Okay, today is the final day of the poeming part of this challenge. Beginning tomorrow (if not already), you’ll begin the process of revising and assembling a 10-20 page poetry chapbook manuscript. Click here to review the guidelines.
Today’s prompt comes from Violet Nesdoly.
Here’s Violet’s prompt: Write a milk poem. This could be about the moo-juice kind of milk. Or it could explore milk metaphorically, as in the expression “milk of human kindness.” Of course it could also be about the act of milking something. And no, it doesn’t have to be nourishing.
Robert’s attempt at a Milk Poem:
“The Final Poem”
The final prompt, the final day,
and here I am milking the situation
as if tomorrow won’t come, as if
it won’t bring more prompts, more
poems, more lines to break.
*****
Thank you, Violet, for the great prompt! Click here to learn more about Violet.
Click here to share your poem on the WD Forum.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
Write 21st Century Fiction! Click here to learn how.
I missed the last few days of the challenge, as I have been in hospital after a heart attack and 3 lots of surgery in 4 days. Tillybud has sent me the prompts I missed, but I don’t know that I have the mojo to write to them. Can I still submit my chapbook poems – I wrote to every prompt up to 21 November?
DONE.
Thanks for a wonderful month of poetry!!
The Milkman
A poke here, a jab there –
Always verbal, of course.
He kept at it daily
Without sign of remorse.
Cruel word by cruel word
He slowly milked away
All of her confidence
And never had to pay.
Milking Venom
It’s a dangerous job,
but necessary. Caution
and coordination
(prerequisite skills
for the position – both
sorely needed and surely
lacking) must be
carefully cultivated,
patiently applied, else
one risks a most
venomous sting
Milk, milk, lemonade, around the corner fudge is made!!
OMG – I just had to do it and NO this is not my poem and I give full credit to whomever made it up in the first place; although, I have no idea.
Am I going to get in trouble for posting this?
I didn’t get this posted yesterday…
HO-HO-HO!
(a shadorma)
Each year I
wait, with cookies and
milk, trying
to stay a-
wake to hear him exclaiming:
“I am Ho-Ho-Home!”
2012-11-30
P. Wanken
STAYIN’ ALIVE
I lay beside green pastures and conspire
to find the ways of keeping what passes through
unhindered by too much civilization, all the undue
interference of what doesn’t belong. I tire
of the calls of them that complicate my life
with devices that are supposed to ensure
that my existence won’t be encumbered, that lure
me into a gallery lit with attractions, rife
with lights, camera action, and the uneasy feel
somebody is watching me, they want to know
where I am going, leading me to follow their flow,
no, it’s here where the sheep graze, I kneel
over a patch of flowers gazing at butterflies
congregating about the petals drinking their fill . . .
off in the distance my feet sense the thrill
of the sound of the sheep, the voices rise
in the distance. Always there, reminding me
where they are in the circle of life, where I am,
biting away at the flowers when I just came
following them back to the pen, I let them be . . .
mother lambs at the milking, first the flock
then the machines in tins, carrying them in
to the plant where the liquid turns, my head spins
how everything goes round comes round the clock.
Zev Davis
Dear Santa, I will leave milk and cookies on the coffee table this time. I’m sorry I sorta blamed you last year when mama asked who chipped her half moon tableinthe hallway . She would never believe me if I told her the real truth. I hope you understand. Don’t you have children? Didn’t they break things? I bet you helped them get out of trouble with Your wife. I bet you brought them a computer they really really needed. You are a good dad. I can tell. Ps I’m going to make sure my dog will be in the basement so he won’t bite you.
Cleopatra . . .
Cleopatra bathed in asses’ milk
I’ve often heard it said,
so I decided I would too before I went to bed.
I filled the bath with asses’ milk.
well almost to the brim,
a foaming bath it was, in which to bathe my skin.
I didn’t like the texture, didn’t like
the smell, but most of all
I must admit, I missed dear Anthony as well.
The Ilk of Milk
“The cow is of the bovine ilk; one end is moo, the other milk.” ~Ogden Nash
If one end’s milk, the other moo,
I wonder: could you then construe
that chocolate milk should be called choo?
Or is it chilk? What would you do?
I think where bovines are concerned
re milk production, we’ve all learned
that cows have no real point of view
on choo (or chilk.) What would you do?
But as a fan of chocolate drink,
no matter choo or chilk, I think
if from a bovine, call it boo
(or maybe bilk.) What would you do?
