Herds Poems | Examples

As above so below

Sacred geometry is seen everywhere,
planets orbiting, entire herds migrating,
signalling control by a force self-aware,
which at the heart of each life form pulsating,
is supreme consciousness with which once we pair,
reveals all are around God’s love rotating.
“May Thy will be done on earth as in heaven” ~
The universe abides in chakras seven

Where Are You Now, Gloria Dubbins?

Gloria Dubbins - not much of a name,
but trust me on my judgment, gentle reader;
in terms of Beauty, she was Hall of Fame.

We’re talking – let’s see – nineteen seventy-two,
but I’m the keeper of the Gloria Flame,
and still to me she’s better, and more true,

than all your Taylor Swifts or Amber Heards.
She did the things that gorgeous women do -
in essence, nothing. Gloria had no words.

Intelligence?  Commitment?  Are you kidding?
For babes, that stuff is strictly for the birds.
She sat immobile and observed the bidding.

I’ll tell you this, but won’t apportion blame.
You, too, would be as motionless as cedar
if you’d been dealt her hand, to play The Game.

She’s not the kind you wound up talking to.
Her presence smote you with a sort of shame:
she struck you dumb: the words would not come through.

And Gloria didn’t gravitate to herds.
Perforce, she rowed her own sublime canoe.
Her beauty left her friendless, like the Kurds.

What was her view of Comus?  Little Gidding?
I don’t have – no, I never had – a clue.
Enigma fits her.  Easily two-thirds
of all the girls acknowledged her as leader,
but oddly she was Nothing Like A Dame.

The Child Won't Paint

"He won’t paint", cried out the Father
suspecting a flame of genius
in the toddler’s eyes.

The painterly parent bought paper, acrylics,
oils, brushes, chalks, and crayons,
not even a finger painting emerged.

The child steadfastly refused to paint.

The father pleaded:
“For the glory of God why not paint!”

His offspring only turned away
to suck a thumb.

Months past…years.
The child grew to be a sullen teenager.
He began to write poetry – and such woeful,
doleful poetry!
Exclamation marks rose up in heaven
as thick as bamboo forests.

His father read them, his face grew ashen
with a sickly alarm.
The poems spoke of phantasmagorical visions,
hordes of screaming demons, dismembered
herds of hapless humans.
Abysmal were the visions the boy unleashed
from his newly erupted consciousness.
Presentiments flew up from the pages
as horrid as the blood-red dragons of Hades.

Upon reading his son’s latest works
the father exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, NEVER paint!”

He took the young man for long walks in the country,
forced him to join a local soccer team,
suggested a military career,
alas

the boy began to paint.

Howling Wilderness

In the wind, hear a plaintive, mournful wail.
It is more than a wolf caught in a trap.
It's more than fishing gear catching a whale
and rainforests being wiped from the map.

It is a voice that cannot speak in words. 
Across the ages, you discern the moan 
of vanishing prairies, buffalo herds, 
that's carried by plowed up topsoil, windblown.  

Earth's untamed ecosystems we hold dear 
are crying softly, asking for our help, 
grimly warning that they will disappear.   
Like a badly injured dog's dying yelp, 

hear the wilderness's last gasping breath, 
"Save me from the clench of languishing death".

Under My Washing Line

I used to live at the foot of a lush, green hill
whose high pastures fed dairy herds.

When I stood under the washing line
in my cottage garden and looked up,
it appeared that the cattle
were grazing on my roof.

It was then I realized
perception
was a broken fragment in the eye of reality,
God’s little trick

to be understood
in the soft brown eyes of cows.

I Wonder What Anne Frank Would Say

Anne* Frank's earthly life, coldly cut short, 
yet, in our hearts and minds, she always lives,  
as, it seems, her spirit no one could thwart,  
nor the humanity her message gives. 

Sorry if I misrepresent the words
that emerged from her brave and precious pen.
I note it was not her who spoke of herds,
and said, with conviction, "never again". 

Yet, I know it was this young girl who said,
the grownup world, her lesson, to impart,  
speaking to our shared conscience as we read,
when she opined, "people are good at heart."

I wonder what this special girl would say
to young Palestinian girls today. 

* Anne, as I understand, is pronounced with two syllables.

Russell Brand, Ayn Rand and Ray Milland Walk into a Bar

So: thinker, “personality” and actor
	are looking for a drink.
If two of them are trailers, one’s a tractor.
“Nice counter-top. Real zinc?”

“Don’t ask them stuff. They memorise words
	of better men, to spout ’em!”
“And his type feels the need to gather herds
	of sycophants about ’em.”

“There’s zinc in every human enzyme. Fact.”
	“An enzyme? Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“A catalyst which helps your gut react
	a thousand times a day.” 

Creators are the only ones who matter,
	just them and only them.
Who grows, can know: who knows can grow (and scatter):
	the human apothegm.

“The path from easy living?  Slow decline
	to reach death valley days.”
“Misfortunes? They’re all relative, and mine
	are slight. I’m not from Grays!”

