A Farmer's Song
One, two and three
Its dawn, and cows are mooing,
cocks are crowing,
a dog is barking,
a new day, welcoming.
Four, five and six
The sun is up, plants are healthy
On goes the counting, hens eggs they lay
Manure is turned for decay,
Cows fed with hay.
Six, seven and eight
Milkman returns pails for day
Cake done, ghee and butter,
Egg trays for this, has made a day
Fruits flourish for better
Nine ends with ten
To, West the Sun retires
Clutter clang, tools return to stores
Dogs released from kennels
Radio some news it blares,
A way the cold is driven with fires.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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Related quotes
Men’s abode
Pollens travel to ovules place.
Cocks visit hens’ domains.
The bulls go to cows’ sheds.
Women are sent to men’s abode.
08.06.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Divorcees
Bulls are stronger than cows;
Cocks are prouder than hens.
Man is taller than woman.
It is the nature’s design.
Woman wants to grow as tall
As man in all respects.
Having grown like that now
She goes out of partner.
Her mind is still feminine,
Which demands a person
Who can hug her, lead her
And be superior to her.
She searches a partner,
Higher than her, in vain
And get one that miss-fires.
She lives as a divorcee.
25.08.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Male’s prerogative
Bulls chase the cows and cocks, hens.
Male succeeds while female succumbs.
If man enacts it, it is branded as rape.
Animals are not as possessive as men
31.03.2000, Palakkad
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The return from cows and sheep in cheese is worth much money every day in the season, without calves and lambs, and without the manure, which all return corn and fruit.
quote by Robert Grosseteste
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rural Sounds
mooing cows
barking dogs
flowing river
grassy plains
hushing winds
tall mountains
foggy hillsides
rising cliffs
a little brown boy
harvesting water apples
a little girl lifting her skirt
to catch them
father plowing a rain fed field
elder sister washing dirty clothes in the river
brother catching fish for breakfast
mother cooking rice
smoke rising from the chimney
reaching for the gods residing in the skies
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When Dawn Comes to the City
The tired cars go grumbling by,
The moaning, groaning cars,
And the old milk carts go rumbling by
Under the same dull stars.
Out of the tenements, cold as stone,
Dark figures start for work;
I watch them sadly shuffle on,
'Tis dawn, dawn in New York.
But I would be on the island of the sea,
In the heart of the island of the sea,
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing,
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree,
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing,
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn,
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing,
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying,
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously!
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea,
There would I be at dawn.
The tired cars go grumbling by,
The crazy, lazy cars,
And the same milk carts go rumbling by
Under the dying stars.
A lonely newsboy hurries by,
Humming a recent ditty;
Red streaks strike through the gray of the sky,
The dawn comes to the city.
But I would be on the island of the sea,
In the heart of the island of the sea,
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing,
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree,
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn,
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing,
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying,
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling,
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously!
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea,
There I would be at dawn.
poem by Claude McKay
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Langwidge
'The flamin' cows!' 'e ses; 'e did, an' worse;
'Twas 'orrible the langwidge that 'e used.
It made me blood run cold to 'ear 'im curse;
An' me that taken-back-like an' confused;
W'ile them poor beasts 'e belted an' abused.
'They couldn't shift,' 'e ses, 'a blanky 'earse!
The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' You oughter 'eard 'im curse.
You would a bin that shocked. . . . An' the idear!
'Im usin' such remarks about a 'earse;
An' 'is own brother buried not a year.
'Not move a blanky 'earee!' 'e ses. My dear,
You 'ardly could imagine langwidge worse.
'The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' Wot would the parson say?
An' 'im so friendly-like with 'im an' 'er.
I pity 'er; I do, 'cos, in 'er way.
She is respectable. But 'i! It's fur
From me, as you well know, to cast a slur,
On anyone; but wot I 'eard that day. . . .
'The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' I know quite well that we
Ain't wot you'd call thin-skinned; and nasty pride
Is wot I never 'ad.... But 'er! ... W'y she
She's allus that stuck-up an' full o' side;
A sorter thing I never could abide.
An' all the time 'er 'usband.... Goodness me!
