Defiance
The bull had come from sturdy stock,
standing defiant in his field.
His eyes they stared as if to mock,
the answer was to be revealed.
From being just a tiny dot,
he was now thundering at speed,
Then I was face to face and not
at all sure how he would proceed.
Perhaps he would just toss me high,
and throw me up into the air.
He plainly meant to terrify,
his nostrils had begun to flare.
I faced him staring eye to eye,
but he just snorted, turned his head.
And as his horns just passed me by,
he calmly sauntered back instead.
With such relief, my heart was stilled,
I felt my life had just been spared.
Not one dropp of my blood was spilled,
but in those moments, I was scared.
Of them, one can be sceptical,
one juncture quiet, then in a rage.
They are a daunting animal,
no bovine to try and upstage.
The bull had come from sturdy stock,
I quite admired him for his brawn.
But when they start to run amok,
you just don’t want to be the pawn.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Bull For Me
I think, Sirs, and most inimitable Ladies
I think I prefer to look at a bull
The sketch of a bull, the head of a bull perhaps
even if but a study by an artist
rather than some fancy prophet in glorious paint
or in grand chapel or some miracle recounted
in paint and colors and with consummate skill
or even God descending
ah, all these do not take my fancy
they smack too much of the Elevated;
there’s too much
of the grandstanding in these
Grand Divine Themes
but the face of a bull, ah give me a sketch
of the face of a bull
just the bull, all marks of nature in it
and just itself
no symbolism, no conceit, no artifice
no High sounding theology, no Revelation
but just animal nature in its nudity
being a bull
just animal, its eyes and mouth and horns
just all coming together to form one creature
a portrait of a bull anytime for me
Sirs and most inimitable Ladies
none of the Holy Ones and the Great Prophets
and the Mighty and the Divine
and the Grand-Looking:
no bull for me, please;
just the plain head of a bull, as it is
poem by Raj Arumugam
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It’s the second day that I visit
It’s the second day that I visit
on the farm near Reivelo,
just past Vryburg.
They farm with cattle, goats,
a few sheep, muscovy ducks, turkeys
and chicken.
The scrambler bumps up and down
right through the field
and go past rocks and bushes,
while we drive along the rough field
and the hot wind
cut across my face
and there are places
where it cannot go.
It’s time to transform
young bulls to oxen,
to brand cattle
and to cut their horns
and I get a black stallion
to ride into the field.
My cousin rides in front
with a brown Arabian mare
and there are bushes
and flat slabs of rock
and small hillocks that we past
to try and round up young cattle
to the corral.
It’s nice to be a cattle herder
for a time
and to use legs and heels
and reigns,
to round up cattle in the field.
Every thing goes well until
I chase a young black bull
just to the entrance of the fold,
where it stops stubbornly
and doesn’t want to move
a feet further.
I jump out of the saddle,
fasten the reigns
to a small branch
and rush to the obstinate bull.
It stands and snorting
and stamp its feet
and when it sees me,
it rushes confused
at the horse.
That faithful horse stands firm
while the bulls horns swishes
onto the reigns
and the horse
stops that bull in its tracts,
that a piece of the bridle
breaks right off.
Then I am at the bull
and pull the reigns
out of its horns
and it walks meek
into the corral,
while in astonishment
I stand and look at that animal.
With a knee-strap
and pliers in the nose
we draw the bull to the ground
and when we shear it,
it moans like a heifer
and there’s a burning smell
that goes up from the branding iron
and I see the horns
dropp at my feet
and it’s another beast
when it stand on its feet.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Quest
I am looking for Love. Has he passed this way,
With eyes as blue as the skies of May,
And a face as fair as the summer dawn?--
You answer back, but I wander on,--
For you say: 'Oh, yes; but his eyes were gray,
And his face as dim as a rainy day.'
Good friends, I query, I search for Love;
His eyes are as blue as the skies above,
And his smile as bright as the midst of May
When the truce-bird pipes: Has he passed this way?
And one says: 'Ay; but his face, alack!
Frowned as he passed, and his eyes were black.'
O who will tell me of Love? I cry!
His eyes are as blue as the mid-May sky,
And his face as bright as the morning sun;
And you answer and mock me, every one,
That his eyes were dark, and his face was wan,
And he passed you frowning and wandered on.
