Best Bleats Poems
The year is grey and cold,
And we bid the winter go;
So all the dark and weary world,
Will be purged of blowing snow.
Tomorrow cry the branches,
From out of their sad heart;
My closed buds will open,
With green leaves all apart.
Tomorrow sings the robin,
To pipe her song again;
Her nest filled with eggs,
Warmed in spring's soft rain.
Tomorrow bleats the sheep,
My little lambs will run;
Playing in the meadow,
Beneath the golden sun.
We too wait for tomorrow,
That spring should come to be;
For Him to weave the threads,
Of life's dark destiny.
So all the hearts grown cold,
From life's cruel time and pain;
May bloom all fresh and green,
In Springtime's soft cool rain.
For all the hollow promises,
Of sad and empty years;
Are bringing back to tomorrow's
Joy with no more tears.
Aye and ’tis a bonnie glen
And for us the Laird’s enclave
Dinna fush the soldiers’ menace
‘Tis this moment that He gave.
And we gaither ‘neath the stars
And we tak the wine and bread
And we cleave with benediction
To each Word arr Saviour said.
This is Church
Mind not the dampness
And the laing hike to and fro’
For the Pastor of our choosin’
Meets us here, and helps us grow.
Though he lives just like an ootcast
With a price upon his head
He can still preach Heaven doon t’us
And we treasure all he said.
Sure ’tis hard times we endure
For the One King of our Kirk
Jesus, here, atop this hillside
And His glorious finished work.
And a lark flits kindly by us
And a sheep bleats out content
And we learn through sterling sufferin’
What the hunted Psalmist meant.
Hebrews 11: 38
(well spoken of the Scottish Covenanters of the mid 1600's)
The day Democracy died,
I was a little lad, yea, knee high
Papa turned on the telly
to watch the White House news
Curious to hear if the
whether forecast rumor was true
Did the First Amendment reporters
get carried away
by a baton wavy sea of blue
Horrified streaming video voices said,
it was a shot live bulletin event
Terrified eye witnesses stammer bled
in the Death Valley of Dissent
This is what I saw
the fateful day Democracy died,
I was a mere lad, yea, only knee high
Me remember Mama sobbing,
wiping her reddened eyes
Broken-hearted pulse skipping,
repeating: “Why, oh why?”
As freedom of speech believers
were wrongfully
read last rites in the streets
OMG! were the blog bleats
Palace guards were told to forge ahead,
by orders of authoritarian consent
Replacing the non-lethal bullets instead,
in the dire Death Valley of Dissent
The tragic day Democracy died,
I was a small lad, yea, barely knee high
But, I’ll always remember
that sorrowful Constitution mourn
When freedom was abortion borne
Foul eerie, dark crimson reign
was a-falling from abysmal, grey skies
A tsunami tide of muzzle pain,
cursed flood of voter suppression sighs
Watching pacifist protesters drop dead,
their peace signs
consumed by tyrannical flames of dread
I heard swastika shouts (guillotine hatred
coming down razor sharp, unedited)
from the Ivory Tower of Power,
saying, “Lady Liberty, off with her head!”
And the ballot tears got trampled dried
by the scattering lead
I saw the Bill of Rights defenders on their knees bent,
as their sacred write fell by the wayside
Dictatorial forces said,
“Only funeral marches in the Death Valley of Dissent”
To this day, tortured Democracy never got revived
Now, I'm a grown man
with a lion mane
And a firmament roar that can't be mute crucified
amid the bleats of lambs
and the moo of cows
in a far away manger
a baby, swaddled in rags was born
though despicable in some eyes,
He was the clone of Clones
the one, though Heaven sent,
was the humblest of the humble,
who halved history!
He walked the hills of Judea
with disciples many
healed the sick
met people
lived one among them
until three decades
and three years
the cloud laden sky
suddenly turned dark
the spirit of evil
invaded inside
and outside
premonitions
of portentous occurrence!!
at Gethsemane
the fatal rendezvous,
He sweated blood
as coins tinkled,
Judas through a kiss
betrayed his master
was sentenced
by the marshals of power
and was convicted
Pontius Pilate, washing hands,
absolved himself of his guilt
He tottered to Calvary,
lay on the cross, not by nails
but pinned by love
He poured down love
on those never deserved
to his love, there is no end...
among the hisses of revulsion
and the screams of a vengeful crowd
the tremulous cadence
of an agonized cry
“why hast Thou forsaken me?”
died down…..
did Golgotha’s cliffs echo that cry?
The Father kept ‘an aggressive silence’
The Sun (Son) set at noon
darkness shrouded the Earth
the curtain fell
but on the 3rd day
walked out of the grave
defeating Death and Sin!
Our Lord has Risen….!
to this day
the world
hails this victory!!
