I worship Mother Mud. Share this Poem:. As far as I can remember I liked playing in the mud Getting down and dirty I guess it's in my blood Every time a rain would come, I hit the puddles in my shoes My mom and dad would scold me Didn't understand the two Nothing was more fun, than slipping in that red clay Clothes all muddy and wet, I enjoy it still today The only difference from then I've learned to work before I play Do my honey do's quickly Ride the trails the rest of the day Then the play turns work Washing off that muck and stench Feeding the machine my quarters While filling up the trench But it's worth every penny That's all that I can say Getting it clean and ready Because tomorrow's a brand new day I guess when they lay my body down my face will smile, then decay Smiling for the resurrection While covered in all that CLAY!
Well done Gregory. It sure takes me back in time. Glad I could take you there Hal. Gregory, when I was young I didn't like playing in the mud.
Now I know what I missed. Maybe after the next rain I'll go out back and get muddy. When my wife asks me what I'm doing I'll show her your poem. Really enjoyed the read. Well done. Sounds like a plan Howard.
Maybe she will mud wrestle with you :. Seems you are not alone when it comes to playing in the mud. That looks refreshing. Gregory I would love to do that!!
There's something about that mire that I desire, it must be that kid in me! Thanks freedom. I hope we all continue being a kid at heart. Sometimes as we get older, we forget to have a little fun. Gregory, I remember playing in the mud with great enthusiasm; however, my mama was not quite so enthusiastic about it.
My bottom got fried. I still made plenty of mud pies though; it was worth the risk. Poems Find and share the perfect poems. The Paper Nautilus For authorities whose hopes are shaped by mercenaries? Writers entrapped by teatime fame and by commuters' comforts? Not for these the paper nautilus constructs her thin glass shell. Giving her perishable souvenir of hope, a dull white outside and smooth- edged inner surface glossy as the sea, the watchful maker of it guards it day and night; she scarcely eats until the eggs are hatched.
Buried eight-fold in her eight arms, for she is in a sense a devil- fish, her glass ram'shorn-cradled freight is hid but is not crushed; as Hercules, bitten by a crab loyal to the hydra, was hindered to succeed, the intensively watched eggs coming from the shell free it when they are freed,— leaving its wasp-nest flaws of white on white, and close- laid Ionic chiton-folds like the lines in the mane of a Parthenon horse, round which the arms had wound themselves as if they knew love is the only fortress strong enough to trust to.
Marianne Moore He "Digesteth Harde Yron" Although the aepyornis or roc that lived in Madagascar, and the moa are extinct, the camel-sparrow, linked with them in size--the large sparrow Xenophon saw walking by a stream--was and is a symbol of justice. This bird watches his chicks with a maternal concentration-and he's been mothering the eggs at night six weeks--his legs their only weapon of defense.
He is swifter than a horse; he has a foot hard as a hoof; the leopard is not more suspicious. How could he, prized for plumes and eggs and young used even as a riding-beast, respect men hiding actor-like in ostrich skins, with the right hand making the neck move as if alive and from a bag the left hand strewing grain, that ostriches might be decoyed and killed!
Yes, this is he whose plume was anciently the plume of justice; he whose comic duckling head on its great neck revolves with compass-needle nervousness when he stands guard, in S-like foragings as he is preening the down on his leaden-skinned back. The egg piously shown as Leda's very own from which Castor and Pollux hatched, was an ostrich-egg.
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