Long Sheep Poems
Long Sheep Poems. Below are the most popular long Sheep by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sheep poems by poem length and keyword.
My friend Brenda’s dad walked on the other day…
he turned 100 years old in June…
Why is it even when someone lives a long and happy life…
they seem to die too soon?
He was a war veteran and a farmer
who lived in the land where sheep and dairy cows grazed…
I never had the privilege of knowing him….
but I know the woman whom he raised.
He was a kind and loving person…
who enjoyed sitting in a glider under his favorite tree.
He loved his church, loved to laugh, loved music…
loved his friend and family.
He loved restoring tractors…he could, at times, be demure…
Since I never had the chance to meet him…
all these things I learned from her
You see, every now and then Brenda would toss a stone
into the lake that was her father’s life…
And as the ripples spread out concentrically..…
Some of them I’m happy to say…found their way to me.
Over the years to my delight as she tossed more stones
and more and more ripples spread…
a portrait of the man he was formed inside my head.
I learned a lot about him through those ripples…
a lot about Brenda too…
and thanks to her I came to know and now will miss…
a man I never knew.
When I look back on all I learned about him…
I am joyful but not amazed…
After all…I had the perfect teacher…
the woman whom he raised.
If I had a factory I would actually produce nothing at all because
Satisfaction can never be mass produced let alone happiness
Workers would not manufacture for their hands should be free
To craft rather than assemble in strict prearranged conditions
They would not sit idle of course but follow their creative minds
Overcome the vile dictate of fabricated needs for the masses
‘Back to poor roots’ established purveyors of doom interpolate
‘We need money machines not fine artisans and philosophers’
‘Leave thinking to the masters and disavow your utopian craze’
So while I am called a renegade rebel I lay claim to contempt
Of blindfolding slaves with cheap goods instead of pure virtue
Do not mind the malevolent label of anarchic revanchist treason
‘But what will they eat instead of the scraps from our production’
‘They will starve if we do not lead them like sheep to the slaughter’
‘We are kind humanitarians willingly sharing the means to our end’
I admit that my concept of work houses with no preordained tasks
Threatens the status quo throws a spanner into a well oiled machine
Of domination and marginalization fine tuned in centers of control
Yet the disorganized factory which I never owned in the first place
Will invent itself as soon as the non-workers can think on their own
Evolution is rather industrious and nothingness counts for a lot
Charcoal Sheep
Watery eyed thoughts came,
Zap! Pow! a short circuited brain.
Inward turned burned ocular pain,
too many thoughts to restrain
I’m a cheap sheep making my mistakes again.
Smell my seared wool going down the drain.
Ba ba ba, sorta blackish, wishing I was right as rain.
Worlds accessed by my fingertips
help to quicken this sheepish heartbeat.
I bang on my keyboard, DELETE, DELETE!
Ripping out digital scores, sheet by sheet.
Never once listening to warnings.
All the while the other sheep bleat.
Instead I feel my brain drain
as my barnyard thoughts strain.
I can’t translate what they’re saying,
but I feel them point and complain.
My paradigm won’t shift though,
I have a glass ego to maintain.
So I download my brain
into my mainframe.
I’m watching you fake shepherd boy,
black sheep never sleep.
Into the darkness
we’re destined to creep.
We have those sad sadistic secrets
you’ve burdened us to keep.
So I smudge charcoal thoughts
dangerously deep.
I prefer paths, dangerous and steep.
Within the silence of the lambs,
you devilishly relish hearing me weep.
You defile fleece as white as snow.
I resist going where those sheep go.
Their path leads to your fictional rainbow.
They’re not safe even though
they travel slow.
The True Shepherd
wouldn’t lead them to and fro.
I listen to my uneasy queasy feeling
and exit your proverbial row.
I wish I could stop them too
but, ba ba ba,
off to the slaughter they go.
We walked into church, God saw my lost soul,
I met you and it went away, cuz I wasn’t enough for your economic status.
You saw me and walked away, God told you to turn around and walk the other way, your group I walked into, what a mistake, for I didn’t meet your requirements.. I guess GOD doesn’t save the ugly black sheep.
You say it’s not me, but I see differently, HE spoke to you to walk away,OUR LADY OF GRACE isn’t for me... it’s me, it’s my daughter, AUTISM isn’t for everyone, don’t worry your not the first one to judge, my whole family don’t know how to love US..
So I’m giving you what you wanted a year ago, we are walking away, give you your FAITH a wide birth, Give GOD full access to your faith, don't let US keep HIM from loving you, lighting your path to Heaven.
Maybe I shouldn’t have walked into your small group a year and nine months ago, because I’m the Black Sheep that GOD turned his back on.
“GET BEHIND me UN BELIEVER”. You are NOT my believer, my CHILD” You are thinking as human, NOT as GOD wants for my FAIThFUL SON”..
Here you go GOD, RYAN is all yours”.
