Best Flock Poems
It's raining again, grey neon skies,
washing away suppressed surfaces,
to reveal unhealed wounds,
to scars the eyes cannot see
sometimes they bleed.
Some say words heal,
but I resist to express them,
because I'm afraid of my vulnerabilities,
anxious about tears I've never cried.
You only see the smile,
no one remembers that naive boy,
waiting at the window
for the shepherd who forgot his flock,
and he was no black sheep
if only I could reach him now
so he would not grow up like he did not belong,
stop searching for something,
he did not know how to find.
Stop composing that melancholic symphony,
recycling emotions, he did not understand,
I would tune his piano keys,
repair his violin's broken strings,
but
there are too many silent secrets,
blood stained walls will never reveal.
You left me behind,
with an empty toy box,
taking with you childhood hopes,
so ensued a vacuum of darkness -
sucking me deeper into confusion.
I remember watching you walk away,
along a path of overgrown weeds.
If it was not for the gift of mum's marbles,
I would not have laid an alternative path,
creating my protective bubble,
so I could float away, from all the troubles
until I lost them too.
Tell me father,
how was I to become a man?
You pushed me upon my knees,
like a cherry blossom in the wind.
A victim of your sins,
struggling to rise in adolescence,
I kept faith in the path of marble,
grateful for the guidance of my bubble.
After years of silence
upon your final sighs,
watching you die without words,
tears exploded for a stranger,
forgiving broken promises,
forgetting your crimes -
cursing stubbornness and bitterness,
thinking maybe it was me,
not just you
questions that will never be answered.
Today I stand before your bed of marble,
no need for a bubble, I feel no emotions.
After all I am a product of my childhood,
and you were a result of your own.
Silent One
18 August 2019
The fruit of life,
I eat today,
Far from the flock,
I will not stray,
Greener pastures ,
Without my Shepard,
I will not stray,
I will not be tempted,
I will say nay,
Sheep have been stolen,
Who went that way,
Now living a life,
Of gloom and grey,
Living in this flock,
I'm protected,I am sweet,
Grazing salvation,
At the Saviours' feet....
Stygian and cotton white birds are going to take flight from the beach to the unknown
For Monoku 9 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Poet Destroyer A
Ninth Place
3-15-2016
A flock of kisses left the shores
Born of love and they be yours
On loving wings they shall fly
Lift your gaze and fill your eye
Quickly follows a skein of verse
Be of love, at your feet disperse
To bind me to that beating heart
To be of comfort whilst apart
Behind a feathering of thought
All the love that you have brought
And I that longing soul
And that you my heart control
And then came me
To you on wings of poetry
Oh that smile I miss
Sensual lips await the kiss
I hear the drone that quizzes me then see the swirling mass.
A cloud veers in all directions; green changes in a flash.
Ten thousand wings are beating. The sky a wonderful delight.
I follow the budgerigars until the flock is out of sight.
In the ripened wheat field, they safely gather together,
those poetic birds of a feather where peace now exists
No nimbus clouds overhead, threatening stormy weather
and no more blustery thunder roaring in bigoted trysts
It's now a pleasant oasis where comments are safe to drink
No camel riders disturbing the calm like a pack of marauders
Serenity is palpable without the rude disruption and the stink
of instigators trying to elicit a response... provoking prodders
Crows no longer take wing there with loud raucous caws
since the scarecrow lost his cool and had a total meltdown
To the sound of trills, there's no sight of sharpened claws
It's peaceful in the field these days. No one wears a frown.
It's a sanctuary of sorts where no weapons are allowed
and calm is the river that gently flows beneath the bridge
where subversives waylaid unsuspecting ones in a crowd
That kind of ill behavior is not missed, not even a smidge
We've all heard about the changes that would come along
Now, that time has finally arrived to be enjoyed at leisure
The site is more pleasant without the same old singsong
Sincere comments often given and taken in equal measure
It may not meet the qualifications to be a Garden of Eden
but as an In-A-Gadda-Da-Vidah? Perhaps it would qualify
since there are no pens used to cause anyone's bleedin'
and no one has been bitten or stung by an Iron Butterfly
The shepherd in the winter cold
Gathers up his grazing fold.
Upon the misted hillside bush
Within a frosted evening hush.
