You'd Be Better Off
I no more care about what you think,
Than I choose to do it myself.
That's why I don't understand,
Why you go out of your way...
To give your opinion.
When you'd be better off,
Milking cows on a farm...
And feeding a horse hay.
Or giving me fifty dollars to go away.
And if you should go that far to do that...
You know I would agitate until I got more.
Especially when you open up those French doors,
For business like that?
I'd become atrtached like a mole on your back.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Truely Norwegian Poem
The Suitor
Uphill I walked it was still dark, had to be at
the farm a five, milking time. Hard westerly
wind makes the climb tough soon the cattle will
be mooing in their pens, the boss grumpy, I’m
hungry and no time to eat; milking eight cows
by hand is no joke. End of the last hill I see
the farm, there is light in the kitchen,
Emma, my dog, barks, stops when she hears my
steps, ten to five, morning light I stop and catch
my breath, they are not going to think that I was
hasting for them I’ll have a quick mug of coffee
a slice of ham, just like any other day, they will
wonder and the maids whisper, but not ask where
and with whom, I spent the night.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Part Of Life, That is
Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.
Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.
Stuck with sticking emotions felt in my gut...
Unable to abandon them.
Or give them up...
Had been a place I'd been,
Back then.
With no one but myself...
And faith,
To help me slowly break away...
Of a hold I had on them to mend.
Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.
I have learned to feel grief deeply,
Where it is felt.
Let it visit.
And then from it to leave!
Not to forget the process...
But to breathe!
Remembering...
With an agony upon my letting go,
Knowing what I felt was painful...
It was also,
Part of life!
A part of life,
That is!
Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.
Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.
Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It's a Dream
I think
I am
A wild and free horse
Out in the meadows
In the wilderness
I think I am free
At will
To wander wherever I so choose
I think I am
My own master
But then my dream
Is over
And I wake up
To realize that I am a farm horse
Giving visitors the excitement of riding me
poem by Emily Krauss
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It Ain't None of My Business?
It 'ain't' none of my business?
Wrong!
If I'm qualified for you to dump,
Issue upon issue on me.
Bring up what you call 'facts'...
That I am not there for you,
When you need me?
You say I am not sensitive enough,
To understand your 'pain'.
And I am not man enough...
Because I have one job and not two?
To take care of your wants and needs?
While you go behind my back,
And screw a dude or 'whatever' you do?
And I'm suppose to please you...
So your friends can understand,
How good of a man I am?
If I am good enough to tolerate your nonsense,
Day and night...
At times jeopardizing my peace?
Trying to do things right!
Guess what?
EVERYTHING you do 'is' my business!
And then you want to call the police on me...
Because YOU have driven me to the brink!
And your version of reality,
Is the only version they hear and choose to see?
Guess what?
EVERYTHING you do 'is' my business!
And as long as I feel it is?
It will be!
Now I want you to tell everybody I said that.
And when they begin to start paying a bill in this house...
Listening to you complain about this and that,
And witness me put up with your daily crap?
Trust me...
They will help me validate without hesitation,
You are not nearly half of the mate you should be!
Not for me!
EVERYTHING you do is my business.
If I say that it is!
Including who you sleep with...
In our bed that is neither hers or his.
Can you hear what I said?
EVERYTHING you do is my business!
Including who you sleep with...
In our bed!
It 'ain't' none of my business?
I can't believe that's what you said!
Wrong!
EVERYTHING you do is my business.
You certainly ought to be grateful...
One of us is not dead!
You have no idea how much of your business,
Is not even yours.
People know what is going on,
As if we live behind glass walls...
And have no curtains or doors!
The neighbors even believe...
I should leave you to feed my own needs.
That's the conversations they are having!
While you are here on your knees,
Pleasing 'whoever'...
When you should be praying,
That I haven't lost my sanity!
It 'ain't' none of my business?
You have proven yourself to be pointless,
Mindless 'and' common 'senseless'!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I'll promise to go easier on drinking and to get to bed earlier, but not for you, fifty thousand dollars, or two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars will I give up women. They're too much fun.
Unfamiliar Sacrifices
The naysayers are always there,
Giving their opinion on what they would do...
'If' situations were not the way they were.
And they seem to be the ones who know,
Which way to go!
But can't seem to get there themselves.
A lack of leadership is blamed for the malaise.
A leadership wished,
Easier to manipulate had been for many prayed.
The claim the latest leader is weak and indecisive.
Is an excuse to continue their breast feeding
Like the brats and spoiled children they are.
The naysayers are always there,
Giving there opinion on what they would do.
And they seem to be the ones who know,
Which way to go!
But a going to get there...
They would like to do with less effort.
Too often have they done this on the back of someone else.
And the one who now leads...
