It's ok deep and meaningful poetry but i am probadly a simple , uneducated , talentless ............. BUT i like happy silly rhymes ? like my ode to a cheese eating man YOU ARE A TRULY GREAT MAN EATING YOUR CHEESE WHEN EVER YOU CAN YOU THRILL ME WHEN YOU SPEAK OF BRIE TELL ME ? ARE YOU FREE TO MARRY ME ?
my ruminant ruminates, ululates from the gut the song of the ungulate hold me, kiss me, cheese me stuff me with savoury stomach enzymes wham bam sip coagulation from baby cow abomasum lick that stomach linin’ Europa, my bountiful treasure, my symbol of fertility sensual, stubborn and opinionated seek mighty oxen kin in Tibet, holy shit be god in India from england to canada, go mad a wisconsin pilgrimage to hear Miracle (the sacred white buffalo) speak of the devil will change your life... spot a French cow to whom you will moo –Hell is the other cow! I will be like Wow, an existential cow! (needs more chee.sense)
jolly poetry for you: although i sit upon a tree, and monkeys nibble upon my knee i still remain very happy for i am not a clown.
The Cow The cow is of the bovine ilk; One end moo, the other milk. The Boy Who Laughed at Santa In Baltimore there lived a boy. He wasn't anybody's joy. Although his name was Jabez Dawes, His character was full of flaws. In school he never led his classes, He hid old ladies' reading glasses, His mouth was open when he chewed, And elbows to the table glued. He stole the milk of hungry kittens, And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE. He said he acted thus because There wasn't any Santa Claus. Another trick that tickled Jabez Was crying 'Boo' at little babies. He brushed his teeth, they said in town, Sideways instead of up and down. Yet people pardoned every sin, And viewed his antics with a grin, Till they were told by Jabez Dawes, 'There isn't any Santa Claus!' Deploring how he did behave, His parents swiftly sought their grave. They hurried through the portals pearly, And Jabez left the funeral early. Like whooping cough, from child to child, He sped to spread the rumor wild: 'Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes There isn't any Santa Claus!' Slunk like a weasel of a marten Through nursery and kindergarten, Whispering low to every tot, 'There isn't any, no there's not!' The children wept all Christmas eve And Jabez chortled up his sleeve. No infant dared hang up his stocking For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking. He sprawled on his untidy bed, Fresh malice dancing in his head, When presently with scalp-a-tingling, Jabez heard a distant jingling; He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof Crisply alighting on the roof. What good to rise and bar the door? A shower of soot was on the floor. What was beheld by Jabez Dawes? The fireplace full of Santa Claus! Then Jabez fell upon his knees With cries of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty Please.' He howled, 'I don't know where you read it, But anyhow, I never said it!' 'Jabez' replied the angry saint, 'It isn't I, it's you that ain't. Although there is a Santa Claus, There isn't any Jabez Dawes!' Said Jabez then with impudent vim, 'Oh, yes there is, and I am him! Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't' And suddenly he found he wasn't! From grimy feet to grimy locks, Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box, An ugly toy with springs unsprung, Forever sticking out his tongue. The neighbors heard his mournful squeal; They searched for him, but not with zeal. No trace was found of Jabez Dawes, Which led to thunderous applause, And people drank a loving cup And went and hung their stockings up. All you who sneer at Santa Claus, Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes, The saucy boy who mocked the saint. Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint. written by O.Nash
and it' doesn't need to be serious poetry either! Travels of Mook You soared up from the lyrical fountain, The pine needles scattered at your feet. In the dark shade of eventide, Your voice echoed softly. As feet touched earth, And hands brushed wood, The siren call of a turtledove, Sang a gentle lament to sleep. In the half-light, The creatures awoke, And peering through gloom and shadow, They paid no heed to the wanderer. Stealthily you crept, A phantom deer, In search of an unknown treasure. And by and by, you halt. Raising your minty eyes, a maiden. Wood nymph, so lovely, An angel clothed in leaves. She beckons, the springdew sparkles, You come, the nature of red autumn. She leads; you offer her a polo, You follow, as she declines... …and then you wake up. Mook A man with a brown jacket. A man with a brown jacket and blue jeans, Accompanied by torn and faded, white trainers. His face, a chiselled rock, etched in tea, His stubble anointing his once proud chin. Reaching up, he pushes a lone wisp of hair from his brow, His choppy brown cut blowing directly east. Those eyes stared blankly out, Far over the pedestal on which he stood. Of ancient roman architecture, And white. More of an aged grey… Placed on a perfectly rounded hill of green, Surrounded in clumps of buttercups and dandelions, Far away daffodils grew amongst the sheep. Oft a twinkle would pass over his face, A ghost of a smile, A hint of a breeze. For the wisped cloudpuffs swam in the blue sky, And he was glad. When they said unto me, He smirked with a newfound knowledge. Like he heard the song, Like he was in with the crowd. But there came a day, That fateful night, When the man must fall. Swaying hypnotically, Giving in to the imitation, The body floats off the pillar. But fall it does not. Broken up and scattered his shape lay. He is sprinkled over the buttercups in tears. Liquid ice arrays the unformed earth, As he turns into a solitary feather. White with a smudge of grey. Similar to a pigeon. lozi©