And here’s a thought on bovine-juice:
If grass fed, is milk then chartreuse?
And if it’s green, is it called goo?
Or rather, ‘gilk’? What would you do?
###
Participating in this month’s activities is my first ever attempt of anything of the sort. Must admit it was way beyond me to keep up – made about 50% (too many irons in the fire). Enjoyed getting to meet ya’ll through your poetry and posts. Meandered thorough several of your sites and blogs and decided to give that a go as well. Stop in sometime and say howdy, you are welcome at my campfire anytime. Thanks everyone!
Nov 29 – Birth
Nov 30 – Milk
(Combined)
The Fawn
The doe gives birth, alone, in pain,
Slowly new life emerges, one last strain.
Carefully the mother cleans her young,
Daylight breaks, christened by the sun.
Hastily the mother nuzzles the new gent,
The air spilling her fresh-blood scent.
The fawn reaches its knees awkward, and feeble,
Just minutes ago in its mother’s womb, fetal.
Legs shaking, the fawn takes its first stance,
It’s a miracle, its life, its creation’s dance.
The fawn drinks in warm mother’s milk,
Its coat glistens, as new woven silk.
Slowly, the mother leads her babe away,
Deep in the tall grass, she coaxes him to stay.
Carefully she leaves him all alone,
The fawn lays motionless, camouflaged stone.
You could easily walk past and not take note,
The new babe hiding, shadows blending in its coat.
It lies there fearless, sure of its mother’s return,
All things new, everything to learn.
The doe hides close, with a watchful eye,
Ready as any mother, to defend till she die.
Both rest long in the early spring sun,
Life is but a miracle and for the fawn – day one.
The Lord’s gift of nature, and all its majesty,
From highest mountain, through sky, to deepest sea.
All His creation, all His wonders, all – for His glory,
No doubt, no question, what else it could be?
Milk Paint
Walk from town to town, ask
the wealthier households if
they need portraits, or want
their walls decorated. That’s
how itinerant painters made
their way. They brought their
own brushes, poured pigment
and lime into buckets of curds,
each working his own secret
formula.
When children see the murals
on farmhouse walls, they ask
why there are no forests, only
hills. The forests were cut down
for farming, we tell them. There
were no forests here then. Why
does the tree in the garden look
like that, they ask. Why does it
look like a fountain.
Those were elm trees, we tell
them. You could shimmy up
the branches and slide right
down to the end; the branch
would bend to the ground, you
could hop off and do it again.
Can we grow trees like that,
they ask us. No, we tell them.
Not anymore.
Because it is so challenging to post — I am going to post collectively today (30th) several poems I have not before poster successfully.
\
22 PARADISE LUNE (Kelly)
Any place I am
with you is
paradise to me.
23 DEEP (Fib)
I
long
to once
again stand
with you, feel and then
share love’s music that’s in our hearts.
23 (DEEP) FIRE (Nonet)
In the quiet night, below moon and stars,
I build a fire of memory
and in the burning coals, I
seek to reclaim the one
hot, hidden spark
used for igniting
love’s first
flame.
24 The Truth about
(Haiku)
The truth about life
comes when minds and hearts open,
look beyond themself
22 PARADISE — Etheree
I
was your
sweet princess,
spark in your eyes.
I loved you closeness,
attention to our needs
wrapped up in warm tenderness.
You and I together always
On earth we had our own paradise.
We did anything, everything as one.
25 PARADISE LOST—(Nonet)
Caring, helping, and always close by,
filling my life, my days and nights,
choosing, touching, holding tight.
What I thought was love, I
came to realize
was just control.
Paradise,
somehow
lost.
.
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 30
Write a milk poem
Wrung Out
My brain has been milked
and wrung out
for the month
of November for challenge.
I will replenish.
Galletas con leche
(Cookies and milk)
If St. Nick you want to impress,
give him what he likes the best…
Galletas con leche!
When he comes through the front door,
he’ll be hungry and thirsty for…
Galletas con leche!
Down the chimney he won’t fit.
This is Santa’s favorite treat:
Galletas con leche!
Santa is a dairy nut.
Stock your fridge with nothing but…
Galletas con leche!
If in Santa you believe,
don’t forget this Christmas Eve…
Galletas con leche!
