Best Ewes Poems
There was a land, and on this land lived sheep.
Like all good sheep, they had their rules to keep.
They lived on farms in their own different flocks,
sleeping, socializing, and taking walks
to find green grass on which they liked to graze.
They mostly lived in peace, but in a haze!
They did not see above them the entities-
(overlords controlling their destinies).
Most sheep were unaware of this, so they
just lived their lives since when as ewes they’d play,
content to later let themselves get fed
or by dogs (which were like police) be led!
The evil overlords who ruled them all
decided on each farm to put a wall,
assuring all of them be forced to eat
a strange new food which tasted rather sweet.
Seeing some sheep dying (even ewes dropped dead) -
a few sheep would not let themselves be fed
These rebel sheep cried out, “Let’s take a stand.
Green grass outside our walls is being banned!”
In protest, they lay down, prepared to perish,
denied the grassy land they’d grown to cherish.
They even found some mud and rolled in it.
The other sheep baa-baaed them, bleating “Quit!
Quit being idiots. Do as you’re told.
We’re sheep, you know. It’s good to be controlled.”
Just then, inside one farm, a wall came down.
The sheep on that farm gathered all around.
The rebels cried, “Perhaps it is a scam!”
when there appeared one of their own – a ram.
With rushing hooves, sheep followed that ram through
a pretty field, but where did it lead to?
There was a cliff which the ram went over.
Behind him followed every sheep pushover.
Three rebels saw what happened, and they tried
to flee their farm to warn all sheep worldwide.
Would other walls come down, each with a ploy?
What other mean schemes would their lords employ?
A tragicomedy needs to be light,
and so to make this story kind of right,
I’ll say a revolution came to pass,
and sheep again are gazing on green grass.
Oct. 2, 2022
for Joe Maverick's Tragi Comedy Poetry Contest
Deer poet tree righters fore the cite
Pleas will ewe bee sweet
and worn me if ewe have scene any miss stakes eye have maid
butt eye no my speeling and ewes off English is prefect!
Eye am knot shore if eye have ever tolled ewe
that when eye right poet tree at knight ore in the mourning
eye don’t knead too ewes a smell chequer ore a theo sorearse
Off coarse, eye don’t no weather aisle get a first plaice inn the con test
butt eye want John too chews me sew eye can crews two victory!
HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU THAT...... Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
11/11/20
When eye was eating my serial this mourning
Aye red the hole rules four the contest
Eye sore it inn black and white
It was plane for all two sea
The sponsor said wee CAN make miss steaks
Butt too me this practise isn’t write,
Nun are aloud, they are usually band
Yule have guest its throne me off coarse
Ewe awl no wee kneed too right perfect poetry
How can wee expect two win
Hour poem mite bee bard
Weave always bean tolled Anne error can't bee maid
Sew is the fax I didn’t ewes my spell chequer a gambol…
May bee I knead a lessen how too rite inn the write tents two
Tell me strait, do my versus make any scents too ewe?
Who nose, my poem mite sale to a plaice at the top of the podium
Contest Don’t fight it ….write it!!!! – Sponsor John Lawless
08~13~15
It's one in the morning
And I can't get to sleep
So I've tried various things
Like counting some sheep,
But they just won't stay still
They keep 'milling around
Backwards and forwards
All over the ground.
To make matters worse
What on earth can I do
When this big randy ram
Keeps mounting a ewe.
There's no sense of shame
Not a sign of shock
As they're doing all this
I'm front of the flock
Who just keep on milling
And munching the grass
And tooing and froing
In a big woolly mass.
It's being watched by the cow
With the big crumply horn
Who seems to be enjoying
This display of soft ****.
And I sigh with despair
As this ruminant steed
Keeps ravishing more ewes
And spreading his seed
It's two in the morning
And I'm still wide-awake
Counting sheep is no good
For heavens blooming sake
And to my despair
As insomnia get worse
I ve switched on an iPad to write
This bit of dodgy verse.
And while I wasn't watching
Littkrb Bo Peep and Little Boy Blue
Have crept under the haycock
And they're at it too.
