Sheep graze, silent bleat
Shepard's walk on tepid feet
Pale site soon to greet
Malevolence roar
Cloven hooves may click no more
Red eyes wreck the door
Rotted fur, sense life
Pole that swings the mighty strife
Blood of two, one knife
Wind blown fur. ripped skin
Lambs cry, herdsman hard win
Ewes pain, wolfs dead grin
Grey a sheep, keeper weeps
His flock, the wolf never sleeps
His herd, beware... wolf leaps
??Here's a piece I wrote about my favorite old holiday!
???Imbolc???
On February first
I step through the back door
into the breath of winter
and tie my favorite scarf
around the old oak
keeper of memory
witness to return
I leave it there
as an offering
My spirit is bright and light
gratitude falling behind me
like sun-glint
on snow and ice
I go back inside
to hearth and rhythm
evening
routine
baby
family
full
The magic is not waiting
It is already here
flickering in the in-between
in moments that pass too quickly
to name
At dawn
I return for the scarf
Hope shines in my eyes
The old ways murmur
the ewes are stirring
the dark is loosening its grip
Brigid walks the land again
laying her fire
beneath the frost
Hold fast
The light is lengthening
Rest, rest, rest
while the ground still sleeps
Blessed be this turning of the year
may fire and water
heart and hearth
guide me gently
into the rising light
Uncle is extremely meticulous
At arrangement of dishes, he’s cautious
From smallest to biggest
Glasses and all the rest
If order of wares fails, he whines like ewes.
Spring
is here!
Little lambs
are gambolling
in verdant pastures.
Soon the white woolly ewes
let hungry offspring suckle.
I smile as the lamb's tails waggle
as they guzzle the nutritious milk
whilst the ever patient ewes munch fresh grass.
Golden daffodils and pretty tulips
add colour after dull winter days.
Striped bumble bees collect pollen
beautiful butterflies dance
in the warmth of the sun
Mother Nature gifts
the whole planet.
Stunning spring
I just
love!
Winter's gloom is now behind us, spring brings in new beginnings and a feeling of joy.
Quote by poet.
Ice
melting,
snow on hills.
Chill morning air,
temps begin to rise,
spring slowly creeping in.
Bright warmer days are coming,
ewes give birth, lambs frolic in fields.
Green foilage grows along with flowers,
spring joy is here, the gateway to summer.
This is our black shrine,
Where my father lit the lamp.
With dried dung in the cauldron,
My mother stoked the fire.
In the village, the sheepfold remains,
Where the ewes gave birth to lambs,
Their tails covered in dust,
The camels cried out for their calves.
Everything stayed far away,
When we moved to the city.
But my parents lit a flame,
So the shrine's fire won't extinguish!
I grew up learning farming,
Watering sheep, tending livestock,
Received plenty of guidance,
From the small yard I knew.
A kind mother's heart, worrying for her child,
Her "May you thrive" curses soothed my soul.
Parents are the critics of their child,
May they forgive my mistakes...
I brought them with me to the city,
Keeping the shrine's fire alive.
After turning twelve,
I cut hay with sickle and scythe.
Being the youngest in the house,
I tended the samovar's flame.
While guiding me through life,
the youngest of the shrine,
My parents rejoiced,
seeing I could light the fire.
In this house, like my father,
I will now be the owner.
Above me, without rest,
Stands the spirit of the black shrine!
See firstly it concerns eyesight
How people see things
But why does it get used for their opinions
See if a doctor tried to operate on onion
Would it be an op onion
I never gave a hoot
about any others opinion on me
or cared what they thunk
Second lay my hat atop my home
I never class myself as I
Well a. pa. rt from there
because there has always been more than one
in hear
Here me well do donut care howl ewe spell
Witch words u ewes
Just a con missing it’s fuse
Would a sequence of con have any consequence
Out to play
I beckon to one of my trio of shadows
Only I (okay and there) see in
Side to side
like a stutttering slitthering sssnake
okay hands up all who made the hissss
Here take a nrut
Knot the usual
Paid the rent for the differ
Look at This
.
.
.