Done! I won’t be submitting ’cause I don’t have enough decent pieces for this challenge, but this was fun and quite a workout for my tender brain. This was quite awesome, everyone! Thanks for all the prompts. Thanks for the challenge, Robert. ^^
A Bad Fall
Someone keyed my Corolla,
the one my parents leased for me
(electric green with a spoiler
and a gold package—ridiculous
and loved). As I looked at the
scratch, the gallon of milk I had
just bought, just splurged on,
tumbled off the roof, hit the
asphalt and exploded, ran
in all directions even as I
indulged wild fantasies of
somehow scooping it up,
or getting back in my
scratched car, driving
back to Kroger, getting
a replacement as if
any of it was the store’s
fault, what happened in
my apartment building’s
parking lot, under a stupid,
stupid purple twilight sky.
Lake Mystery
Wind raw, cuts like March.
If February, instead of November,
I would think thaw. On the north
side of Delia Lake seagulls rest
against the wind. Near the road a
bird with milk white feathers, too
big for a seagull, flies the rapacious
path of a predator. I drink warm milk
from the shelter of my car and watch
the parade of migrating birds. Wish I
had binoculars but then might lose
the mystery of this gray day.
I chose Lyric Style for this one simply because it flowed better than free verse or other forms; at least for me.
Lesson Learned
The milking of cows has both rewards and hazards. Learning technique takes finesse, surety. Approach milker with caution, as it smells fear and hesitation. Position yourself up close and personal; nestle cheek into the throbbing warmth of her side to quell likelihood of meeting hoof with your head or mighty chest. Warm your hands, for Daisy doesn’t like cold. Don’t grab and tug hard, unless you want a hoof in your face. Caress the udder to bring down milk; firm, gentle finger pressure’s best, and feed the cat that wanders by looking for cow’s hand-outs. If teats are unresponsive, don’t continue more than five minutes, or a ruined milker you’ll have, until she’s stood and been rebred. Above all, for heaven’s sake, don’t try to ride her unless bronc riding is your forte.
I ended up totally dropping this ball this month. BUMMER!
But what fabulous poets out here in Asides land. Y’all ROCK.
Sometimes
Sometimes there is crying over spilt milk.
Sometimes there is dancing in the rain.
Sometimes there is walking on the thin ice.
Sometimes there is pleasure without pain.
Sometimes only love is the answer.
Sometimes you need the shoulder of a friend.
Sometimes there is light in the tunnel.
Sometimes it is at the other end.
By Michael Grove
from this that comes from this that comes from this that comes from this
there’s no duplicity in milk
as a creative expression—
it comes like the worm’s thread of silk—
a necessary emission
nurturing in copious bulk—
body to body transmission—
strange, warm, specialized substances
of the passing generations—
what stuff drizzles as it dances?—
white on the rhyming tongue—drunk ilk—
asleep in the stream—and chancing
dream on the mountainous pillow—
who are you who comes from the glance
of lovers under the willow?—
born, lowing animal nation—
fertile to fecund to fallow—
hot and quick as melting tallow
Through the milky haze of ending -
It was the thirtieth of November
and all through the page
squiggles were stirring
final day did they gauge
Had been gremlin laden
For some storm tossed too
And yet “The Street” walkers
soldiered on for what else could they do?
There is but one November P A D
looked forward cross seas, mountains
deserts, plains spanned internationally
And yes, now we have come inevitably
To the finale of November’s P-A-D
A smile, a nod, a sigh and an all
embracing thanks to all thee
and of course a deep bow to the
creator our own RLB
*Hope to see many of you on Wednesdays and to the inveterate once a year PAD’ers
May the wind be at your back and your fingers fly inspired….
Together
with a tempest tossed flick
of her head
she gathered
them
from all corners
hands come together
to hold, to support, to sip
the cup
of kindness
as one
indivisible
nation
united
soaring into
a milky way
Oh, I LOVE this! Beautiful! Pearl, it has been a joy to share poems with you!!
I was going to try to write to each and every one of you, but the gremlins of which I speak are driving me crazy! So-
Robert, thank you, thank you for another wonderful PAD. I am happy to share that the fact that I wrote over 30 poems this month raised over $500 for the Center for New Americans! Some days it was difficult to come up with a poem that incorporated the prompt and my theme of literacy and second language learning, but, I did it!
Dear fellow poets – thank you for the opportunity to once again stand among you and face the challenge of prompts and posting gremlins. I am honored to be counted among the ranks here. I will try to catch a Wednesday prompt more often this time round. Doing so has been a bit of a difficulty this past year.