Before the glimmer turns to dark
Before the wolves maraud the park.
To steal away its nightly feast
To a haunted chilled moonless east.
There was never a greater love
Between a shepherd and his drove.
For you can never tame or sever
A burning love that beats forever.
The shepherd guides with loving hands
The shivering flock towards the lands.
To home at last where creatures play
Until the gleaming sun had sank away.
Hypocrisy within the Village Flock
As the seasons of my life changes, glorious it may not be!!
Valley bells summons the flock to chapel.
Heavily polished Pews squeak, as Village flock take their seats.
Distant ghostly voices ring out with such shallowness.
“Chapel roof raised with such false faith”
No attention paid to the sermon.
The congregation floored by jealousy, as each man mirrored by his own status.
Women competing, against their hats and frocks.
Jealousy worms weaving through their gowns,
feathers in hats, quivers as the coven moves through the vestry door.
Minister excited to the jingles of the collection box whilst being passed around and around.
my soul lays upon a bed of thistles.
Whilst the thorned crown compresses the thoughts within my head.
Lurking within the shadows of the cross .
Whilst the gruelling over the sacrificial lamb
So-called reputable men “ that should not be”
The pitch pine pulpit, creeks with despair.
Parishioners best clothed with shiny shoes,
“all hypocrites congregate here”!!
Layer upon layer of blasphemous faith,
create a stain on uneasiness upon the so-called sacred walls .
Each Private hymnbook worn by sweating hand,
fidgeting tell- tales of fear through ware.
Each before God and un- easy to what conscience they happen to bear!!
“ If this is faith, then I want no more,”
All false faces glance, finally and for the last time.
I exit through the memories, OF that stained chapel door.
Haiku--11
a flock of geese go
lined-up honking moonless night
high in sky chilled air
Dear flock of mine, how far you’ve strayed from me.
I find you here above this tranquil shore
where sunlight glitters down upon the sea.
How unconcerned you seem, and even more -
nearby a precipice some of you stand!
How sad would be your fate if you should fall.
Mere creatures though, you cannot understand
how very close to death you are at all
and there could be no blame I’d place on you.
Asleep was I, with no clue you had left.
I searched, not knowing more that I could do.
I’ve found you now. No more am I bereft!
On God’s sweet summer grass you graze. I weep
for joy to know I’ll lead you home, dear sheep.
The weary Shepherd of a benighted flock
has been cast into outer darkness;
languishing in a purgatory
of his own making.
And those flock of sheep are now
running amok, plaintively bleating "baa! baa!"
into the abyss. Trying but failing to regroup;
chin-stroking about who they're now supposed to be
Oh, what to do! They can't seem to figure out
what to do with themselves anymore, pathetically
desperate enough to go down the primrose path of
self-destruction with the false prophet that once LED them.
Now they're crestfallen about the glory they once knew.
Instead of throwing off the yoke of servitude,
they've chosen to come under it, like old times.
Exhibit A: of the whole bunch, the most dyed-in-the-wool
sheep made a trip to Florida, headed down
his old Shepherd's abode, genuflecting before him;
on his hands and knees, pleading
to be led, like old times.
*example for contest*
Date written: 01/30/2021
you'll need your fingers and your eyes,
a lantern and a comfy mat,
some juice and tiny party hats,
a cake, cut up in little squares,
a teensy table and some chairs,
some itsy-bitsy plates and cups,
and once you've gathered all that stuff:
prepare the table, nice and neat,
then call the fireflies to eat,
but tell them that, because it's night,
they shouldn't eat without their lights;
make sure that everyone's aglow,
or else the counting will be slow,
then let each firefly partake
of tasty juice and yummy cake;
when every bug has eaten one,
take note of that, before the sun
decides to start another day
and scare the little lights away,
then thank them all for stopping by,
and, while the fires take the sky,
add up the table's party plates
to see how many of them ate--
when last I had a flock to count,
I counted eighty-eight!
Over lambent plains
of blond wheat,
braided spikes
rustling
in flaxen breeze,
a flock of crows
seesaws
like obsidian scythes
in cider firmament
under harvest sun's afternoon eye.
We are always in a pack,
looking out for each other's back.
In harmony nothing we lack;
we are each other's luck.
a flock on pastures
the story of the black sheep
i am the shepherd