______________________
Easter Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Regina McIntosh
The Weird Guy
Aprils wet day has rained
Since sunrise
Mid-day
In a friendly café
The patter of skies falling water
Lost in the strangers chit chat
Un-listened to music
Bleats
But peaceful and calm
And glad we all are
Warm as we are
To sit and sup on beer
And coffees with brandy
Around me
So many unrecognizable faces
Banter back and forth
Saying “Hello” to friends
Spending their time careless
In the welcome arms of “Waldemar’s” café
I sit alone
Perched on a bar stool
Breathing the smoke
My short drink cooling
I am surrounded by an invisible wall
Even the space around me
Is larger than most
I am writing
And the odd man
With the note pad and pen
Is left alone to his curious expression
And far way stare
And as usual
I am thinking of her
Her face, her auburn hair
Times we spend together
Somewhere
I don’t know where
Embraces and kisses we share
Somewhere
In the quizzical spaces of reality
She speaks to me
And in these moments
I am not alone
No not alone
Even though the empty place she preoccupies
Sits filled by her at my side
Hangs there
A vacant arm wrapped round her waist
With all those small reminders
Of loves everlasting gratitude
As warm and supple as the hip beneath
The soft cotton of her dress
She smiles at me
Baby propped in the crook of her arm
Mother
Lover
And all three of us
Equal
One
The curiosity of my expression
Holds the wistful seconds
Flooded out in silence
So many of the café crowd have noticed
The weird guy
With his note book and pen
Looks around and meets their hopefully unmarked stares
But he pays no attention
Doesn’t even see them
It’s the fall of curls and hazel eyes
He sees
And the world in a fuzzy haze
For now cannot break his desire and need
For a life still perched
Upon a bar stool seat
Waiting to happen
The lion roars
while the lamb bleats.
He paces and prowls,
savoring the kill.
I would like to roar.
I hate this bleating.
I want to see them
quaking in fear.
I have not the claws
to rip and tear,
nor teeth to devour
the roaring lion.
So I must be wise
and follow the Shepherd
who slays the beast
and gives me rest.
I need not bleat
but praise the one
who causes the lion
to lie down by the lamb.
Wake up, Wake up
You who slumber and sleep
Wake up
Return whence you came
Jarring, dissonant
The ram's horn bleats
thirty, forty, one-hundred
unencumbered blasts
A simple device, no frills
the breath of a ram
caught in a thicket
magnified through its horn
It is the voice of Abraham
The cry of Sarah
The breathing heart of Isaac
~ It is the cry of a Jew
I saw God
Over a shattered mirror
Fragments of my mind
Echoes of spoken promises
I saw God again
In the depths of the pool
Crystal clear,ocean blue
Bubbles of the swimming pool
I did not see God
On the walls
Painted with the blood and tears of men
Adorned with the sacrifices of withered hands
I saw God
In the tears of a lamb
Innocence etched in his crushed eyes
Bleats of pain,of crushed pain
I saw God
But who is he?
The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd -
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.
While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”
With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.
The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches afterwhile”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.
The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
with crossing signs and bloody wines and consecrated yeast,
“The last are first, the rich are cursed.” (The leached remain the least.)
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and board and bows to Eden East;
he doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.
The sinking sun is now undone, the sky is fading red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.
Continued
Blood, divine and sweet,
Swigging on vampiric tastes,
Victims, screams and bleats.
The morning has started with a trace of a dew
An ascent through the tussock ignites the new day
Trailing huntaways eager to work on the ewes
Awaited shrill whistles loose the dogs on their prey.
A new shepherd surveys as proceedings unfold
Sinewy figures employing hill sticks with care.
Spectacular vistas with a dawn of pure gold
Formidable mountains looking solemn and bare.
Below a glass lake reflects sharp rugged peaks
A boat carves the water, slicing the image in half.
Sounds of dogs barking as sheep break from a creek
White ribbons slowly form in planned choreograph.
Shepherds whistles are mingled with thousands of bleats
Descending sheep merging to form an earth cloud.
Above dust and steam rise, as if to compete
Wisps of white rolling as matagouri stands proud.
A fantail flits on the first hints of the breeze
While a waxeye settles amid two twists of barb wire.
As sheep reach a plateau, the expanse seems to tease
Though allured, dogs restore order on sheep that inquire.
Searching mouths hastily nibble tests of fresh grass
Stragglers are hastened by gleeful dogs and their bark
Looking back up the hill the commotion has passed
Hawks floating on thermals within a large arc.
Mid morning arrives as the sheep enter the yards
Dogs climbing in troughs and having rest in the sun
The new shepherd knows this is his time to safeguard
His future life on the land has now just begun.