'The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' O' course 'e never knowed
That I was list'nin' to 'im all the w'ile.
'E muster bin a full hour on the road;
An', Lord, you could 'a' 'eard 'im for a mile.
Jes' cos they stuck 'im in that boggy sile:
'If they ain't blanky swine,' 'e ses, 'I'm blowed!
The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' W'y, if it 'ad occurred,
An' me not 'eard, I'd 'ardly think it true.
An', you know well, I wouldn't breathe a word
Against a livin' soul, I don't care 'oo;
Not if the Queen of Hingland arst me to.
But, oh! that langwidge! If you only 'eard!
'The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' 'e ses,, an' more besides.
An' fancy! 'Im! To think that 'e would swear!
W'y 'Blarst!' 'e sez... Yes! 'Blarst the'r blanky 'ides!'
(Oh, you may well throw up your 'ands an' stare!)
Yes - 'Blarst,' 'e ses, 'the'r blanky 'ides an' 'air!
I'll out the blanky skin off er the'r sides!
The flamin' cows!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Food In Heaven
Food In Heaven
Food In Heaven
He made the cows to want the rain to fall he made the grass that they use to eat to fill the want inside a cow he makes grass as bread for cows they just continue there to graze in some places in the desert spaces there is grass for cows to eat this is called heaven sweet to cows they drink water when they have it in a drink flavored pouch oh no see eh ewe caught me making lies no listen while eye smile and tell ewe this poem is so nice there is grass for all the cows there is grass on every hill and every cow can eat in heaven they still have grass for every cow there is food in heaven there is food there in a drink flavored pouch.
poem by Charles Hice
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Lemon Cake
The radio plays
Sunny afternoon, it's The Kinks
She's in the kitchen, cooking.
All chaos reigns,
flour, butter, mixing bowls
her, trying to make lemon cake.
She sings loudly
as chefs do in restaurants,
cafes and bakery shops.
It's a lemon cake
like her ma' used to bake
She sings loudly
and the radio's blares,
the telephone rings
and the dog barks.
The neighbour, next door,
throws her watering can about
in protest of the racket.
Fresh lemons fill the air
as I watch from the cat basket
my whiskers twitching
fur bristling, back arched
my eyes -
on the cat flap.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Windmills and Stone Stables
Cows suffered in the days of old
For want of water and from cold,
Now of good water they have fill
For it is pumped by the windmill.
No matter how well cows were fed
They suffered cold in their board shed,
But good stone walls now them enfold,
And they are warm and safe from cold.
Now they do enjoy their fodder,
And repay with their full udder,
If bran slops you on cow bestow
Of milk it will increase the flow.
And in your efforts do not halt
But let them daily lick the salt,
And never let the dogs them chase,
But let them walk at their quiet pace.
poem by James McIntyre
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Happy Easter
Who wants to be a rooster,
Crowing before dawn everyday.
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be a rooster,
Crowing before dawn everyday.
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be that rooster?
To strut and cluck for someone sleeping,
To get up.
And do that if programmed before the dawn shows up.
And if that rooster gets into a rut...
Who will then do the clucking?
Or wake up,
To collect the eggs!
Who wants to be a rooster,
Crowing before dawn everyday.
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be a rooster,
Crowing before dawn everyday.
Who wants to be that rooster?
Who wants to be that rooster?
To strut and cluck for someone sleeping,
To get up.
And do that if programmed before the dawn shows up.
And if that rooster gets into a rut...
Who will then do,
The clucking?
Or wake up,
To collect the eggs!
'Happy Easter'
~Do you notice anything different about those eggs? ~
'Yeah!
They are colored.
Why? '
~They are for the Easter Egg Hunt.
Put them back.~
'Oh!
I must be dreaming.
I thought I heard a rooster crow.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Eggs Are Laid
Chew the few do on tidbits.
Some onioned and green peppered!
And moo with sounds like cows,
Ruminating cud...
When touched by cool fingertips.
Gently squeezing milk from filled utters.
Hens peck.
Roosters crow.
Eggs are laid...
As opinions are tossed to and fro.
Farming fresh water fished.