Blessings to all! Until the next PAD~
Mañana
Procrastination has become a close friend.
These last moments before the end
are being savored for each alteration and metaphor.
Oh, the joy of pondering prompts in the wee hours,
the mind-numbing challenge of connecting the prompt
to a theme – self-chosen – for the month,
not to mention the joy of being one of the first -
when the evil posting gremlins allowed.
Unfortunately, I think I have milked this for all it is worth -
the end, must come. So, let it be -
Fini!
Love the prompt. I love cows, the perpetual mothers. Gang, I enjoyed your poems so much but I can barely post my own, each time taking…long time. But the prompts and reading the poems here were a ritual I love. Thanks to Robert and everyone in the challenge. See you next Wednesday??
Milk Sop
Every litter has its milksop,
Mama says, watching cats
trail behind us to the barn.
Most become mousers,
useful and worthy of respect,
but this one gray and white,
noisy and clingy, is a milksop,
his habit becoming his name.
A milkoholic, he is unafraid
of hooves, slapping tails, and
snorting noses twice the size
of his head. He sits near
the milking stools, looking up
at the towering heights of cow
as if he were admiring a monument.
He would suckle directly
from the source udder
if he could strategize.
Instead, he looks to us
to squirt milk into his mouth,
knowing once a pail is full
and set aside, once we move
to another cow, he can not
be trusted to leave it cat-free.
Since milk buys our clothes
and shoes, our books , even
my piano, Milk Sop is clearly
competition we do not need.
Once they take to milk, there’s
no breaking them, says Mama.
He needs to learn to like meat—
mice, rabbits, birds. He’s to be
pitied, but not to be fed milk.
Cut him off, she says, as if he is
a late-night bar fly, jonesing for
a nightcap. Cut him off! Cold turkey!
Wonderful poem, Jane! I have enjoyed reading your poems. Blessings, until the next PAD.
Wow…Is it REALLY over?!
What a crazy-fast and full poeming month!!
Thank you and congratulations to all that participated and prompted…wow!
I’m sorry I wasn’t available to talk much…this is the way I had to roll this time around though, I’m sure many understand…lots to balance.
Ended on a kind of crazy-note but here’s the final offering.
’s to everyone!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/30/day-thirty-of-mother-milk-and-poisona-string-of-haiku/
See ya’ll around on Wednesday!!
Wow, Hannah…your string of Haiku gave me goosebumps!
FORMULA BABIES DON’T ALWAYS LOSE OUT.
Fostering
Others
Replacement
Mothers
Using
Love
As milk.
Yes!! The best kind of milk ever, julie! ♥
Hey, Violet–Great to see you here! I haven’t been commenting often, but I’m very thankful for this challenge. I’ve written 30 poems and am about to add 2 more. I’m excited to start revising my drafts into a cohesive collection. This one was an idea I’d written down long ago and never done anything with. Thank you, Robert, Writer’s Digest, and all the prompt writers and poets!
It has been an honor to be counted among your number. I look forward to “seeing” you all soon.
God Bless the Child
The men had come home from
“The Big One”. Some swords were
bent into wheelchairs, and spears into
crutches, but the guys came home. It was
the origin of a new era. The government was
there to help out with mortgages, tuition grants
for college and vocational training. She was at the
edge of a new time. Rosie the Riveter had been retired.
Gone were the necessities of practical work clothes. And
whereas the government might be offering a financial hand, the
best way to make the men feel welcome was to accentuate the
female form—anything to enhance feminine appeal. Cinched waste-
lines, pencil skirts, corsets and girdles to assure the smooth silhouette,
but most contrived of all, the conical bra. Regardless of her natural
shape or size, her bust had to end in a precise point. In preparing
for her first offering to the god of the baby boomer, she went in
for a check-up with the family doctor. Breast-feeding simply
just wasn’t done. That would mean tampering with the
image the world of haute couture had worked so
hard to achieve. But she had read that breast
milk was much healthier for the baby, and
she really wanted to nurse this newest
member of the family. At this point
the doctor slid his glasses down,
looked over them, and opined,
“Well, they weren’t just
put there for men
to play with,
you know!” Ellen Knight 11.30.12
Ellen, as a former breast-feeding Mom (I had four daughters, all grown and now nursing their own babes) I just LOVE this poem! Great to read your work this month!
