat vel
consentit, consciencia est; dum spirat, spiritus est.'
'Ye ben as a bisshop,' quod I, al bourdynge that tyme,
' For bisshopes yblessed, thei bereth manye names -
Presul and Pontifex and Metropolitanus,
And othere names an heep, Episcopus and Pastor.'
'That is sooth,' seide he, 'now I se thi wille!

[...] Read more

poem by William Langland
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The Shepherd's Week : Monday; or the Squabble

Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole

Lobbin Clout.
Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake,
No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes,
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?

Cuddy.
Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guest,
'For he that loves, a stranger is to rest;'
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind,
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,
Thee Blouzelinda smiles, Buxoma me.

Lobbin Clout.
Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,
Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fallen calf;
Wo worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal.

Cuddy.
Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain,
The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain!
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.
He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view,
When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue;
He first that useful secret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

Lobbin Clout.
See this tobacco-pouch that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the skin of sleekest fallow deer.
This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
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Rabbit In Your Headlights

I'm a rabbit in your headlights
Scared of the spotlight
You don't come to visit
I'm stuck on this bed
Thin rubber gloves
She laughs when she's crying
She cries when she's laughing
Fat bloody fingers are sucking your soul away
I'm a rabbit in your headlights
Christian suburbanite
Washed down the toilet
Money to burn
Fat bloody fingers are sucking your soul away
If you're frightened of dying and then you hold on
You'll see devils tearing your life away
But, if you've made your peace
Then the devils are really angels
Freeing you from the Earth... from the Earth
White worms on the underground
Caught between stations
Butter fingers
I'm losing my patience
I'm a rabbit in your headlights
Christian suburbanite
You got money to burn
Fat bloody fingers are sucking your soul away... away... away

song performed by Radiohead
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Rabbit In Your Headlights

Thom yorke :
Im a rabbit in your headlights
Scared of the spotlight
You dont come to visit
Im stuck in this bed
Thin rubber gloves
She laughs when shes crying
She cries when shes laughing
Fat bloody fingers are sucking your soul away...
(away....away....away....)
Im a rabbit in your headlights
Christian suburbanite
Washed down the toliet
Money to burn
Fat bloody fingers are sucking your soul away...
Sample from movie jacobs ladder :
If youre frightened of dyin and youre holding on...
Youll see devils tearing your life away.
But...if youve made your peace,
Then the devila are really angels
Freeing you from the earth.....from the earth....from the earth
Rotworms on the underground
Caught between stations
Butterfingers
Im losing my patience
Im a rabbit in your headlights
Christian suburbanite
You got money to burn....
Fat bloody fingers are sucking your soul away.....
Away, away, away,
Away, away, away.

song performed by Unkle
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The Dragon of the Black Pool

Deep the waters of the Black Pool, colored like ink;
They say a Holy Dragon lives there, whom men have never seen.
Beside the Pool they have built a shrine; the authorities
have established a ritual;
A dragon by itself remains a dragon, but men can make it a god.
Prosperity and disaster, rain and drought, plagues and pestilences—
By the village people were all regarded as the Sacred Dragon’s doing.
They all made offerings of sucking-pig and poured libations of wine;
The morning prayers and evening gifts depended on a “medium’s” advice.
When the dragon comes, ah!
The wind stirs and sighs
Paper money thrown, ah!
Silk umbrellas waved.
When the dragon goes, ah!
The wind also—still.
Incense-fire dies, ah !
The cups and vessels are cold.
Meats lie stacked on the rocks of the Pool’s shore;
Wine flows on the grass in front of the shrine.
I do not know, of all those offerings, how much the Dragon eats;
But the mice of the woods and the foxes of the hills are continually drunk and sated.
Why are the foxes so lucky?
What have the sucking-pigs done,
That year by year they should be killed, merely to glut the foxes?
That the foxes are robbing the Sacred Dragon and eating His sucking-pig,
Beneath the nine-fold depths of His pool, does He know or not?

poem by Bai Juyi
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A Beautiful Flower Blooming

A withered flower blooming again
breeze shook the flower
the sun is shining on flower
rain water to wash the dust-filled flower
abort storm petals
storm that renders the flower petals
polling beetle sucking painful

flower that bloom so bright today
beauty exudes an aura of coolness of the beholder
spread the fragrance that invites a bee to touch
although many other flowers around it
bees sucking the flower first
choose to suck and touch the flower
lately the flower
always bloom radiate beauty
a bee was not able to get away from the flower
a bee sucking the beautiful bloomington
always produce the honey taste good
really beautiful relationship between the flower and bee
both are very compatible and complement each other

poem by meti Rahmawati
Added by Poetry Lover
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I don't even like to talk about it. I hated being a number and not merely because I was a very small one. I let them bellow at me for just as long as it took me to find enough pluck to bellow back at them.

quote by George Grosz
Added by Lucian Velea
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Season's Crops

On top of the mountain
he gazed bellow, green leaves,
Green fields painted the scenery bellow
Up the clouds gathered,
Black and expectant,
Crops would feast..

He blew a song in whistle, how great
The sign in dew, hope is in human heart
Life is full, with a promise, so bright.

poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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