But stout of heart will I onward fare,
Knowing _my_ Love is beyond--somewhere,--
The Love I seek, with the eyes of blue,
And the bright, sweet smile unknown of you;
And on from the hour his trail is found
I shall sing sonnets the whole year round.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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No Bulls-Hit
Pink rain fell on the matador's hat
As the bull she'd slain lay beneath her feet
Its mouth a gap its nostrils still flared
And its life and tearblood rushed from his splayed chest
No tears or words were used as slowly her blade was drawn from flesh
And when the spray of rain did cleanse the blood
The blade gleamed like cupid's cursed arrows
And the edges seemed sharper than its irony
She stood there with the bull's scarred heart lying out an offering
And slowly she turned claiming his death for her game
She is a matador and evasion is her game
The nearer came the bull the better fun for her
Till finally straight on he near caught her
Now he lays dead.
poem by Evan Histed
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Ballad Of Bodacious
Bodacious am a whole lotta' bull
over nineteen hundred pounds.
He's born in Galry, Oklahoma
and he's the baddest sonsabitch around
if a Burma bull ever were a super star
then Bodacious just might be.
He's a cream colored, beefy brawn,
full-fledged, four footed bovine celebrity.
Who's gonna ride Bodacious?
Who's gonna tame him down?
Look out for Bodacious, he's bound to hold his ground.
Here comes Bodacious, ya'll just step aside.
Big and bad Bodacious takes a toll from those who ride.
Young Bo met a man named Tuff Hedeman
at the start of his buckin' spree
and Tuff became one of the few to make the whistle
back in Nineteen Ninety Three.
Tuff tried to ride Bo again at the finals
in Nineteen Ninety Five.
Bodacious had got a little older and wiser
Tuff barely came out alive.
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alpha Male
He looks
my way like a bull:
a hungry animal
reminds me of his face -
his eyes are hard.
Is he going?
my fear tells me
it’s almost a shame
not to be tested
by such barbarity.
Would I know him
in another age?
where eyes can only
meet each other with
a hint of civility?
I wonder
if his voice could kill?
In a soft spasm
from that huge face:
that graveyard.
poem by Stug Jordan
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Spiral Horns
My bull spiral horns
Like fishing rod
Spun horns like branch and
Bough of tree
We spray cattle in forest
In name and honour of my bull
I mock those who beat drum of war
But can’t dance in battleground
The monkey groans
The falcon scramble hens
If nothing happened
All men are men even who
Will whine like women
If war comes to teeth of cows
The monkey groans
The falcon scrambles hen
I find husband of buffalo sick in
Brave sickness I kill him by spear
Until lay head down
I find husband of man in brave fury
I kill him by spear until lay head down
I find husband of lion in brave cancer
I kill him by spear until lay head down
The monkey groans
The falcon scramble hen
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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This Isn't Everything You Are
He walked into a drugstore that day
He took a bullet and saved a girl
Not for heroic reasons
But to end his journey
His mum held his feet and prayed
with a hundred teardrops
Two thousand hands of a thousand angels
Performed CPR and with four thousand teardrops
Warmed his frozen body
God sits, turns his face and sheds a dropp or two
He lies alone in pitch darkness
The going had been tough
And he chose to get going
He dug a hole, lay and covered himself
Grace felt fat and took a stroll that day
He walked and smiled
Stepping on a heap of sand, he felt pain
Stooped and moved the sand
Turned his face and stared the turned teary face
Face to face they stared
The angels keep at it and look to God and grace
'There's joy not far from here', the angels echoed
He'd strayed, mum prayed, angels stayed
God came, breathed in him
Whispered and said, 'this isn't everything you are'
His heart beat, his mum smiled
Angels cried, God tried
To show him, all he was made to be
He cried, angels smiled
You are more than what you've been through
You are more than what you are today
And hope, though not bankable
Is the thread of life
And if you ever feel like walking away from it all
Keep this in mind:
THIS ISN'T EVERYTHING YOU ARE.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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The Crazy Bull
Look out, here comes a crazy bull
He is crazy
Hide behind the fence, my love
He is coming fast
Just toss me your jacket
And I will fight him for you
Toro, Toro, Toro
Enter the arena
everyone
Is watching me now
Toro, Toro, Toro
Crazy bull
Little by little
I am taming you
They are going to open up the gates
To his pen
So this beaten bull can leave
Now he returns back home
Looking like a lamb
Toro, Toro, Toro
poem by Mercedes Zoller
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Live Again
Feeling Nothing
Lonely Empty
You try to walk away but you fall
You cannot understand what's this for
In this world I see it more
The pain you feel that I ignore
You see my face and then you see
nothin'
Confused. you turn and live on
I turn my face
You're staring back again
Look at yourself and live again
Can't see me. you feel me
Want me. you'll find me
I'll be your everything
Will you call
You'll need more and more
When you fall
In this world I see it more
The pain you feel that I ignore
You see my face and then you see
nothing
Confused. you turn and live on
I turn my face
You're staring back again
Look at yourself and live again
How many times have you looked
At yourself and felt mistreated
How does it feel to know that
This life of yours is real
All of your life you've been led
To believe your nothin'
So look at yourself and start to live
again
You see my face and then you see
nothing
Confused you turn and live on
I turn my face
You're staring back again
Look at yourself and live again
If you don't change you'll be nothin'
So look at yourself and live again
I turn my face
You're staring back again
So look at yourself and live again
song performed by by Sevendust from Animosity
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gipsy Vans
Unless you come of the gipsy stock
That steals by night and day,
Lock your heart with a double lock
And throw the key away.