Who hasn’t done his share of Boogie Nights?
	All wassail hours are zeros.
Two-thirds of humankind are parasites:
	where should we look for heroes?

We have a thing now, called celebrity
	that’s not the same as fame:
whatever ape forsakes the tree
	can make himself a name.

The world, for entertainment, craves a schism
	(Max Baer against Joe Louis):
but who foresaw the Queen of Capitalism
	would be a Russian Jewess?

The Way Of Spirit

 Where there is no Light, there is no Hope, so Burn Bright
 when the Spirit is withered, the Spirit is defiled
 where the worn-out paths weary out the Soul
 seek solace Inwards, there where the Sacred Flame glows
 where Preeminent Fires burn, there One Must Go
 away from the Crowds, and Herds, and Roads
 when the ties of conformity go Unfettered
 the Wells of Life Spring Forth, Seek High for those Hidden Treasures
 The Way is Fulfilling; no words need spoke
 just as the river knows how "The Way" it flows
 and Strength is attained beyond the Upheavals of the Soul
 and the Fire erupts and all that is touched transforms to Gold,
 and there the essence of life shows No Remorse
 that it has Conquered, Vanquished, and Walloped the Dross
 and there the Quintessence comes forth and Unveils the Source
 that All Is Eternal,      In This Take Note

Tusk

He came back wrong.

They said he'd graze in peace,
a living museum piece—
proof we could right old wrongs.

But the mammoth didn’t come back peaceful.
He came back pissed.
Like he remembered
the trap pits,
the fires,
the arrows.

Came back heavy
with old rage packed in every stomp.

We thought he'd roam in northern parks,
let tourists snap their pictures.
Instead, he tore down a wind farm
and flattened three towns
before the drones even launched.

The ice in his blood
froze rivers.
His tusks?
Ripped steel like wet cloth.

His eyes weren’t kind.
They were old.
Like he saw through us—
and found nothing worth keeping.

They tried to contain him.
Shot him full of tranquilizers.
But his skin was tougher than our tech,
and his will
was older than our machines.

He doesn’t run in herds.
He doesn’t need to.
One is enough
to silence cities.

Now we live underground,
listening to the rumble.
Not thunder.
Him.
Still walking.
Still mad.

And we know now—
extinction wasn’t the tragedy.
Resurrection was.

Rush Hour

I clock in my own breath,
Minutes stack like folding chairs.
My limbs queue for permission,
Time herds me through its turnstiles.
We all wear the same silence—
Pressed suits, creased with wanting.

Banner Day

Once, wild herds of elephants blew trumpets
as spiced tea and jam slathered crumpets 
brightly declared the sun would shine soon,
snapping the spell of a thin crescent moon. 
Like a child's prayer, out flowed golden hair, 
turning nymphs to butterflies everywhere.

Consecration, the Sun Bleeds over Seville

The beast Alhambra 
roared a violent psalm
Vile conversos
horrid moriscos, 
the heretic herds
A spear thrust into
our sun’s martyred ribs
Held in hateful grips
the yellow warblers
dripped in crimson sheen
Flying like Michael
the vengeful vassal
of Aragon’s decree
“O Torquemada
Hark the righteous call
King of Suprema
Execute them all!”
Cold unfeeling wretch, 
the flesh guillotine
Teeth clicking sparks
lit endless pyres
Three made Seville
weep at the sight of Friars

Dramatic Moon

Flow of the lustrous milky rays
Aglow as the coat of white glaze
Birds misled and set off their trills
Herds ready to go to foothills
Confused owls go in awful mood
Amused jars wish to forage food
Dark cloud blanket enfolds the moon
Stark and sudden change soothes most soon

Place: 3rd

your love is making me whole

Your love is making me whole

It's hard to be awake when everyone you know is asleep
Mindless herds of sheep, walking into the deep
It's hard to continue to stand
When I have fallen into quicksand

I'm in a foreign land
Please take hold of my hand
It's hard to comprehend
When there is so much I don't understand
I need you to help me stand
Reassure me the end is grand

The lies are being exposed
The waters have found this rose
The questions have been silenced
The storms invoked a holy violence
Inside this weary soul
Your love is making me whole
Your love is making me whole
Inside this weary soul.

It's hard to speak the truth
When I've been suffocating since my youth
It's hard to write These words
When the tests have been absurd
It's hard to launch out into the night
When the fight is part of my plight
It's time to recover my glory
No longer in the same old story

The lies are being exposed
The waters have found this rose
The questions have been silenced
The storms invoked a holy violence
Inside this weary soul
Your love is making me whole
Your love is making me whole.

By: Sabina Nicole

Prove and Learn

I have heard eternal fires burn
With notes of lessons yet to learn,
And bathed in Basho’s lyric streams
Of Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring

I have climbed the lichen cliffs unseen
And heard that tranquil rhythmic theme 
While watching herds of elk below
And never thought to draw my bow

For there in Father’s well-laid score
Was harmony displayed, and more.
It was here I heard the fires burn
It was here I came to prove and learn

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