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COW POETRY: A MOOvement - John Rowe & Friends
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Encounter On I-80
From the back of a Berkeley Farms van
a painted Holstein looks at me.
She seems black-and-white sure
of her place in the universe.
As we roll down I-80,
I talk to her through my windshield.
She’s a silent metal shimmy
among thick-trunked trees.
Her eyes are meltingly real.
I am reassured by her bovinity.
I inform the Holstein, who keeps a watch
on me,
that I'm on my way to a latté,
a drink of steamed milk rich in calcium,
and that its espresso with flavonoids
is also healthy.
I call the latté my medicinal libation.
As the Berkeley Farms van pulls away,
I thank the silent Black and White
for my upcoming milk and caffeine fix.
It couldn't exist
without her adorably lovely coy cowness,
now disappearing into the distance.
(published in the March 2004 Crockett Signal)
Cow Poem
I approach field of the poem
with breath of country air
and one cow not to be slaughtered
standing in the middle of
the deep green grass
where she continually grazes
even when I walk into shaded space
beside her black and white hide.
The bovine freely roams throughout
frame of this poem
but stays focused on consuming vegetation
one corner of an acre at a time,
unmovable once territory is claimed
except to shift her weight ever so slightly
when wind pushes tall blades
away from her mouth.
As I try to think of a name for her
by speaking a few out loud,
she stops, raises her head
and with shy, startled, happy eyes
looks at me as if the world is changing
and licks whiskers off my face.
That thick tongue doesn’t linger—
quickly turns attention again to
surrounding lush plot
and it is time I start to walk
toward my own amplified hunger
as the cook rings the chow bell
in the distance.
Taking a final look over my shoulder
at that one cow,
I see the grass is shorter
in patches all around the landscape
and as sun begins to set
on horizon of this poem
that dear creature,
nudging my words to the side,
has yet to get her fill.
- John Rowe
beyond that green hill
imagine a cow unnamed
not imagining
- John Rowe
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Curious Calf
Curious calf,
you look at me
fixated.
Nearby, your mother is grazing.
You have no fear.
You are so cute, you blue-ribbon
baby,
you deserve to be appreciated by
many
very young ladies.
In the best of worlds,
one of them would claim you,
name you,
care for you,
get close enough to touch you
fearlessly.
You would become her pet,
included in her future
forever. Safe from the carnivores:
the cougar,
the wolf,
the coyote,
the bear,
the cattle buyer
at the county fair.
Poem For A Three-legged Cow
Just how many three-legged cows
have you seen standing in reality?
Rhetorical question—don’t answer,
please.
This is just a little convention
to get your attention
(I, the poet, have such self-conscious
needs).
Ironically, the three-legged cow
grazing in this land of poem
hungers not for your attention, nor mine.
You see, even though created
with this unique disposition,
she’s content to live as cow:
life of absolution,
chewing her cud,
occasionally swishing tail
to ward off flies.
She may move you with moo’s
but will speak no truths nor lies
(no why me’s)—
she will remain cow, now and till the end
balancing on all threes.
– John Rowe
follow the cows
and you may begin
to understand
the land as they do—
moo your way into the crowd
and you may begin
to stand proud
as they do—
moo your way into the crowd
utter cow language—
under is the udder
swelling like a rain cloud—
moo your way into the crowd
milk it till drops turn to downpour
then follow the cows as they lie down
now
and allow to be heard in the herd aloud—
moo your way into the crowd
- John Rowe
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Somewhere To Go
There are times when the poet
needs an audience
even when there’s no one around
even when driving for miles along
a desolate interstate
knowing there is somewhere to go,
so the poet makes a spontaneous turn
onto a dirt road,
drives until grazing cows appear.
He pulls the car over, gets out—
air is still and hot, smells of
manure and dry grass.
He walks to fencepost, leans
against it, announces to the cows:
I have a new poem to share with you.
It doesn’t have a title yet, though.
Several of the cows “moo”
as they have been doing
since the poet’s arrival
(and prior to his arrival).
He recites the poem slowly,
carefully enunciating each word.
A horsefly circles his head,
a cow here and there
flashes eyes in his direction.
A wild thistle
in the middle of things
has its defenses, its space.
When the poet has finished
he notices that all the cows
are lying down now,
facing in different directions.
Is there a connection here?
Was something understood?!
Getting back into his car,
the poet continues on a more
confident journey, steering
his own words
with somewhere to go
with inspiration to turn onto
another unmarked road
along the way.
(Honorable Mention Winner,
"Journeys" Category
Ina Coolbrith Circle's
88th Annual Contest, 2007)
To Know
The cows will know.
The cows will know when to go home.
Will I know?
I don’t know when I will go home.
I will want to go home I know.
But I don’t know when I will know.
I am lying in a field.
The field is green and full.
I am surrounded by cows in this field.
I hear chewing and whispers
rushing like mice through this field.
I am laughing. The cows are laughing.
Grasses are tickling us all in this field.
I close my eyes.
Now I am dreaming.
I open my eyes.
The cows have gone home
and so have I.
What was there to know?
A cloud floats over the field it knows.
- John Rowe
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