-I thoroughly enjoyed my first (it won’t be the last!) PAD challenge. Thanks to Robert for this forum & all the creative prompts which some days had me scrambling, but always intrigued me to see what they brought forth. I’m proud of myself for making it through, as I’m completely a novice poet. I’m kind of dreading tomorrow”s feeling of let down that it’s over; imagine that! Posted all my entries on my new website: Michele K. Smith
“Milking the Muse”
As creative souls,
we must milk the muse
for all she’s worth–
lactate pints or even gallons
daily of her inspiration.
Ignore the concept that
she’s often quite elusive
(sometimes utterly slippery),
for the muse is the
cream of the crop to a creative life, and
must always be revered on a high shelf.
Of course the muse is female:
She arrives fully-enriched
with wholesome intentions for us,
and that doesn’t even
skim the surface of her value.
What percent of us would admit
there’s no substitute for the real thing?
Would you put your contents on display
(even campaign in a white mustache)
just to publicly support the message
that the muse does a body (and mind) good?
I can’t have milk. It’ll kill me.
That means I can’t have:
milk, cheesecake, cheese,
McDonald’s french fries,
Doritos, ice cream, cream in my coffee,
chocolate cake, cupcakes,
butter, caramel,
cereal bars, sandwich bread, crackers,
cold cuts, granola, cottage cheese,
yogurt, chocolate, mashed potatoes,
pancakes and waffles, doughnuts,
puddings, and custards,
gelato, Bailey’s Irish Cream…
I have often sat and pondered,
wondered at my window sill,
why all this stuff is so grand,
why it offers such a thrill.
Berries have their own delight,
beer and wine are fair,
dark chocolate: so romantic,
and an apple or a pear,
offer so much more than that white stuff
that comes from a cow,
which humans really shouldn’t drink
or eat, or smell, or chow.
Your bones will grow without the aid
of curdled cow excrement,
your muscles get the help they need
without this protein quick-cement.
Feeling sluggish, feeling tired,
feeling under weather?
Cut out dairy from your dairy-aire
and you’ll feel so much better.
Since I began my epic journey,
I’ve come to realize
I’m here on the planet Earth
milking it for all it’s worth.
White fluff aloft in
Azure summer sky
Sun-warmed milky floss
Great month, gang. Sorry I didn’t have/find/make more time to comment.
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/30/milky-way/
Milking A Cow
Before the sun rises
duties must be done.
The farmer’s son attaches
the milking machine
to the teats of a cow.
Care must be taken
to keep from disturbing the cow,
and the son avoids the errant kick.
All this must be done
before he goes to school,
for this smooth treat,
a cool sip of milk for others
late in the afternoon.
Cheers to all, and Happy Holidays
Snapshot
Four little girls in the mucky cow lot,
learning to milk. The three onlooking blonds
and Marie, laughing, tugging at the teats.
The infant me is nowhere to be seen.
I don’t know why I never tried my hand
at milking. Another experience
I held back from? I don’t understand
the way my bedrock folds, just have a sense
of exclusions and faults. I never milked
but, swinging a stick at the briars and sedge grass
would stump down the hills and afternoon fields
and bring the cows back in from the pasture.
They would have come with no urging, I now
know, and I’d have roamed the hills with no cows.
Making the Cut
November’s last poems
done, we now start the sorting,
hemming and hawing,
picking which poems make the book.
It’s always as clear as milk.
Milk
The first thing
introduced to us
upon our arrival
is milk,
warm and
(in the absence
of any other flavor)
sweet.
Delivered
as the newborn
lays soft head
upon softer breast,
close-eyed
and softly suckling
in an open-mouthed kiss
attached to
a loving mother,
this becomes
our unconscious archetype
for care,
for love.
Imprinted
in our souls,
this universal
relaxant,
this calming
trusted sedative,
still works
on sleepless nights
filled with worry
and doubt
about
what happens
next.
Robert – Thank you for a delightful month of poetry. Loved the guest prompters. – Michelle
The Pounding of the Keys
Hurt, anger, sadness -
all pouring out
through her fingers
as she relentlessly
pounds on the keys
of the piano…
until
…all the pain is gone
and the soothing melodies
caulk the wounds
and the world has
re-tilted back into place
as the decibels lower…
peace
…she is ready
to face the world again.