Bury it under the blackest stone
Beneath your father's hearth,
And keep your eyes on your lawful own
And your feet to the proper path.
Then you can stand at your door and mock
When the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't right that the Gorgio stock
Should live as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy blood
That takes and never spares,
Bide content with your given good
And follow your own affairs.
Plough and harrow and roll your land,
And sow what ought to be sowed;
But never let loose your heart from your hand,
Nor flitter it down the road!
Then you can thrive on your boughten food
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't nature the Gorgio blood
Should love as the Romany do.
Unless you carry the gipsy eyes
That see but seldom weep,
Keep your head from the naked skies
Or the stars'll trouble your sleep.
Watch your moon through your window-pane
And take what weather she brews;
But don't run out in the midnight rain
Nor home in the morning dews.
Then you can buddle and shut your eyes
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't fitting the Gorgio ryes
Should walk as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy race
That counts all time the same,
Be you careful of Time and Place
And Judgment and Good Name:
Lose your life for to live your life
The way that you ought to do;
And when you are finished, your God and your wife
And the Gipsies'll laugh at you!
Then you can rot in your burying place
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't reason the Gorgio race
Should die as the Romany do.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Gypsy Vans
Unless you come of the gipsy stock
That steals by night and day,
Lock your heart with a double lock
And throw the key away.
Bury it under the blackest stone
Beneath your father's hearth,
And keep your eyes on your lawful own
And your feet to the proper path.
Then you can stand at your door and mock
When the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't right that the Gorgio stock
Should live as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy blood
That takes and never spares,
Bide content with your given good
And follow your own affairs.
Plough and harrow and roll your land,
And sow what ought to be sowed;
But never let loose your heart from your hand,
Nor flitter it down the road!
Then you can thrive on your boughten food
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't nature the Gorgio blood
Should love as the Romany do.
Unless you carry the gipsy eyes
That see but seldom weep,
Keep your head from the naked skies
Or the stars'll trouble your sleep.
Watch your moon through your window-pane
And take what weather she brews;
But don't run out in the midnight rain
Nor home in the morning dews.
Then you can buddle and shut your eyes
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't fitting the Gorgio ryes
Should walk as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy race
That counts all time the same,
Be you careful of Time and Place
And Judgment and Good Name:
Lose your life for to live your life
The way that you ought to do;
And when you are finished, your God and your wife
And the Gipsies'll laugh at you!
Then you can rot in your burying place
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't reason the Gorgio race
Should die as the Romany do.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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A Haunting Love
It’s surrealistic in what I see
In the most unlikely places, in fact.
Especially when unexpectedly
They appear before tiredly eyes, abstract.
Was eating as usual, cereal:
Shredded wheat with sliced ripen banana.
Staring back from my laden spoon revealed
A face, the ghost of my Marianna.
Startled, yet saddened, my head turned around
Expecting to see my wife’s lovely face.
Instead I had found a man with a frown
Mirroring back from a glass-door bookcase.
Her haunting visits, this angel of death
Will continue I guess till my last breath.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Shametown
I see the world through the eyes of an idiot
Talkin big white trash (? )
Before the girls an boys inside of my soul
They take my path (? )
In the mirror there I see my fathers face in glass
I know I am not anyone yet too afraid to ask
I will pawn you my watch
Pawn you my chain
Pawn you my new diamond ring
Pawn you my watch
Pawn you my chain
Pawn you yeah most anything
Get your clogs on the floor
Step up step up step up an do more
Hey little girl is your door still open
The devil still inside
Seen your face he left the place
Took everything inside
Hey by the way I forgot to mention
I let it just slip out
Today is the day of salvation
An aint gonna tell no lie
Some through the water
Some through the flood
Some by the fire
But all through his blood
Some through the water
Some through the flood
Some by the bullet
But all through his blood
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Big Balls
well i married a farmer nicknamed
"Big Balls"
nope it is not what you think at all
It started way back
when he was a city kid
who has never seen a cow
visiting his cousins on the farm
helping with chores
playing in the field
with wonder he stared
at this bull with its huge sack
hanging from its belly
too shy and not wanting to sound stupid
magnus as my husband was babtised
waited for the opportune moment
so with uncle and cousins
out in the camp
branding the animals
magnus could contain himself no more
"Wow! That bull's got "Big Balls"
roars of laughter as all eyes
looked to where he was pointing
their oldest and biggest cow.
ever since this day everybody
and now a farmer himself
he goes by the nickname "Big Balls"
poem by Persian Khushi
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The Return
They turned him loose; he bowed his head,
A felon, bent and grey.
