Best Fleeced Poems
"I stood still and was a tree amid the wood,
Knowing the truth of things unseen before;"
. . .
"Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood
And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before."
--- from The Tree, by Ezra Pound
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Slender, singular, filamentous fir,
Yellowing larch -- these trees
Do not speak but seem to sleep,
Sheltering skinny sheep
Handily herded -- full-fleeced
In lanolin-laden wool.
Sheep do not sleep much.
They speak their protest --
(Such ineffective baas) --
To cloning and to closeness.
All, doubles of the ovine others,
Crowded among brothers,
Cowering under silent wood:
Dissimilar dark fir;
Lone, yellowing
Larch.
For P.D's "Going Haiku Crazy" Contest
How Many?
going to St. Ives
met folks on that smelly bus
more than I could count
Just Sleep Walking?
Wee Willy Winky
caught outside a boy’s window
in a night garment
Got Wool?
naked in the lane
three bags-full of wool sheared off
baa baa black sheep fleeced
She Didn’t Know What to Do!
Kids’ cries from inside -
outside an old woman’s shoe
child welfare people
Clean Your Plate!
Licking their plates clean
Jack Sprat and wife do their part. . .
kids starve in China
The Treacherous Hill
pail of spilled water
Jill’s body sprawled over Jack’s
one big bloody mess
What a Ding Dong
good deed for the day
boy scout Tommy Stout by well. . .
scratches on his arm
Not Even a Bone
old Mother Hubbard
Social Security cut
dog needs a new home
Yellow Georgie
victims of Porgie
confront him in the playground
his true color shows
The Original Blonde
Bo peep loses sheep
birth of a new tradition. . .
blonde jokes being told
The Schemer
some spilled curds and whey
spider near a fallen chair
supping happily
Making the Best. . .
Humpty takes a spill
the whole army can’t fix him
omelets for lunch
Baby Catches On
the church and steeple
and now you show me people?
those are just fingers!
They Say He Couldn’t Keep Her!
gossip in the town
pumpkin shell big as a house. .
where is Peter’s wife?
Bye, Hushed Baby
the sound of wind’s rush
baby’s cries abruptly hushed
broken branch on ground
*I'm choosing this series of haiku for several reasons.
First, it's the only post I made named "Twisted" so it
is an obvious choice. Second, I do have other poems
I consider a bit twisted, but, I simply cannot
remember the titles of some of these really old poems
to look for them. Finally, this series was inspired by
a long ago contest of PD's in which I got the idea
to take nursery rhymes and twist them, and so
I'm reviving this series which can no longer be
viewed by anybody here unless it's in a contest!
Resurrections lone fallen spiritual being, kneeling within the darkness of mine
Own tormented soul, broken, fractured at fetters ivory appendages, a flightless
Angelic Dark winged angel standing alone, weeping in the nights blackened clouds of utter blindness, a disarmed shield maiden of heavens grace!
Seeking the lightning storms final thrust of thunders rapture, my burnt scorched
Feathers descend cascading downwards, as melting leaves captured in the
Autumn winds of betrayals flame of the sinful heart, left unsheathed!
Virtue’s innocence lies slain in the battlefield of mercy’s shamed, shattered
Is the core of faith’s fragile child, lost amongst the hailing hurricane,
Battered and bruised, the white dove soars beyond clarity’s grasp!
Biting tears clash against the bare exposed flesh, stinging with malice’s
Hatred, as the face of God shuns this black fleeced lamb, whom broke
The vows promise, and interfered in the world of man!
Banished daughter of the light, unable to capture the winds of flight,
Transcendences none descendant trapped by the loving spirit
Willing to help the mortal being, begging for mercy’s compliance!
Yet shadowed by the dark illusions of the hastening storm of
Ignorance, she shed forgiveness tears on behalf of the unworthy,
For in the night humanities brethren turn away from the hungry,
Homeless, and the lost children that huddle within the darkness!
Thin are the clouds separation, as the storms rage begins to abate
Gods anger grows to the point of understandings loving, the grates
Of heaven casts shafts of grace, weakened by the hailing wake,
The lamb is unable to move amongst the silences eye of the hurricane!
Ever gently is lowered the cradle, the rocking crib of the healing
Miracle set at the flash points ushering of forgiveness, for the Shepard
Has reclaimed that which was lost!
In chorus spiritual assembly a small figure sings with heights
Reverence’s praise, and the master of the divine smiles
Upon this child of light, for her voice shines above all others,
For she is the fallen, now arisen with the wings
Of the outcastes singed!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Tech Zombies
Written: by Tom Wright
10-6-2016
Some have lost the ability to use their head,
And depend on gadgets to get by instead.
A Phone, Pod, or tablet now fills each hand,
And in certain venues they should be banned.