Castro Camera
He was just another Lithuanian-American
Jewish boy who played football and joined the navy
a straight-laced actuary who loved the opera
and kept private matters private.
But then came San Francisco.
He said, “I finally reached the point
when I had to become involved or shut up.”
On Castro Street he flowered
turning to his neighborhood
unflinching in his call for civil rights
Ten months a Supervisor, till his
shocking death, November 27, 1978.
He said, “If a bullet should enter my brain,
let that bullet destroy every closet door.”
After the trial, the White Nights
the riots and the beatings
they laid his ashes to rest
beneath the sidewalk at 575 Castro.
He was my age, more or less.
Last Note
Black ink tear drops fall
on the milk white parchment
as she decides how to say
goodbye
My Milk Runneth Over
How it flowed as every drop
Ran into the mouths of my babies
Their rose-bud lips puckered
Fat little cheeks sucked in and out,
In and out; their throats swallowing
Faster, Timid at first, with the nurse’s
Help-some catching on easier than others.
The first-born switched to a bottle, after
A few weeks the supply was dwindling.
The other five eager and demanding.
I learned to become a cow – a little
Factory of milk production. , The two
Two older girls hugged their dolls to their
Nipples. They were mommies, too
…
Every day my milk-stained t-shirts hung
On the clothes line next to the diapers.
In his morning shower, Hubby tried
To scrub the milk-smell away. After
All these years I still can invoke it.
Our daughters, daughters-in-law,
, grand-daughters too, all of us bcame
honorary cows. If only a few weeks ,
or for many months, our babies, we
believed, were given the best start of all.
I skipped Day 29 – will have to come back to it later today.
Weaning
My teenager refuses to drink milk anymore.
All the arguments about nutrition are to no avail.
He says he no longer likes the taste, but I wonder
if it’s a sign of independence, as he moves toward
the age where we no longer dictate what he can eat
and not eat. It could be psychological too – milk
as a symbol of childishness, what little kids drink.
It’s a baby step, for sure, but it foreshadows
giant leaps to come – driver’s license, college,
marriage, and his own kids who will go from breast
to bottle to cup, to someday telling him they no longer
need his milk, as they carry their things out the door.
EVERYDAY THINGS
Old house we live in –
these skins, obdurate doors, tricky
steps. You’re watching
the morning news. The TV hisses
if I turn on the office light –
our wiring’s getting touchy. So
we make tradeoffs – by flashlight,
I scribble notes that may or
may not be a poem.
Then I’ll make us toast, pour
the milk, tell you breakfast
is ready. This morning, by email
I learn two friends – a couple –
have gone their separate ways.
Had it anything to do
with faulty circuitry, souring
milk, stuck doors, aging
houses?
Nice! even without a puppy in it
Got Milk?
They say he was so mean he could milk a rattlesnake.
I live in rattlesnake country and I shudder and quake.
What evil can drive a man to be so rough and callous,
That all men would shake in their boots from Dodge City to Dallas?
Perhaps he was abandoned by his mother while a toddler.
Or being thrown from his horse while young made him a killer.
He became the terror of the whole territory it seems
And then one night his hatred existed only in dreams
Gunfight at O.K. Corral became his final showdown
Now he milks rattlesnakes where they surely abound
With a quite hectic month, I had to play catchup and still lack one poem, which I WILL finish today. Didn’t get to read many of the always-scintillating offerings here, but what I did read, I enjoyed. What a talented group with whom I’m honored to attempt these challenges! Thanks to all the creative prompters, and thank you, Robert, for offering these bi-annual opportunities and the weekly prompts, as well as all the valuable information, interviews, and encouragement on this blog. I love hanging out with all you lovely people!
Milk
Not exactly city slickers, still we clung to the illusion
that everything came straight from the store,
plastic wrapped, hermetically sealed. Bread sprung
into being uniformly sliced; eggs never made contact
with a chicken’s hind end but, like lab specimens,
developed by the dozens in Styrofoam containers.
Milk appeared magically on the doorstep in glass
bottles that rattled as Mother retrieved them.
Udders were unthinkable until our teacher
ventured with us to the farm on a field trip
where the kind, gruff farmer, an uncle perhaps,
pointed to the bovine beauty in his barn
and asked, “Who’d like to try to milk her?”
No one moved.
Even boys quickest with off-color jokes,
regular skimmers of National Geographic—
for the native bosoms, not the scenery,
stood speechless. Finally Mrs. Hester
volunteered, seeming as brave to us
as Arthur stepping up to the Green Knight.