If only it was possible
To just quickly reach out
To fetch that randy pair
A good solid clout
And that bloody idiot who said
It would help me to sleep
If i closed my eyes and counted
Some Imaginary sheep
Thunderous silence in fresh mountain air
Dragonflies land on a mirrored flat lake.
A trout breaks the surface with but a swirl
Hushed morning stopping to rolling vast cheer.
Eight boats of rowers united in curl
Sixty-four faces combined in their ache
Coxswains urging each stroke with due care.
Rugged peaks fix firm gaze from up high
Each ridge a crease on a wrinkled old face.
Colours camouflaged by tussock and screes
Against this grave setting boats do defy.
Medleys on shore of blushing marquees
Supporting calls surge the rowers fast pace
Crews each pushing for all others to deny.
Canada geese carve the sky in their vee
Graceful wings scooped as they slowly descend.
Almost merging in the landscape behind
Splashes blend as birds land and oars break free.
Rowers increase their methodical grind
While a grand race is nearing its end
Sounds swell as crowds heighten their pleas.
Symbols of an intolerant harsh soil
Grey terraces flank the edge of the lake.
Head down merino ewes quest for their feed
Rowers and sheep joint in differing toil.
Leading boats lunge forward as though freed
Far behind peace returns in their wake
And the triumphant finally uncoil.
20th January 2016
It was not a dark and stormy night
The night was not sultry nor moist
The sky's color didn't please the knight.
The Knight was a gentleman since his youth.
That that Knight had had a thing for mares
of the night was not whatsoever an untruth.
But today, he is OK, managing his wares.
The firmament was red and raining.
It rained blood. 1920! I was eight.
The Knight was fond of chess playing.
When he saw a white knight
was missing he rushed to the stable. The horse ate
the knight!
Luckily, his rival, the Czech
had brought with himself a board.
Thus, it's impossible to be bored!
Nevertheless, the Knight punished the horse
for eating the knight. What a night!
And, although the Knight's voice was hoarse
as a crow he made sure the cheeky horse
would behave. "Now back to the stable!"
At this point, the Knight, didn't feel stable.
Now, let's go back to the chess match!
They did make sure the pieces match.
And the Czech, ludicrously, bust out a match
for his cigar. Now, not a missing piece!
Great! They can start the game in peace!
11 minutes later, the Czech mate
won. So, he said: "Checkmate!"
$100 prize! A cheque signed the Knight.
"This is a bogus cheque, mate!"
cried the Czech. What a horsey night!
They both heard
the horse neigh.
A lamb in the herd
heard the Czech say: "Nay!
This is a counterfeit cheque!
You can't do this to a Czech!
I had you in check
only once before checkmating you!
You won't pay? Gimme the ripe ewe!"
"I can't! The ewe is on the lam!"
"Then if no ewe, you get me a lamb!
Should you refuse, I shall touch the piano!"
Dark Castle. Knight and Czech keep arguing.
Stark hassle. Night can't check this lightning.
The mussel sleeps
and counts
ewes, lambs, sheep
and Counts.
The Count's mussel
can't count muscles.
Near Lake Fane the sheep graze in thy green meadow.
At ease, ewes are seen nibbling field blades most fine,
where fierce lion's shape may cast no grave shadow
or shows dire snake hole.
For ye make sure thy sheep are made safe these nights
from great teeth that tear meat and brake bones so bold.
And cold stream to lake's made still by side runoff
to hold so shallow.
This thy oak staff's sheep's certain safeguard gainst foes.
Sling's also alongside the oak stave we see.
Thus sheep sleep secure aye beneath huge shade trees
without fear nearby.
New scene speaks of bucolic peace made by night
for those under his care in closed gate sheepfold.
Then he make his fire frying rice cakes, grease beans,
and feeds male collie.
While Shepherds watched their flocks by night all seated on the ground
The ewes collected up their lambs and gathered them around
"Listen now," the old Ewe said, "you young lambs listen well,
If you all want to grow to sheep then hark to what I tell
You may see lights up in the sky, or coming cross the downs
They could be aliens my dears, from space, or other towns
They may use flashy coloured beams or other fancy sights
But sometimes they have dim headlamps and indicator lights"
"It does not matter how they come or from what other lands
Aliens are just as bad who drive white transit vans
So lambs who plan to wander off and get up to no good
Can get sheepnapped to Cygnus Prime, or maybe Cricklewood
And whether you are beamed aboard, or bundled in a sack
The aliens have got you, and you won't be coming back
A simple truth for young lambs to, within their noddles, keep
Is alien companionship is never good for sheep"
"It matters not a sci-fi whit dissected in a lab,
Or spiced and served with napkins in a curry or kebab
The preparations, much the same, occuring on the way
Are what you can undoubtedly expect to spoil your day!"