I’ve sat in church and observed others texting,
And this, to me, has become quite perplexing.
Distracted, I think, why even bother to come,
As I muse, why this, they can’t refrain from.
“Techies” can’t wait for Apple’s latest upgrade,
While I sit thinking they’re just being played.
Like sheep they stand in line at a local store,
To be fleeced for a device they’ve fallen for;
Technology has made our lives so much better,
Giving us aspirations of being the pacesetter;
Technology, now, is nearing an insane extreme,
But an enormous boost to poor self esteem;
One day (I don’t remember when), but I
could see the moon quite clearly in the sky.
It made me feel like things had gone awry!
Silly thought, I had one – could moon then be the sun?
Was sun now on the run – no, sun had well begun.
I wish I could recall the time of day
when old man moon seemed so well on display
or if the sky were bright or a bit gray.
The facts gave me a feast - this much I found at least:
well after new moon's ceased – the sun sets in the east.
The sun and sky give proof we can't deny
and show when moon is seen by anyone.
In daylight, one should not the moon survey.
If it is full, then we have all been fleeced.
to have and have not
is reason lent to logic
and reality left to disspare
to my heart oh, not where?
the place of peace not there
then where can the weary traverse
where the dreams are not night mares
loud noises not explosions
loud voices not fights
and darkness a place to sleep
rather than a place to hide
who is it that insist
on our depravity
whilst we are not in captivity
fleeced of menial freedoms
by a monsoon of unjust laws
furious my psyche can deduce
that i am not wanted here
in the midst of all the false advertisement
one country can give
about how much blood was
spilled to make them free
do we dare to think
that this excludes me
have not i been knitted into
the matrix of this thing
called freedom
have my dreams deceived me
about the land of the free
are not rights given in duplicity
and these ideals; do they not
come from God
to have and have not
the rights of men
and the peace there in
belonging to every citizen
When Thy Heart And Soul Have Both Been Fleeced
When thy heart and soul have both been fleeced
world shattered, thy hidden demons released,
canyons of whirling circles in night dreams
dark rules, no saving light left that redeems.
Life raped, your sanctuary invaded,
joy for epic pains were thus dark-traded
truth is, Hope has yet to be defeated,
shall not be, if Love is not ill-treated.
Look up! Bright sun still shines upon thy head
Spring is golden, gleaming roses are red,
world kicked hard but races on as before
lift thy head, open eyes, walk through that door.
When all is said and done, know this reward
greater that gift when life faced was so hard.
Robert J. Lindley, 9-15- 1979
Sonnet, ( Tough Nut To Crack, When Has Been Fire Tested)
Ghetto me be a bleating poor refugee,
albeit I’m Goshen rich in faith
Got a manger stall in the USA,
Pilate shepherd of the Cesarian peace
Time stamped stillborn delivery
tis iron Roman numeral four C
Furnace cast existence: bane brand bound
Babylonian condition, a marketplace sound
Fleeced heritage ... sob separated,
I am just the latest stolen cargo generation
being cerulean cloth asphyxiated
By legion overseers of an ungrateful nation
These pyramid gnash, link bled bones
twas being Pharaoh oppressed: Prey worked to death
in a Memphis factory plantation owned
Where noxious hate suffocate poverty-cuffed breath
Be daily double tasked in a graveyard shift
Those pale hearts so addicted
to the golden flask, err tilted
Drunk on power, they cull with a siren sift
O miry, downtrodden me ...
temporally chained to this wavy treachery
Verily, a wretched place for a black sheep —
such cotton weary misery!
So after four centuries of Cain deluge,
I do still tearfully seek
A rainbow ark sacred place of refuge
promised to the meek
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
The image of beast doesn’t know
being an image of formidable foe
he is hindrance to his own essence glow
the pride of life is but parasitic show
The fact in the parasitic show
is the fact that doesn’t know
true fact hidden in ones essence glow
the fact is, the lower fact can never know(C. I Cor. 2:14 KJV)
True fact of the fact is God speed
cannot be known of concept greed
the seed of essence God speed
shall never be know of serpent seed
When a fact is a temporal fact
like an out of whack sacroiliac
intertwined to the human back
concept fact knows not essence of fact
A beast doesn’t know he’s a beast
for of his own concepts he feasts
not knowing he’s gruesome beast
a counterfeit within Love’s feast
Why in the world is there beast…?
the fall in the garden from peace
living in a wilderness un-fleeced
the beast doesn’t know he’s beast…
of his own creation un-fleeced!
A beast un-leashed is never at peace
a beast unleashed is free mind un-fleeced
the human beast doesn’t know he’s a beast
a mind un-fleeced, without Precept peace
When and why is a beast a beast…?