Squatting on the wooden stool, too small
for her amble buttocks, she firmly grasped
the teats and pulled, expertly sending
squirts of fresh while milk into the pail,
producing a kind of music we’d long recall.
No one said a word.
Later on the bus back, we talked in quiet
whispers, suddenly piecing together
our common knowledge, dredging up
our earliest memories—memories before
memory, the closeness of Mother’s breast,
the warm sweet smell, the taste, like love.
Day 30
Prompt: Write a milk poem
Better Milk
My parents had left two percent milk
in the condo at the beach.
So happened we arrived a few days
after their departure,
so they skipped the usual clean out
(they flew, we drove)
and left us any groceries that wouldn’t
last till spring.
When I poured the milk
in the glass, unlike our usual
watery but healthier blue-white skim milk,
the thickness,
the heavy milky smell exuded,
and after drinking,
that cream-white film coated the glass.
Steve noted how much better
the fattier milk tasted on his cereal,
commiserating by phone with our pregnant daughter,
who switched to two percent for her developing baby,
that he would prefer any day to drink the dregs
of two percent milk from the cereal bowl.
Milk
White as
winter, poured
icy from
the refrigerator
White as
Grandmother’s
sheets.
delivered to the doorstep
White as
summer clouds
in my
first cup
White as
cream
for Dad’s coffee
from the top
White as
light
through the morning
window.
White as
simple
beginnings:
milk.
Love your pattern of repetition and the various images of white.
What a great month of poetry this has been. I learned so much–my strengths and weaknesses. AND enjoyed this community of wordsmiths immensely. Thanks everyone.
Turnabout Is Not Fair
I used to chide my cousin, cuz his milk would always spill,
At every family dinner, he would ask for a refill,
I’d laugh and say remember when—those awkward early days,
Until… he said he caught me popping zits upon my face.
Ah, those awkward teenage years, I tried to laughed it off,
But he unleashed an arsenal so large I couldn’t scoff.
Remember on the playground, when my sister was just seven,
You clipped her to the flag pole and hoisted her to heaven?
Remember getting grounded when you couldn’t get her down?
Remember when she called you out to everyone in town.
Remember getting misty-eyed while watching M.A.S.H. reruns,
When Clinger put that dress on, but his Army days weren’t done,
“Enough!” I said, “You made your point. I was a goofball too.
I must insist that you desist or I’ll spill milk on you!”
###
Walt, whatever time it is, you always beat me. Also today and thanks. And yes, the prompts. I’m so grateful that this is possible so thanks to Robert and all the poets who created the prompts.
And thanks to all the poets who posted wonderful poems during November. Here I must add a special thanks to Domino because some time ago, maybe 14 days ago, Domino wrote a poem that I loved but I never managed to enter my appreciation.
Here thank you all and congratulations to all who feels this day like something special, something achieved on Poetic Asides. Congratulation.
<3 You are the nicest! <3
Say Cheese
Every holiday season,
it tastes so
good,
no matter how
sharp
or lined with moldy
ferment,
this mother’s milk
curdled and set hard
with the heat and indifference
of children who never
ever call.
I’ve not been posting my poems throughout the month. But I thought I’d post my final one!
Been there, done that: Got Milk
My father in his mid-life crazies
recruited me for milking cows.
He packed me off to a farm in Texas
where he build a fine brick house.
I hated milking cows.
My arms grew thick and strong, I had
a death-grip handshake—
it gave me strength, taught me how
to appreciate my work.
I hated milking cows.
Five o’clock every day
I would rise, pail in hand
and stomp my way to the barn
to relieve two brown Jerseys.
I hated milking cows.
I asked why the task fell
to me, after all, it was
his idea to begin with.
He explained how I received
The benefits of fresh dairy:
milk, cream, and butter.
Our cows ate weeds, the milk was strong
the cream was rank and butter bitter.
I didn’t seem to profit much.
But it taught me industry,
early morning solitude,
and the meaning of metaphor
which I milked for all its worth.
And I hate milking cows.
oops, posted too soon: some corrections
line 4 – “built” instead of “build”
Final stanza rewrite:
I asked why the task fell
to me, after all, it was
his idea from the start.
He explained how I received
The benefits of fresh dairy:
milk, cream, and butter.
Our cows ate weeds, the milk was strong
the cream was rank and butter bitter.