Warns of unfamiliar sacrifices with a putting of their lollipops,
Away.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Just a Horse
A friend died recently
Our hearts filled with remorse
Some may not understand
They’ll say, “He was just a horse”
Broke his heart to sell Apache
But when Dad died he was forced
Three hundred and fifty dollars
“If you want just a horse”
For my daughter, a new chapter
In her growing up course
Her heart and eyes burned bright
Yet, “he was just a horse”
In the arena, through the poles
Riding natures own source
Mounted on her lithe steed
“Yes, he was just a horse”
A queen in the parade
With a crown and sash, of course
Riding regally through the cheering crowd
Noble and proud, “but just a horse”
In the corral or just around the pasture
Listening to her gentle discourse
Love applied with a curry brush
For an animal “who was just a horse”
God created all the animals
Before he created man in due course
Gave humanity all his best
God’s own plan, but “never just a horse”
Broremann The Farmhand
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Two cows deconstruct Derrida
These two cows were ruminating
and one says, I was listening
to the milkmaid’s transistor
and this French philosopher
was explaining that there’s
no English translation of the French word
‘betise’ except ‘stupidity’ but
‘stupidity’ only refers to man
where the French ‘betise’ means
to behave like an animal…
and the other cow says
well what’s wrong with that
and the first cow says
well his point is, English cows
can’t be stupid; only man
can be stupid..
and the other cow says
well that’s a relief then
so does that mean that French cows
can be stupid
and the first cow says
no because they don’t have a word for it
in French
so the other cow says
so then is it better to be
an English cow
that can’t be stupid
or a French cow
that can’t be called stupid
and the first cow says
who cares, I’ve always said
the French ruminate too much
and then talk bullshit…
and the other cow says
I’m glad I’m a Jersey
what about that French milkmaid
I call sexyhands but
the farmer sometimes calls
a silly cow I wonder what
Derrida would say about that
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My parents moved to Los Angeles when I was really young, but I spent every summer with my grandparents, and I'd stay with my grandfather on the farm in Longview. He was retired from the railroad, and he had a small farm with some cows and some pigs. I remember part of my youth was feeding hogs and plowing fields and stuff, so that's a part of me.
quote by Forest Whitaker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box
there are bomb? doors and there are revolving doors doors on the rudders of big ships and there are revolving doors there are doors that open by themselves there are sliding doors and there are secret doors there are doors that lock and doors that don't there are doors that let you in and out but never open but there are trap doors that you can't come back from
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pull / Pulk Revolving Doors
There are barn doors
And there are revolving doors
Doors on the rudders of big ships
And there are revolving doors
There are doors that open by themselves
There are sliding doors
And there are secret doors
There are doors that lock
And doors that dont
There are doors that let you in
And out
But never open
But there are trapdoors
That you cant come back from
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pull Pulk Revolving Doors
There are barn doors
And there are revolving doors
Doors on the rudders of big ships
We are revolving doors
There are doors that open by themselves
There are sliding doors
And there are secret doors
There are doors that lock
And doors that don't
There are doors that let you in
And out
But never open
But they are trapdoors
That you can't come back from
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Me And Grandpa Together?
if grandpa were still alive
he could have scolded me to no end
why at this hour
(it is 11: 30 in the morning)
i have not yet done anything for my life
perhaps like chopping wood or pasturing the carabao
or bringing them in their mud hole and keeping them cool
under shady mango trees
or perhaps i could have been in the farm cutting those weeds
feeding the chickens,
and the pigs, and milking cows
and cleaning the pigsty
or climbing coconut trees and gathering all those nuts
and processing them to copra
all these farm dreams of his for me
he never knew what poetry is.
and if he soon discovers that i am into this craft
i know he will call me again some of my favorite names:
lazy-bone
useless ogre
animal
demon
a mouth to feed
another problem of society
rebel
fool
good-for-nothing
i nfidel
enemy of the church
devil
etcetera
but i might be wrong, grandpa loves me and his only wish is that
i must know how to make our farm the best in the village
the farm that produces the fattest cow
the heaviest pig,
the biggest coconut
the longest corn
i'm hardheaded, very hardheaded
if granpa were alive, i could have set a table for two,
for us, one glass of wine,
under the moon, under the garden
soft winds blowing our hair
in an atmosphere of camaraderie
nothing about sons and fathers or grandpas and grandsons
we'll talk perhaps about women, and poetry and
well, the last but not the least of course, our faith still in God.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This was a dairy cow, and dairy cows have IDs on them. The ID was traced back to the farm in Washington. It's a dairy farm. And that farm now has been quarantined, and the owners have been very cooperative in doing that.
quote by Ann Veneman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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It Wasn't Enough
It Wasn't Enough
It wasn't enough [x3]
I will try to believe in the things I cannot see
But my faith is shaking now like it's never been before
When I call
And you don't come
I don't know what I should do
Should I call?
Should I even count on you?
I'm giving all I can
It wasn't enough
To keep you in my hands
Should I give up?
I try to understand
Was it ever enough?
I don't understand
So here I am once again
With my back against the wall
Afraid to show you
Afraid to tell you
I don't know you like I did
I've never been so alone
I've never felt so insecure
And now I don't know where I'm going
In my life I'm not so sure
I'm giving all I can
It wasn't enough
To keep you in my hands
Should I give up?
I try to understand
Was it ever enough?
I don't understand
Giving up tonight
I won't let go
Won't let go of you
Giving up tonight
I wanna show you
Wanna show you
Am I giving up?
Giving up
I don't wanna give this up
I won't
[Chorus]
Everything you want from me
I fought so hard for everything
Everything you want from me
I tried so hard could never be
Anything you want from me
Anything you want from me
I gave it all
song performed by by Good Charlotte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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Let every one mind his own business, and the cows will be well tended.
His Story
i asked him where he learned to write....
'tailing a saw in a sawmill,
milking cows, hoeing acres of garden,
building houses and interstate bridges,
dolphing cloth in the mills,
loading trucks and boxcars,
cutting wood, cooking on open fires,
drinking too much, giving too much,
fighting when i had to,
raising children, loving the same woman
for years, walking with my dog....'
he pulled out a smoke, and i joined him...
we watched the evening sun go down....
listening to his story....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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