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The Difference Between A Rooster And A Man
on the grass i see this rooster wearing a thick red comb,
tall for its lowly status, and well muscled as may be gleaned from the
thickness of its black, red and white feathers
how can he notice me stopping by to observe it
when its attention is focused on two slender hens
one is red the other white getting near it
and without any inhibition at all he copulated on each
of those two slender hens, quickly as a quickie
i can imagine in a few days, the two hens cackle with
lots of eggs for the owner now prepared with a big basket
to bring the produce to a crowded market
if i as a man does what a rooster does, you very well know
what happens next
it will be the people of this republic v. ric
and his dismissal from the government service
it makes me think however, on the other hand, the happiness of
the owner selling more eggs in the market because the rooster
had been kind and obliging to the two hens and the other hens in the yard
what about it God?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Watching The Chickens
the strong cock
struts its way
towards a
group of hens
and as there
are too many
of them
hens, the cock
in confidence
does what is
of most service
to its master
he fucked them
all
for the eggs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Famine and The Feast
THE FAMINE
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
None in the manger, and none in the shed,
None in the box where the chickens are fed,
None in the tussocks and none in the tub,
And only a little one out in the scrub.
Oh, I say! Dumplings to-day.
I fear that the hens must be laying away.
THE FEAST
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
Two in the manger, and four in the shed,
Six in the box where the chickens are fed,
Two in the tussocks and ten in the tub,
And nearly two dozen right out in the scrub.
Hip, hooray! Pudding to-day!
I think that the hens are beginning to lay.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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An Act
Deploring an act is to despise the person,
Others do sin as well, but what is that sin?
The entrance shines in front of you,
Take the brother of this gate, and you prosper.
Sins are to be forgiven, welcome to the good,
This gate then opens for some who do not murder.
Let felons work after heaven and hell are laid,
Eggs of dangerous properties are eaten by the criminals.
Once the eggs enter the stomach, a real wrong enters,
Eggs of hens are not lethal, but these are different.
An act so despised can never leave the soul,
And the souls can never enter the brotherly gates.
poem by Naveed Akram
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There Is No Substitute For The Now
he is choosing NOW
he will not exchange it for something else
he is gripping it like a wrench
it IS.
BECAUSE he is tired of promises
most of them turn out to be empty shells
chicken eggs without yolks
yellows have become mere illusions
he goes for NOW.
IT is what he can hold, he feels it
and seemingly
it cannot be taken away from him
until it is taken
until he gives it after he held it
for the moment
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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He that would have eggs must endure the cackling of hens.
Even clever hens sometimes lay their eggs among nettles.
The Hen and the Wren
The lovely, laying hen said to the itsy-bitsy wren.
'Good morning. It's nice to see you now and then.'
The itsy-bitsy wren said, 'Thank you Mrs. Hen.
I haven't seen you for awhile and don't remember when.'
The laying hen said to the itsy-bitsy wren, 'If you recall,
The last time we were together was a bit before last fall.'
The wren smiled and said, 'Oh yes I should have guessed.
It's spring again so I'm back to build another nest.'
The hen said, 'Soon we both will be sitting on our eggs.
Not long after that there'll be babies ‘neath our legs.'
The itsy-bitsy wren said, 'I wish my eggs weren't so small.
Your eggs are so large that your babies will be tall.'
Well the lovely laying hen said, 'Your eggs are just right.
And that song you sing brings everyone delight.'
From spring to fall wherever hens and wrens reside,
There'll be nests, eggs and babies chirping far and wide.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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PUZZLED for Leslie Alexis
The peacock parades exquisitely.
Displays the glory of his tail,
the hens ignore him easily.
This bold display was bound to fail
The peacock has misjudged his time.
The hens aren’t ready to be wooed.
Although he thinks he is sublime
it’s not the time for hens to brood.
He’s young and inexperienced.
As yet he does not understand,
his tiny brain still hasn’t sensed.
The hens not he are in command.
The females don’t appreciate
his urgency he’ll have to wait.
20-Jan-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Utilitarian Point Of View
as the gray hen cackles looking for a place to lay her eggs
the red rooster looks for another white hen to shuffle on the ground,
we who see this does not condemn, nay we never think of morality
or codes of ethical conduct, as the rooster is just doing the work that nature and man have assigned to it
no hen ever complains that the rooster has copulated with the other
six hens around the poultry in the backyard and in the garden
neither shall we reprimand the rooster for being so restless and
cocky and prolific or as we call it engages in promiscuous sex
all that we are thinking on that moment are the eggs that each hen can lay, our minds looking forward to every morning's breakfast, when we shall choose, the usual delights: either scrambled or sunny side up or perhaps a hard-boiled egg for our personal consumption.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Love My Hospital
You are like a line of windows,
All of a design, smelt by the nose;
It is an abode of medical care
Of a remedy and an endless affair.
Your adventures are anywhere and beware
Of the obstacles that mean misery, an armchair;
The arms are sound and the legs may crave
For more room and air, the very brave.
Yolks of eggs are gulped by the nurses,
Think the innocent minds of mad men, he loses;
Who? The doctor. The consultant deserves life
And beyond us he stands, in liquid air, maybe with a knife.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A Cocky Morning
don't be
malicious
the cocks
are sounding
off their
horns
to greet
the hens out there
good morning
and of course
the hens
crackle and giggle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Town Between the Hills
The further the little girl leaped and ran,
The further she longed to be;
The white, white fields of jonquil flowers
Danced up as high as her knee
And flashed and sparkled before her eyes
Until she could hardly see.
So into the wood went she.
It was quiet in the wood,
It was solemn and grave;
A sound like a wave
Sighed in the tree-tops
And then sighed no more.
But she was brave,
And the sky showed through
A bird's-egg blue,
And she saw
A tiny path that was running away
Over the hills to--who can say?
She ran, too.
But then the path broke,
Then the path ended
And wouldn't be mended.
A little old man
Sat on the edge,
Hugging the hedge.
He had a fire
And two eggs in a pan
And a paper poke
Of pepper and salt;
So she came to a halt
To watch and admire:
Cunning and nimble was he!
"May I help, if I can, little old man?"
"Bravo!" he said,
"You may dine with me.
I've two old eggs
From two white hens
and a loaf from a kind ladie:
Some fresh nutmegs,
Some cutlet ends
In pink and white paper frills:
And--I've--got
A little hot-pot
From the town between the hills."
He nodded his head
And made her a sign
To sit under the spray
Of a trailing vine.
But when the little girl joined her hands
And said the grace she had learned to say,
The little old man gave two dreadful squeals
And she just saw the flash of his smoking heels
As he tumbled, tumbled,
With his two old eggs
From two white hens,
His loaf from a kind ladie,
The fresh nutmegs,
The cutlet-ends
In the pink and white paper frills.
And away rumbled
The little hot-pot,
So much too hot,
From the ton between the hills.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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