And booted to gossip in spring waters.
This, when viewed, inspires appetites to write.
Delighting one to dine...
On the imaginative scrambling to perplex fixed minds.
Sometimes!
Some do chew on tidbits stewed.
Spitting pits of cherries picked,
On a hilltop sitting sniffing fumes of manure.
Thinking of stiff necks to crack...
Within the shells of those stuff shirted backs.
Smacking on rhetoric and tossing crap,
As if narrow points of view...
Will influence a sunnyside up disposition,
Of one who knows they desire news to poach
From all sides of this valley.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Snakes and cows
Foxes are cheats;
Snakes are venom;
Lions are cruel.
Are they all meant,
For that, to go to hell?
Cows are pious;
Deer are harmless;
Dogs are loyal.
Are they all meant,
For that, to go to heaven?
Some are by nature like snakes
And some are like cows.
26.05.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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3: 51 A.m.
the cocks in the neighborhood
inside their fences are crowing
others answer the call as though
telling we are already awake and
ready for the day's fights,
one cock however remains rested
between his two ash-colored hens.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hyperboles and Such
A bubble floats,
Will pass on by,
The cows and goats
Begin to cry.
The balloon falls dead.
The whip cracks dawn.
The frog prince hopes.
The jungle kings yawn.
Until then, the till now plows.
And earth now weeps for goats and cows.
poem by Jesse Swedlund
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Gratitude dawning
Alarm clock. The sun rises.
The buses, railways, flights are running.
There’s a bottle of milk on the doorstep.
Facts of life. Except when they’re not there.
Who lives a life of continual gratitude for life?
Hey guys, the sun which disappeared last night
has turned up again today! Wow! Relief! Let’s get down
on our knees, raise hands, voices… and
while we’re about it, put your hands together for
all morning milkmen, where they still deliver milk…
Except – no milk this morning.
Shall you telephone – politely,
with a subtext of unpractised gratitude?
I only saw the current milkman once;
said to him, this is the first time I met you…
he said, well, you’re not around at 4 ay em are you?
So you telephone. A foreignish voice from
the land of holy cows replies from
a script I guess, …your previous milkman…
left the company… late…on his way…
Morning gratitude. The cow who gives you
the love for her calves, in liquid form;
yielding too, the butter for your toast;
the pig who gave her life for your bacon rasher;
the hen who parted with her offspring for you
to kill its life in sizzling frying pan…
they’re all female, you’ve just noticed; how about
the oranges whose liquid praise of the morning sun you drink?
tomatoes, mushrooms, anybody?
maybe you should write a note to the dairy,
say, please convey to the milkman
who has now left the company for
pastures new, hur hur, and we hope
a creamy, frothing future,
our gratitude for services rendered
which we would not ourselves
be easily persuaded to take on…
yes, maybe you should.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Cows Rear Leg (Fun Poem 57)
A cowbell sounds for milking time,
a milkmaid on her three-legged stool,
remembering all the time that golden rule.
Never get behind a cows rear leg
as it could give you a nasty bump.
A jet of milk fires into the bucket
as she caresses the utter teats
with her soft hands.
Always watchful and wary
of the cows rear leg.
29 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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Cows, after leaving the low lands near the coast, are found to be plentiful everywhere, and to produce milk in small quantities, from which butter is made.
quote by John H. Speke
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Countryside
Patches of dark grey clouds
and streaks of white clouds
on the greenish brown hills
blocking the daylight;
The water-filled paddy fields
the swaying of the coconut tree leaves
the raindrops on mustard flowers;
some black and white coloured
cows tied under a tree
and a herd of mooing cows heading home;
The smiles of children playing in
rain puddles, various coloured
umbrellas scattered from
here to there, people rushing
to their homes, a small
temple sheltering all;
The cool breeze, the droplets of
water on every face,
the smell of damp brown-earth
made the time stand still.
I paused and resumed
my journey of life.
Copyright©2011Rizvana Parveen
poem by Rizvana Parveen
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Weaklings Are Blessed
Healthy fruits are plucked;
Healthy plants are infested.
Healthy animals are slaughtered.
The weaklings have longer life.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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