Love’s free-will of human mind un-leashed…
`Tis human concepts, not Precept that un-leashed
the human beast… proof that Love is at peace…
Worldly concepts are of individual free-wills
the beastly natures are of the human spills
love doesn’t will the beastly human deals
but gives space to common human ills,…
purposed to learn Love’s will…
Love spills, seal Love’s deal…
a beast is a beast
of concepts’ feast
did not come from true east..
Selah
I had survived how many summers? Five?
Six? 'til, self-taught, I learned at last
of terror that lurks in situations
which those I trust (myself included)
would swear offer only perfect safety...
My ball rolled under my Grandma's house
and I, well-guarded, scuttered after to retrieve it,
mindless of the tarry soil fleeced with fluffy,
small red feathers, newly molted by matrons:
hens that clucked contentment,
set upon their hidden egg troves.
Spying their nests, I thought to rob them
and so earn a Grandma's love for a city boy
unversed in country ways. Thinking, I acted,
reaching for a nest unoccupied,
half hid behind a house block.
I closed my soft, expectant hand
upon a wriggling creature coiled among the eggs,
drew back like lightning to watch
a brightly spotted snake slide off
into the farther, deeper darkness
amid a squall of squawks.
Emerging empty handed, terrified,
it wasn't Grandma's love I earned that day.
I have always since encountered similar brilliant colored
dangers whenever I have thought to grab,
for myself or others, unclaimed treasures
in strange places, in warmer or in cooler weathers.
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
Who is Bigfoot’s Great-grand Daddy?
Whether living in a city or on the mountain side,
People from the world around astound us with their views.
He’s nine-feet tall, a hairy thing, uprightly he flees astride.
Only tracks are left behind and the mystery accrues.
They say that Big Foot does exist and for eons has survived.
A humanoid of greatest size a hairy manlike beast.
Is he really all they say, or are the stories contrived?
And if he lives, tell me, are our imaginations fleeced?
(Genesis 27 … paraphrased…)
Jacob goes to get two goats and steal his father’s blessing.
Their mom prepared a feast of goat, delicious, to Isaac’s taste.
Then, tied goatskin to Jacob’s neck and hands, realizing.
Jacob dressed in Esau’s clothes calmly goes to his father with haste.
Meanwhile, Esau, far away was hunting for venison as asked.
Traipsing around through the scrubby woods tracking.
Moving quickly with his great might to fulfill his father’s task.
A man with hair like that of a goat, his birthright was loosing.
Jacob smelled like Esau and the fields, but his voice…
Isaac questioned, so he felt Jacob’s goatskin clad hands.
Satisfied by the goatskin disguise, destiny made its choice.
Jacob received a blessing of wealth and all of his father’s lands.
When Esau returned with the venison feast, deceit was revealed.
But it was too late his birthright was gone; he was very mad.
“Give me a blessing, father please.” He begged as he kneeled.
You shall live on the fat of the earth…unyoked…his father said.
I wonder –
Is Bigfoot, like Esau, a hunter-gatherer with hands as hairy as a goat?
Does he live independently, a type of man, a scary giant beast?
Wandering upon earth, too and fro, with life barely afloat.
Brothers separated by that ancient deceit filled feast.
Is Bigfoot the hunter-gatherer living on the fat of the land?
Has he since the day of Rachael’s scam lived secluded and beastly?
Have generation upon generation descended that ancient hunting man?
Could Isaac in the Bible be Big Foot’s ancient Great-grand Daddy?
You fixin' to get CLIPPED (clueless beast!)
Or dismembered for a mutton feast
Make a break from your breeders
Don't follow lyin' leaders!
Or you gonna' get FLEECED (at the least!)
***For Carolyn's Contest
.
*
He
says
" No! "
But I say
" Let's go! "
It's my favorite
time of year again!
Let's put on our boots
fleeced lined jackets, gloves,
and head to the mountains for our
annual search for the "perfect" tree!
Every year, this one event, a family tradition...
has almost landed us in divorce court! Why, we were
almost featured in the local newspaper with a headline:
"Local Father, Wielding Hatchet, Ends A Family’s Tradition”
It's not that my husband doesn't enjoy the spirit of the season...
Perhaps it's just the memory of the times we got stuck in the
mud, while he's trudged back two miles to find the nearest phone.
Maybe he remembers another time when it slipped out of it's ropes
wiggled from the top of our car, (no place to pull over)… in a storm,….
(he had to squint through branches fanned on the windshield to see the
road..all the while, muttering language not quite jolly, no holiday spirit!)
While backseat drivers, sung "Jingle Bells", while enjoying hot chocolate…
and raving over the beauty of the season!
This year....he declares that we are getting an artificial tree!!
Ain't
Gonna
Happen!
For Paula's Contest: Traditions
Note: (Actually, if truth be known, he is a very good sport, and we usually go into Lassen National Forest, and get a permit to cut our own tree. A wonderful outing, and a fun day!)