His face was even as the Dead,
He had no word to say.
He sought the home of his old love,
To look on her once more;
And where her roses breathed above,
He cowered beside the door.
She sat there in the shining room;
Her hair was silver grey.
He stared and stared from out the gloom;
He turned to go away.
Her roses rustled overhead.
She saw, with sudden start.
"I knew that you would come," she said,
And held him to her heart.
Her face was rapt and angel-sweet;
She touched his hair of grey;
. . . . .
But he, sob-shaken, at her feet,
Could only pray and pray.
poem by Robert William Service
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Right To Know
The tiny child that lives inside
Deserves the right to know
That life would never be denied
While it had time to grow.
For life is sacred, sanctified,
God's precious one-time gift,
For which He must be glorified
When we our praises lift.
The tiny child that God prepared
Perhaps had much to do,
Perhaps with many blessings shared
With folks like me and you.
Perhaps an artist to be spared,
A doctor or a nurse,
Yet only if the people cared
To bless and not to curse.
The tiny child deserves no tears,
No blood shed as a whim,
No cutting short of future years,
Its destiny to dim
God spared my life to write my fears,
To voice my deep concerns.
God gave me hands and feet and ears.
Such gifts no wise man spurns.
The tiny child can't see the face
Of she who bears its form,
Nor can it know another place
To store it safe and warm
If it could speak, its thoughts to trace,
What wise words could it say?
'I am unique, I grow by grace
Don't throw my life away '
poem by Denis Martindale
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When we were small children
When we were small children
about five and four
my dad had died
of cancer
and I and my brother
had to stay during the day
with the Von Hörsten’s
when my mother drove away to work.
Uncle Hendrik was a farmer,
but also with his brother Fritz
wrote story books
and his string of children
who was much older
and bigger than us
(four boys and two girls)
kept us busy
since boys had to stay out of the house.
So it went that we
rode horses unsaddled,
tread on silage
and the second oldest Gardiël
was always on our case,
had put us on donkeys
and the lot of them laughed
while the animals run moody
into rocks
and my brother fell
and got some bruises and cuts.
One day the cornfield
was cut stubble high
to get feed for the cattle
and the breeding bull Kittennel
(a black and malicious animal)
were chased into the crush-pen
and Gardiël forced us on that bull
before he chased it
with a horse
into the cornfield.
On the other side of the field
beyond the border wire
his brothers waved a red flag
up and down and up and down
and Kittennel snored though his nose,
in anger shook his body,
kicked up dust
before he got direction
capering
and storming with full force
at the red flag.
The stubbles flashed
past his feet
and looked like spears
standing upright
and we were afraid
of being pierced
and we rode Kittennel
and no bull
could throw us down that day.
[Reference: The word uncle used here out of respect and local custom and not to point out family relationship.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Being a Tiger, Being a Bull
I was born in 1962, the year of the tiger
In the chinese astrological callendar
but in the Zodiac wheel of time
I'm a Taurus, a bull by design
A man with a purpose, by his own admission
hard, yet soft, but never a remission
I'm understanding, romantic, peaceful at heart
sometimes hard deaded, that's the Bull from the start
But I'm happy for who I am
a very possitive and gentle man
and trust me, it's not so cruel
when at times I'm a Tiger, and others a Bull.
(Charlie Vergara/06.11.2009/1395)
poem by White Tiger
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Smiling Face
[V1]
Sitting on the bus
Looking through the window
And I close my eyes
I see the shade of your smiling face
Your smiling face
When you walk in through the door
Smiling face
Like I've never seen before
[V2]
Standing in the rain
Nearly washed the day away
Then I think of you
I know the sight of your smiling face
Your smiling face
And it's always here with me
Smiling face
Well I wonder could it be
[CHORUS]
I still know
That I'm never gonna find you
But I do believe
That you're standing right behind
Will I ever get
The answer to my question
Life will go on
song performed by by M2M from Shades Of Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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