Bleat Poems | Examples

Dewfresh Morn

Damp sound of squelching  grass 
beneath my feet 
ushers bright dew soaked morn 
on wild green plot 
of tangled  twigs, stalks, leafs
where young lambs bleat
and blather without rein
in frisky trot!

angry conifer

Angry Conifers

Trees in the avenue
have a weird sense
of humor
Long roots cracking up
finely laid cobble stone 
pavement
Slightly bent easterly
give pain in the lower
trunk
The younger trees
bleat about older trees
taking space
Older trees show
distain of needy trees
no dignity
Trees are silent
lack imparting skills
shake leaves

Blubber - Mar 8

Blaggard blaming the blond bloke for his blight:
Blablabla, bluster and bleat, blathering
Blob, your blue blood bleeds blotches on a black
Blossom. Blaspheme, blabber—I blast your bluff.

Hush

Hush, listen can you hear it?
the sound of buds breaking free
sight of seeds pushing through earth
life returning, the hum grows ever louder.

The pace is starting to increase
more and more the signs are clear
Spring awakens sending winter away
no more do bitterly harsh winds blow.

The flowers of spring high light
the meadows. casting scent
and colouring the borders
hush stop and listen to spring.

Birds flitter busily collecting
their beaks stuffed full of all sorts
lambs bleat to all who will listen
as they frolic back and forth.

Ah the joys of spring gladden
the very souls of all who listen
sun beams shine warming each living
creature both two, four and many legged

Now the waiting is done
once more rebirth occurs 
what a wonderful world 
we are blessed with

SAD: Standard American Diet

gut/brain axis
labour and taxes

bread bred to roll over
feds fed to rule over

you are what you eat
to tender and bleat

Mister Misanthrope

Mister Misanthrope had given up hope
On the entire human race 
He'd bark and he'd bleat as he walked down the street 
With a grimace on his face

Each day he would howl with a snarl and scowl
Most folk scurried as he neared
He'd chortle of death with foul rancid breath
Which was exactly what they feared

The skies became gray the birds flew away
Even rats would turn their backs
The locals weren't dreaming went running and screaming
To avoid his verbal attacks

One day in the valley down tornado alley
There formed a massive cyclone
With joy they saw Mister riding that twister
Into the great unknown

Gideon Stands Guard

The moon, a charcoal smudge, hangs low and dim,
while stars, like pinpricks, pierce the black night.
Clicking crickets creates a raucous hymn,
and katydids whir on new wings to take flight.

A yellow bulb's honeyed glow makes a homey sheen
until a timer flicks a switch turning off the light
and letting darkness rush into the tranquil scene,
making baby goats bleat from fright.

In the corner lays a lumpy carpet of fur
made by mamma goats cuddling nice and tight;
making the entire goat herd an entangled blur
of white rumps and necks entwined in the night.

Except for little Gideon, who stands in the barn door;
a castrated pygmy goat turned into a withered grazer,
stares at the house below without a snort or a snore,
as he chews his cud, thinking about some tormentor.

Why else stand guard?

Gentle Creature

Gentle Creature

Who calls you forth 
from beneath, 
the hung pine?

Eyes of black coal,
gentle swaying body,
watching, curious, 
step forward. 

Spotted coat. 
Horn moles of bone,
siblings brush past, play. 
You nuzzle the sweet grass.

A twig snaps, 
ears flicker, you stop.
A soft bleat, 
Mother's call.

Back to the arms 
of the pine
safe within 
the flora of green.

A quick glance and, 
for a moment,
I join your world 
of mystery.

Zen mode

the head ovoid is an empty urn
‘tis here last traces of ego burn
soma nectar cools magnetic heat
as bliss beats constantly bleat
celebrating blossoming of our soul
drenched in love mists feeling whole

Ambition - in Kamalas own words

What if I can see it, smell it, almost touch it,
That gilded throne where I will proudly sit,
Would people think me mad,
Is my ambition so preposterous and bad.

And why not me, have I not earned this crown,
Someone not worthy of that queenly gown,
Bejeweled and composed for all to see,
My vassals all around, bowing deep to me.

Naysayers bleat I'm just an empty ship,
With lights and streamers pretending to be hip,
Without a cargo or destination clear,
Sailing in circles relying on the wind to steer.

But if we're given to analogies, what if I were a Trojan horse,
With clear intent and undisputed course,
Where guile and purpose rule the day,
The aim to soundly win not merely one to play.