**If I haven't quite portrayed the
picture properly this may help.
http://www.photomack.co.nz/farming
Ah, luminous white she blooms a deceptive ghost
lover of dark arts ripe in charisma and night
moon seducer logic diffuser defense reducer
user of dreams abuser of romance
tempter-serpent twines and vines
a tendril's slither noiseless
vanilla viper— she’s a fever teaser
damn well make you a heartbreak believer
celestial and terrestrial she’s a territorial force
spider-vein-lightning crackles across neuronal nebulae
behind your glister eyes firework-fantasies flicker
desire— a brush fire— engulfs your cerebral star fields
razing you to burn red marrow to ash...
oh you long— you long to be the phoenix on her pyre
writhing and rising again and again
you yearn to pluck her play her possess her
place her in a solitary bud vase
share your lust of ardor with hungry admiration
resist the thirst of your hands to touch
resist the airy lariat of her buttercream-spice
resist the thirst of your taste buds to baste in her taste
as honey-whines drip from her summer-wine lips
poised in parted pout to poison you
physical and ethereal she wears an imperial crown
she steals your stars and flaunts them in her eyes
dare her when she unfurls— a swan against black satin
she’ll wrestle your heart from your chest
burst it with pin-prick-pupils of scorn
save it in her cat’s paw purse for her verse—
before she mousetraps your bleats and mercy pleas
within the mantrap of her parasol pleats
leaving you alone to skin your soul
to mend the hole where your old self ends
and your new self melts into moans you now own
When the Shepherd Slept
There was a tired shepherd who fell asleep
With no one else who could tend to his sheep
The sheep were delighted, freedom in reach
Followed the leader and away they sneaked.
Frolicking sheep, each having fun galore
Walking for miles over fields, hills and moors
Then came the sunset and night became dim
Slowly they realised freedom was grim.
They grew hungry and went in search of food
But couldn't find forage and became subdued
It was difficult and the sheep couldn’t sleep
As they were pursued by some ghastly beasts.
So tired and weary they wished hopefully
To be back in the sheep fold of safety
They realised they need their shepherd's care
For love, food and shelter that's always there.
When the sheep had almost lost every hope
A familiar face came over the slopes
It was their shepherd and all ran with glee
Euphoric he’d shown eventually.
They vowed they'd never run away again
It wasn’t worth the havoc, sorrow or pain
Then the tired hungry sheep with baa baa bleats
Thanked God for shepherds who watch o'er their sheep.
*+*+*
24th February 2023
Nursery Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
We aborted the Christ a long time ago
What with the successive thousands of gentle fetuses strangled.
Stop stop! Why lament? Let not the wind be rankled
By thy silly bleats and unbaked ego.
Thee killed the Christ
Thee impeded his coming.
Thee cruel beast flaked with lies
O thee daughters of Jezebel’s sinning!
Thee killed him, that young Christ in thy womb
That lamb sent down to our sins loom.
What did so meek a lamb do to thee, predators?
What vice did he depict, O executors?
There, thee shake those cursed heads of thine.
That lamb committed none, but thee went for its throat.
When thee felt it kick in glee in thee
Thee hastened in terror for that mountain yonder
Where thee crucified him still like done on Golgotha,
Fronted by those lascivious Romans in their creel.
Those Romans were of a less cruel breed
For I watched thee in triple trepidation murder the Christ.
I peeped as thy hands pulled it forth from its manger
While that stiletto went cutting and shredding and beheading its soft cord.
I watched thee squash its throat:
A young lamb that has neither learned to kick nor croak
Nor mastered the humanness of weeping.
I watched thee young Jezebel, thee came stabbing. And stabbing. And cursing.
I watched thee as the sun set in the East
While darkness fell speedily from the mist
as the sun hid its head in fatal shame,
While thee with the stealth of Lucifer
Cast that messenger from the heavens two feet below
And again cursed it to the bowels of hell.
In the midst of the raging waves,
they watched her gulp the callous cunning darts.
Her crumbly heart cruelly impaled; the fate that enslaves.
So fondly she’d mask the marks.
Her soul would ache and bleed from life’s glaives.
She cried an ocean for redemption from a life perpetually stark.
In desperation, the rope ends it.
With stigma the chums looked in utter scorn,
and nattered her solitary life she so drowned in.
As a jest they’d laugh it off and know not the pain borne.
Options to content would be the faster poison to kick in.
The jeer and tough love, be strong. Would suicide suborn?
Yet blithely a random word alienates, even with the kin.
The loop finally tightens round the neck.
With croc tears the mates flock to condole.
“If this message would reach Mary in heaven;
life lost so young—” all will strive to console.
For what? She writhed in pain and longed for a haven,
but scornfully, her soul you shunned like a rotten pole.
Her tombstone, now a patch-spot for a raven.
World’s cold shoulders soaked in her silent tears.
Be chaste, fair-weather friend, lest you atone.
Religion and priests you’ve scorned,
while the vain fanes of pretense you adorn.
In exalted hallow worship, you plead with Him
to remold the hearts of clay to vessels of honor.
Yet in your hearts of tin you curse and vilify—
you thought it was an act and left her marooned.
For remaining Mary, my soul cries to you.
Blinded by constant flopped success.
For the media, it’d hurt not to leave a cue.
Live the sacred life, gifted as a princess.
And flout their nonsensical bleats of an ewe.
I’ll wait on the podium for a fess.
It’s never the end—you’ll ever chew the bitter pill.