THIS
We the ird
HE ou of RE
There are clouds on the horizon
Winds are blowing in from the east
The washing's still out on the line
And the Sunday's best is all creased
The cows are waiting on their feed
For the prairie grass in long gone
We can see they're growing restless
And they'll need milking come the dawn
The eldest now talks of college
It's a doctor he wants to be
From the time he was ten years old
He would say "farming's not for me"
Mary passed away last August
The youngster was thrown from her horse
Her memory is precious
Though we live with the remorse
The winter is fast approaching
Now's the time to stockpile supplies
We'll begin gathering those things
On which the whole family relies
Eventually spring will come
As the cycle of life renews
Calves will be at their mother's side
As, too, spring lambs to the ewes
Even though I love this hard land
I know one day I will retire
I hope I get a chance to live
A long time before I expire
I'll open the gates, set herds free
And I'll let the land go its way
Since there's no one to follow on
This farm belongs to yesterday
Oh ewe, oh ewe, dear don't you run away
I've come to play ‘Ba Ba’ with you, so will you stay?
I'm not going to shear you like I did before
I've left shearing tool behind 'cause my hands are sore
It's a beautiful day, and Uncle Sun is out
The bad wolf will not come hunting, we have dog scouts
We can play with the rams too, but beware of them
They have lusty designs on you and every femme
The stupid rams are so vain and proud of their horns
We'll send them, and dogs, chasing wolves into bush thorns
We'll dance all day to 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm...'
Evening we'll have fresh hay, blanket to keep us warm
Night we'll play 'Ba Ba Black Sheep Have You Any Wool'
When you're tired and drowsy, I'll shear you with my tool
Job done, I'll tuck you in, and put the wool away
‘Morrow, light and sprightly, you'll again want to play
On looking through the window
A humorous sight I'd seen,
A quartet of lively ewes
Were playing Tag on the green.
Leaping over twisted logs,
Around the rocks they skipped,
Sweeping round the bendy field.
Down and up they dipped.
Butting heads and locking horns,
Bumping each other in the side -
( I think if I was one of them
I'd be terrified! )
At times it looked violent.
But it's their way of having fun.
What a joy to watch these adult sheep
Baa and play and run!
Mary had a little lamb
She'd cooked into a stew
She drew the blinds while in the yard
expectant ewes did too
I’m an influencer, ex TV
You’re bound to know if you see me
I married a singer, famous she was
But she ditched me, is that her loss?
I pronounce the truth covered in lies
There’s no subject I can’t sensationalise
I wave my arms claim to speak the truth
Rant and rave, like a movie spoof
I spread theories of conspiracy.
Talk about subjects, no interest to me
My ratings skyrocket, the blind tag along
I’m always right, you’re always wrong
I’m bland Jack, fountain of knowledge
I talk like an urchin, never been to college
But doesn’t matter, you hang on my words
I’ve had to scream blogs no better than turds
I’m famous around six million views
Followed by the unlit rams and ewes
David Cox 01/02/23
The silence of the ewes
He helped run them up seven sheep for the slaughter
got them into the truck, taking them to the abattoir
in a pen outside, they waited and bleated nonstop
Dim-witted perhaps, they didn’t expect a happy result.
In circles, they ran, but one by one, caught and
brought into slaughter.
When it was the last sheep’s turn to go into
the room of lifeblood and gloating men in caps
the sheep had stopped bleating following its
captors in and offered no resistance.
The men in bloodied overalls were silent
this was unexpected, yet the axe fell
In the night, the boy had a dream he had stopped
the slaughter of the seventh sheep, together
boy and animal walked to a green field
to a place where the sun does not ever set and
the sky is deep azure.
The boy held on to this dream for a long time
believing it to be the truth, but finally, he had to let go
He was as guilty as the men with gore on their hands
simply by being of the humankind
It’s shearing time again
My husband has to go
Back to the boards again
To make us all some dough.
He walks out the front door
Lets out a quiet moan
And gathers up his cutters
Tool box & his wide combs.
The boss will not accept
Less than 100 sheep today
My husband knows full well
any less won’t be much pay.
He bends down as he starts
he thanks God for the back aid
these young bucks will never know
what it was like in the ol’ days.
It was 20 years ago
He won the comp for the 8 hour
For strongwool ewes & wethers
He was at the peak of his power.
The strength may not be there
For time has moved on now
But he knows the shortcuts
As the sweat drips from his brow.
He walks through the door
Puts the toolbox on the sill
Says to me so proudly
Now you can pay the bills
He may not be so perfect
But to me he is a man
I’ll get him through the next few months
Its shearing time again
Yes, I’ll get him through the next few months
Its shearing time again.
A true story about 2 shearers wives I know but written as one
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
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.