Good job you! Looking forward to seeing your next projects.
Wicked cool my dude. What was the overall yield and how many cows were harvested to get there?
Oh that’s a fun one!
Lovely lovely poets. This one is a prose poem by the noted NY poet Edward Field, who was famed to have written a series of poems celebrating his penis in the collection “Stand Up Friend With Me.” The poem today is titled “Donkeys” from his collection “After the Fall” in response to the downing of the twin towers. #poetry
Hope y’all are doing good out there.
“Donkeys They are not silent like workhorses Who are happy or indifferent about the plow and wagon; Donkeys don’t submit like that For they are sensitive And cry continually under their burdens; Yes, they are animals of sensibility Even if they aren’t intelligent enough To count money or discuss religion. Laugh if you will when they hee-haw But know that they are crying When they make that noise that sounds like something Between a squawking water pump and a foghorn. And when I hear them sobbing I suddenly notice their sweet eyes and ridiculous ears And their naive bodies that look as though they never grew up But stayed children, as in fact they are; And being misunderstood as children are They are forced to walk up mountains With men and bundles on their backs. Somehow I am glad that they do not submit without a protest, But as their masters are of the deafest The wails are never heard. I am sure that donkeys know what life should be, But, alas, they do not own their bodies; And if they had their own way, I am sure That they would sit in a field of flowers Kissing each other and maybe They would even invite us to join them. For they never let us forget that they know (As everyone knows who stays as sweet as children) That there is a far better way to spend time; You can be sure of that when they stop in their tracks And honk and honk and honk. And if I tried to explain to them Why work is not only necessary but good, I am afraid that they would never understand And kick me with their back legs As commentary on my wisdom. So they remain unhappy and sob, And their masters who are equally convinced of being right Beat them and hear nothing.”
What’s your favorite poem, Nostriches? Please share!
I’m excited to share “The Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls” by E.E. Cummings. One of his earlier poems, it critiques the spouses of Cambridge Massachusetts for shallow concerns and virtue signalling, while celebrating ominously the beauty of the natural world outside of the halls of gossip, a romantic flourish of thuggish style. Is there a # poetrystr or is it all under the wonderful umbrella of #bookstr ?
“the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters,unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things—
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
.... the Cambridge ladies do not care, above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy”
One small step for nib, but one giant inconvenience for Nib-kind. I shall go a mining.
Congratulations are in order. But more importantly, what brand stogie was getting chiefed there?
Last night if freedom before I become a wage slave once more. We shall spend it with a horror movie, the ceremonial burnt offering of a Rojas street taco cigar, and feasting on Beef Kubideh.
Horror Movie Saturday. Today is possession and murder ghosts in “The Haunting of the Murder House”, and a fine mockingbird cigar.
Twinkle Toes the murder-bot is worrisome. I wouldn’t want to be river danced out of a job, much less this life.