Quotes about bales, page 2
Backstage
The Pantomime Horse
in the theatre corral
is proving unbroken
a wayward cheval
he's trapped them inside
at the rear and the front
they're no longer amused
by this equinine stunt
he's called for some wild-oats
and now for a mare
Oh who wrote the script
for this torrid affair
so a Rodeo-Vet was hired for the day
and thank God for the curtain
and pretend bales of hay.
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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The Pantomime Horse
The Pantomime Horse
in the theatre corral
is proving unbroken
a wayward cheval
he's trapped them inside
at the rear and the front
they're no longer amused
by this equinine stunt
he's called for some wild-oats
and now for a mare
Oh who wrote the script
for this torrid affair
so a Rodeo-Vet was hired for the day
and thank God for the curtain
and pretend bales of hay.
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Heine's "Widow or Daughter?"
Shall I woo the one or other?
Both attract me--more's the pity!
Pretty is the widowed mother,
And the daughter, too, is pretty.
When I see that maiden shrinking,
By the gods I swear I'll get 'er!
But anon I fall to thinking
That the mother 'll suit me better!
So, like any idiot ass
Hungry for the fragrant fodder,
Placed between two bales of grass,
Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder!
poem by Eugene Field
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Does A Horse Floss Its Teeth Before Or After Eating?
Are you being taken for granted?
And this you believe,
You have a power to prevent it...
When events depict,
Whether you are aware of this or not...
Will not make a difference,
Since you've allowed it to start.
Let me console you with this,
To sit and ponder your negligence...
Does a horse floss its teeth,
Before or after eating bales of hay?
And if the hay is there as should be,
With the same expectation everyday...
Will the horse really care who supplies it?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Crazed Girl
THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Pitching Away Bales Of Daily Nonsense
My scars and wounds,
You will never see.
A pain to relive...
Is not for me.
And it is not that I heal quickly.
Sharing that process,
Is something I do not believe.
Why should I wear my heart on my sleeve?
To prove my life has not been struggle free.
My scars and wounds,
You will never see.
A pain to relive...
Is not for me.
There is no reason for you or me,
To validate something we both can agree...
No one familiar with digging out of ditches.
Or pitching away bales of daily nonsense,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Few Wolves Remain
Few wolves remain to huff, puff, paw straw home,
Environmental dwelling seems just fine
When made of hay while sun may ever shine:
While light and laughter last, no cold blasts roam.
Overcome cement, crass, rough, cold stone,
Likewise log no timber forests sign,
View life as one with Nature's shrine,
Enchanted realm not concrete clone
Should offer haven, comfort zone,
REfuse to axe trunk from roots divine
Make do with true essentials, line
All walls with bales, twine twisted throne.
Inner contentment strikes true chord,
Nature dissipates discord.
(28 March 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Red Dirt Day
It was just a lazy afternoon
Not much was going on
I decided to take a drive
And I thought as I drove along
How much I enjoyed every day
With red dirt beneath my feet
And on this lovely journey
Friendly cows were such a treat
Hay bales lined up like dominos
So needed for winter feed
Newly plowed bright red fields
To plant those precious seeds
A pond with dazzling red draws
A tree or two around
I always have my window down
To hear the country sounds
[...] Read more
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Man Carrying Bale
The tough hand closes gently on the load;
Out of the mind, a voice
Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well their work,
Lengthen and pause for help.
Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot
While all the muscles call to one another:
'Lift! 'and the bulging bale
Floats like a butterfly in June.
So moved the earliest carrier of bales,
And the same watchful sun
Glowed through his body feeding it with light.
So will the last one move,
And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load
Down, and the muscles will relax and tremble.
Earth, you designed your man
Beautiful both in labour and repose.
poem by Harold Monro
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Cotton Song
Come, brother, come. Lets lift it;
come now, hewit! roll away!
Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day
But lets not wait for it.
God's body's got a soul,
Bodies like to roll the soul,
Cant blame God if we dont roll,
Come, brother, roll, roll!
Cotton bales are the fleecy way,
Weary sinner's bare feet trod,
Softly, softly to the throne of God,
"We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day!
Nassur; nassur,
Hump.
Eoho, eoho, roll away!
We aint agwine to wait until th Judgment Day!"
God's body's got a soul,
Bodies like to roll the soul,
Cant blame God if we dont roll,
Come, brother, roll, roll!
poem by Jean Toomer
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