The little lambs were chastened much and some quite overcome
And resolved that they would keep themselves close to their mum
But other things were happening and shepherds on the ground
Beheld an Angel visiting, with glory spread around
"Fear Not", he said for mighty dread had seized their troubled minds
"Great tidings of great joy I bring to you and all mankind"
The sheep reckoned that was not them and were much relieved
It did not really matter if the shepherds were deceived
But still, they thought, 'twas best be off, although no need to hurry
And one or two thought shepherds might improve turned into curry
The night was dark and shepherds eyes were full of holy light
And so the sheep all silently crept off into the night
Leaving shepherds to their fate somewhere among the stars
The sheep hit Bethlehem's nightspots, the clubs, the pubs and bars.
Care free driving down the lain,
sites of yesteryear refrain,
Children playing inn there yards,
Tattered houses somewhat scarred.
Traveling inn gay apparel,
Run across ORANGE BARREL!
Flashing arrows catch the I,
Must move over, lest ye dye!
Press the petal, ewes the brakes,
Up and coming, highway steaks!
Now between a garbage truck,
Driven bye a selfish schmuck,
Long lines, bumper two bumper.
Grate need of cable jumper!
Taxes payed on rode repair,
Hit the whole, say a prayer!
FISTS SHAKE
HORNS BLAIR,
"KNOW GO"
ANYWHERE!
There once was a foxy young poet,
With a lawn and no one to mow it.
So she rustled some ewes,
And then ate them in twos -
And as for the grass, she’ll re-grow it.
The rain had passed leaving fields of mud,
Mud to work with, to rest and to play.
Mud in our shoes, in our pants, in our hair,
Mud to brighten the rest of our day.
My girl and I, we worked the sheep,
Counting, marking and drenching together.
We tackled and fell, dragging each to the side,
And did it both dressed in full leather.
When we completed the sheep, all ewes and one ram,
We relaxed with a beer on the ute.
And we talked open talk about how lucky we are,
And I told her, in mud, she looked cute.
She whipped my legs out and laughed down at me,
Our day it was done by two thirty.
So I pulled her to the mud, and within half an hour,
We had both gotten down and got dirty.
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
Sleep is such a precious thing
Now I lay my head,
Close my mind from worrying,
Count some sheep instead
I drift off into my dream...
Hubby starts to snore !
Not again!! Well, I can scheme,
Ewes and me at war !
Sheep stampeding out the door !
A panic stricken flock
I've pushed hubby to the floor
A frantic man in shock!
______________________
For "I'm So Annoyed" Contest........sponsored by Mary Oliver Rotman
Telling the old story
Was Golgotha's soil sad
Did it weep for the blood?
Which dripped on the good earth
Cedars and olives bud
Telling the old story
They laid Him in the tomb
Did the rocky cave grieve?
Surprised when He arose
Did Godly dead perceive?
Telling the old story
Was it a sunrise bright?
Did He rise at daybreak?
Was the morn chilled and still
Or a quiet earthquake
Telling the old story
Did doves softly coo
Were ewes then lambing
Or were they grazing hills
Were shepherds' gates slamming
Contest: Andrea's Monchielle Stanza contest
Written: 04/11-12/2022
Theme: Easter/resurrection
Checked with syllablecounter.net, Grammar checker on PS
One line is off by one syllable, and I can't figure out a way to change it
A good old duck, a mother hen,
a friend of Peter Rabbit; chased
Mr. McGregor out of the garden:
the Flopsy Bunnies survive again.
She knew her ewes from her rams,
meticulous, house-proud in her way.
A hedgehog, a Mrs. Tiggy Winkle
every field mouse allowed to stay.
Cumbria and the Lake District
will never see her like again:
North country girl, illustrator,
storyteller with brush and pen.