In England’s pleasant pastures amid the free wild flowers
Lie pagan ways the wise ones do not mock
And one adept at harnessing these ancient rural powers
Was Oggwool Fleece, the black sheep of the flock
Oggwool was old, much older than the old oak it was said
Beneath whose boughs the dark sheep’s plans are sealed
‘Twas said the sheep had come back from the other side of dead
With the darkness in that corner of the field.
The farm hands better knew to venture in the oak’s strange shade
Or to the long grass that the darkness gripped
Where Oggwool lurked amid the spells and potions he had made
A sheep unshorn and magically undipped.
Not limited by four hooves in working his deft skill
Unhindered in ambitious sheepish plans
Harnessing the dark elves to do his dark sheep will
Dexterously with little dark elf hands.
From that darkened corner of that English country field
His influence extends itself outside
His arcane woolly web through which his mystic powers wield
Reaching parts and persons spread worldwide
He has extensive vineyards in Italy and Spain,
He has mining operations in Peru
He owns a flock of ostriches down in the Ukraine
(Although he never quite intended to)
He’s engineering world events on scales beyond the ken
He has his hooves in business of all kinds
He interferes remorselessly in world affairs of men
With night-time thoughts drip-fed to human minds
Little green men fly through space in saucers flat and round
On interstellar missions without cease
But on their furthest journey yet, their enterprise is bound
To the ever growing plans of Oggwool Fleece
The politicians spin their words and armies shoulder arms
And yet do not beyond their small acts see
But Oggwool Fleece with thistle skills and other sheepwise charms
Is planning how to rule a galaxy!
When a person approached investigatively,
He chases his relations suspensively,
He finds clue and works dramatically,
Suspection always works progressively.
Confirmation of belief confirms sensitivity,
Growth brings a change to work relatively,
Hunger is seeking growth for productively,
A limit of growth confirms value qualitatively.
When population has highly density,
Unemployment works offensively,
Poverty grows to increase crime,
Disaster comes to balance creatively.
Everything is naturally fast and slow,
A person has patience for a balance flow,
Air can’t across a gravity line,
Sun has different heat rates a limit to grow.
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Alas there is no more confusion,
finally found my last conclusion.
Expect me as if Jesus will return,
from a ghost to a realm of concern.
Your dreams are portals like doors,
welcoming spirits into hasten wars.
Leaving the thoughts without trust,
keeping your fears in much disgust.
And though you sought no consequence,
deeds that confirm a wicked malevolence.
Awaiting in your nightmare of screams,
enjoy what is left amongst your dreams.
< Horses and snowflakes
Illuminating to it's tongue's pallet's plate
Open carriage rides
Falling flakes in the eyes
City strewn lights
Hoof's echoing through out the night
Cider drank it
New York's Central Park
An home for many after dark
Four miles of bridal paths
Drawn coaches to bring you back
So horses and snowflakes
Fills this ones poet's pallet's plate
Written By Katherine Stella
My Theme Was Both
Horses And Snowflakes
This Is An Entry
For Constance ~A Rambling Poet 's ~ Contest
YOUR MORNING BAGEL Doylestown PA
Consider this, as buds break out on trees
not yet a leaf, the sight that no one sees
as walking through the borough mesmerized
past ancient mansions seen, not realized.
Through early morning air, our sence of smell
arouses to a bagels morning bell;
it tells us to awake, this is a day
we gain another try to make our way.
Past tiny shops of books and pottery
of artists who record what used to be
and at sidewalk cafes, we take a pause
considering what's real, or never was.
We hear the groan of traffic come alive;
the buzzing of our time and constant hive;
but who can see the budding of the tree
that's made for us to always never see?
Consider this, of time we've none to spare
to capture in our heart the birthing there;
no longer for a blinking of the eye;
what time has brought along, too soon will die.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION
morning frost twinkles
while rancher sips coffee and
whiffs new arrivals
Hurrying and rushing even at eight,
usually just to avoid been late.
been doing this for a while and I am so accurate,
the day I relent, my Boss Anger I activate,
the beauty of Nature and sight seeing, no room to accommodate,
so focused on my Job and nothing to motivate,
through the Trolley Bus I get to the Office straight,
none present yet, not even a mate.
I'll sit alone for some minutes as I wait,
and this I terribly hate,
I do not even know for how long I can tolerate.
Then one day, I deviated from my usual line.
In the Bus, taking my time and making it mine,
not giving a damn even if I reached at nine,
watching the passers-by smile so fine,
up the sky the Birds happily dine,
moving in groups like flying swine.
Just observing the 3 in 1 street lights was a sign
that my Job intoxicated me like wine
and all this while with a perfect sight, I've been blind.
The Unique Victoria Bar, I've never seen.
The "Dark-Ages" band, performing so obscene,
showing their 'half-naked' dancing body is what I mean,
and the Statue close to the Adidas Shop looks so lean.
Aha! The writing on the building is just a signature
and the photo on it gave a nice gesture,
initially, it puzzled me like a difficult literature,
but now the advert seems to be a blend of perfect mixture,
as it reads "Gym with us and better your posture"
Just understanding the popular Joke about the Pear,
It is two round Toys I noticed and a bottom they share.
Looking like one big Apple green and clear.
Also enjoying the glaring Banks with the colors they wear,
not observing all these is worse than to err,
and making me feel Nature was never near,
this is a burden I am about to bear.
How on Earth can I explain this?
It's so hurtful not experiencing such a bliss,
crying intensely like my niece,
is not enough justification for a 5 year-miss.
has no more blood;
no tissue to slide through my teeth.
I have bitten my tongue
my message deflates beneath.
© 2011 ~JSLambert Esquire