I didn’t seem to profit much.
But it taught me industry,
early morning solitude,
and the meaning of metaphor
which I milked for all its worth.
And I hate milking cows.
Wow, what a breakneck month! That you Robert, for hosting and coordinating; for me, it was a true challenge to work under daily deadlines – I learned a lot about mental discipline. Thanks to everyone who gave us prompts. So often they sent me in directions where I would never have thought to go. Most of all, thank you to everyone who was generous enough to post their work, even though that may limit your submission options. I loved reading through all of them, and would often turn to all of your work to put me in the mindset to write. There were so many times when I tried to comment, but did not have the time to struggle with the posting gremlins (you haven’t seen the last of me, you little beasts). Please know that I was there, reading and appreciating!
Oh, and briarcat and poesmic, you each have pieces that went straight into my “very favorite poems” collection!
First Visit to the Milk Barn
Boyfriend instructs,
“Don’t make any sudden moves
or loud noises. You’ll scare the cows.”
I whisper, “They’re bigger than me.
How can I scare them?”
“You’re a stranger. If you spook them
they won’t let down their milk.”
I stand in a corner of the pristine stanchion area.
Imagine myself invisible.
Boyfriend’s brother, Tom, opens the gate to allow Daisy
to enter, eat, and receive the milking machine.
Tom cleans her teats, and applies the machine to suck
her rich milk while he absent-mindedly daydreams.
During his reverie, he grabs her tail and ties it to the stanchion bar.
Her milk gone, Tom opens the exit gate.
Daisy ambles out; leaves her tail behind in a neat knot.
LACTATION NATION
Suckle, suckle, give a chuckle,
shake above the old belt buckle,
mother’s milk is rich and flowing,
and her face is truly growing.
(Though her brood is largely growing)
Her quintuplets the why she’s dragging,
and her breasts are badly sagging.
So lift her up give a cheer,
show support if finally here!,
Fourth line – glowing – curse you stiff fat fingers
udderly enjoyed your submissions throughout the month – amazing output and good quality as usual
Great start, Andrea. Good Morning (or whatever time of day you’re in!
)
Yes, mapoet, it’s been a great month!
Moving Mountains
Move those mountains
make room for light
open up your eyes to the sunshine
don’t fill up with spite
your hurt and fight
Arms held out
fingers waiting to be touched
a pounding heart
wishing for love from the start
islands apart
Echoes of silence
waiting on words from the other
some new
some old
imagination very bold
dreams take hold
Milk me with all of you
fill her inside
make her feel new
turn her inside and out
feelings like never before
bringing her smile up off the floor
As his lips sing out those words
her ears hear all he has to say
milking her emotions
on that very significant day
Saturated
Her breasts were full
Aching
She could feel the milk running
Soaking her bra
As tears ran down her cheeks
They said the milk would dry in a few days
But not the tears
Oh, Connie! You did it again! Powerful!
Thanks Sally!
Thanks for another great challenge, Robert, and thanks to everyone who supplied a prompt.
THE STABLE MINUTE
The dim light,
the sound of 68 cows,
the smell so clinical clean,
the sound of the machine
milking
the
animals lined up chewing
and Dad working hard to keep us all alive
and
Red
saying good morning
in her cow language
and me saying the same
teaching her to speak properly.
WORDS OF SUNSHINE
No, we don’t need to take the umbrella, Sweetie.
No, put back the umbrella.
What?
Milk?
No, milk does not come down from Heaven
and just to make things clear,
honey doesn’t either.
What?
Rained?
No, it flowed with milk and honey,
not rained.
Now put back that umbrella.
WHY BUY THE COW?
The sad state of society,
why buy the cow when you
can get the milk for free?
But women’s studies show
that men outlive their usage,
who needs the whole pig when
all you want’s a little sausage?
Ohhhh, Walt! Never heard it put quite that way before!
Walt, you got me started off with a chuckle. Well Done! What fun?!
NIce! always knew you were a radical feminist deep down
(uh in a good way)
Walt, you might meet me before you meet Marie Elena. I might come by with a 2 by 4.
LOL Even better!!! ^^
LACTOSE INTOLERANCE
I love milk
but milk does not like me.
Just a sip and it tips
my fine balance and
it’s a mad dash to relief.
My belief is a cow conspiracy,
brought on by my love of beef!
LOL I love this!!! ^^