Demean and underrate me at your peril,
I can pivot between angel and pure devil,
While my laugh is designed to be disarming,
It masks a side of me considerably less charming.

Everything I've wanted I've achieved,
A trajectory few would have believed,
Do you think I'll stop at this last jump,
And in so doing fully flatten Trump?

Unconscious Bias

What a cop out, for one 
who always sleeps on their right side
To admit to ignoring the context,
the background and milieu, 
which colors your decisions and choices,
and side you lean towards.

There is nothing implicit in bias ingrained, 
and the norms and context, 
in which you were born, learned and grew up,
that allow you to claim you're
asleep at the wheel, dozing lazily in blissful ignorance.
How can that possibly excuse you 
from not learning about the other side,
not discovering how others may see, feel and think,
given their different background and pathway through life.
To claim you're unconscious when you decide, and bleat forth 
is a conflict of interest, 
with implicit, explicit, disinterest on show,
for all to see.
It's a cop out, 
an excuse to be biased
irresponsibly.
Wake Up!

The Kissing Gate

‘far from the madding crowds’ and cars
this green and pleasant land of ours

conceals behind its dry stone walls
secrets, streams and waterfalls

where stepping stones that gather moss
shine forth and tempt us both across

to distant fields of eighties’ skies
now clouded through autumnal eyes

where sheep still bleat as we both pass
along old paths of weathered grass

rekindling thoughts as each track weaves
of first love, hope and burning leaves

that once infused a simpler air
but linger still inside somewhere

to guide us on those wistful miles
through woods, past farms and over stiles

in search of where we sat and spent
time dreaming dreams of dreams we dreamt

over the hills and far away
inside a world called yesterday

and where we’d stay ‘til light turned late
in fields beyond the kissing gate

where now through smiles and gentle tears
reflecting on those forty years

it feels like time has flown so fast
since young love asked if love could last.

Death of Plotinus

Friendly sage from the starless height 
Now dying without fright 
In his human and earthly sight 
The cosmos dimmed its light 
Dying from old diphtheria 
Still his will looked higher 

He lost his voice to teach and greet 
That poured wisdom so sweet 
All he could do was meekly bleat 
Uclers formed on his feet 
Uclers broke through his gentle hands 
And sweat poured from his glands 

“I’ve been waiting to see 
You at last before I am free 
The Divine within me 
I will give back with childlike glee 
To the Good and Divine 
To the highest, beautiful Vine” 

“I have hope for you too 
I will fly the path of the few 
The path that Plato knew 
I am glad you will see me through” 
He said as he leaked puss 
To his dear friend Eustochius  

His friend was by his side 
Glad in the fertile countryside   
A snake slithered to hide 
With logos as his inner guide 
He took his final breath 
Greeting his diligent friend, death 

He left at sixty-six 
No longer bound to fleshly tricks 
Flew above stars and Styx 
Flew high above the craftsman’s bricks 
He ascended to the One 
Thus, his own friendly will was done

Sunshine

Sunshine

The sun is bright 
and beautiful today. 
Yet... and still... 
It is not the same color
as it was yesterday, 
and it will be
even less so tomorrow...
but it is lovely now. 

When I was a kid... 
it was orange and yellow. 
Slowly it has changed
and become different, 
in both color and size. 
It seems, larger somehow. 

When you grow up
things of the past that were large
seem smaller at times, 
but not in this case. 
It is not in my head, 
or there would not be proof. 

The farmers know. 
They are having more troubles
every year. 
The plants know. 
They don't grow as before. 
Maybe they never will again? 

The rest of the world
has not yet realized... 
"She" is close to her end. 
The purpose of her creation
winding down. 
God is coming, 
and the birds are not concerned. 

The Lord is returning, 
and his sheep bleat for His presence. 
It is the season to remember
who we are, 
and where we came from...

Critterature: Common Denominators

A walrus, a whale, and a wildebeest
Have a few things in common to comment on:
They've never read Byron, or Shelley, or Keats,
They don't like asparagus, broccoli, or beets,
Or waiting in line to buy popsicle treats.
And that's about it,
No phenomenon.
The wildebeest, a.k.a. the gnu,
For no rhyme or reason, of course,
Has never been heard to bleat, bray, or moo,
And is in no way akin to a horse.
His main disadvantage, as he will avow,
The one he's most often upsat with:
His tail is too short for fanning his brow
Or even for swatting a gnat with.

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