Every so often the kids passed a pasture
Where a divine farmer kept his sheep
One night they crooked themselves in
While the farmer was fast asleep
They rolled with the grassy hillside
Onto the gates of his wooly pen
With the cover of darkness helping
Except for a noisy noisy mother hen
She cackled louder, louder and louder
And their plans began to sweat
Still, they roped a baby lamb
That would soon become their pet
When their fleeing tiptoes met a hitch
And the farmer appeared before their eyes
He preached he'd sacrifice his baby lamb
If they pray for their sins and hear God's cries
The spaces once held sacred are destroyed
Like Salisbury plain where sheep could safely graze
Now for soldiers use and practice Wars
The Bedouin who inhabit deserts cry
The Negev is no longer a free space
The places for creation are destroyed
Before the birth of Christ, they wandered by
Their little tents and camels no disgrace
Deserts are for practising new Wars
To shepherds and their flocks we say,Good bye.
The land is used for shooting, so debased
The places for creation are destroyed
The Lamb of God is fined and unemployed
Search for peace, be treated with distaste
Deserts are for practising new Wars
Of the Spirit, is there any trace
As the Lord God turns away his Face?
The spaces once held sacred are destroyed
Now for soldiers use and Final War.
In my fantasies I wolf down all my food
'Course that way it doesn't taste too good
I also stand on a hill and howl at the moon
Then again, those nights can't end too soon...
In my dreams I torment the three little pigs
Yet I can never blow down the third one's digs
And every time I try to fool Little Red Riding Hood
I wind up thrown out of my house, and into the woods...
My greatest wish was always to have been Wolfman Jack
But back then it was courage I undoubtedly lacked
Yet now that I'm brave enough to publicly yelp 'woof, woof'
I'm content just to be myself -- simple, plain Gershon Wolf!
January 05, 2019
Entry in "If I Had a Secret Life" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
The unicorn magician with the slanted eye
Let out a peep, a whistle, a plaintive sigh.
Alerting two idiot villagers, name of Guthrie and Tie.
That things were changing for the worst, bye and bye
The unicorn magician is angry one said.
Maybe the village will be painted red.
Another surmised they should all go to bed.
While best dreams filled up rapidly in their little head.
The unicorn magician is excited, another one stated.
That’s what he does when life’s being extremely overrated.
If he whistles twice, the village will be minced and grated.
They listened, alarm and horror of all kinds anticipated.
I think that’s what he does when he has a dream,
A little boy said, whose name was Billy P. Ream.
The unicorn magician is fast asleep, everything is a gleam.
Probably high in the sky on a magic moon beam.
A whistle came, and the gossipers were in shock.
They began running amok, like cats in a flock.
What time is it? One yelled, looking for a clock.
If it is midnight, let’s meet down by the number two lock.
Let’s go ask the unicorn magician what the whistle doeth mean,
Said a three-year-old child, with some sense it would seem.
The gossipy rumor-mongers preferred to wail and keen,
Predicting the worst as they began to holler and scream.
The Unicorn Magician rolled over in his sleep,
Opened his slanted eye, and gave a little peep.
All was right in his world, peace he would always keep.
For he was a good guy, with a love for his sheep.
The gossipers stopped talking, waiting for the whistle.
Some hid under the porch, one hid in a thistle.
Silly sheep they were, expecting things to be bad.
Worst scenario thinkers, creating lives, so sad.
I sit and pause, looking at the sky blue ceiling above me. White vapour cotton wool clouds
gently float like water lilies on an upside down pond. My humble seat, an igneous rock
from the Devonian period. A glaciation past has moulded this comfort to rest this weary
climber. I am in fortunate delight as this skyscraper of old can turn nasty with nature.
These marvels can unite and lure unsuspected hikers, and draw them into a weather world
they have never known. The gulley's and faces of this quite wonderful Munro hide
challenges and dangers for all who dare climb. Many have been lost as they become
disorientated, as natures weather closes in.
The ascent route to the summit on a day like today is quite wonderful. The beauty of the
glens, with their sporadic mix of andesite and basaltic lava mountains, rival many a range
on our fine planet. Many colours explode on the surrounding canvas. Greens and beige's,
greys mingling with red granite masses. Screes are in evidence, a sign of the range ageing
as natures seasons take their toll. Plant life carpets the slopes, where grasses of sorts
mingle with the purple and white heather. Ferns from a prehistoric age fan out catching
the breeze, like Sea´ ferns´ in the ocean.
As i climbed, at various intervals i would close my eyes and listen to the calls of the
wild. The sporadic bleating of sheep, as if echoing through the glens. Crows and their
hooded cousins fly sorties looking for carrion of such. Suddenly they scatter, as royalty
makes a welcomed appearance. As majestic as the King of the mountains can be, a Golden
Eagle glides on the thermals. His subjects looking on from a distance, for fear of
angering him. Rabbits, lizards and even sheep and lambs, bow down in whatever chambers of
safety allows them. As graceful as he arrived, he leaves. Slowly but slowly, the lookouts
of the species declare their haven a safe zone.
This climb has certainly given me a thirst, as the thinned mountain air leaves me tired.
Nearby a small stream offers a weary climber a much needed tonic. This pure fresh
translucent chemical substance quenches my crave, with a gentle splash over my sun beaten
face, i feel refreshed to a point.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland-3.php
The irony of Death: looking through the eyes of the Lamb
What does he see in You? The wealth of wrinkled age. The sin of being allowed to walk through the forests and jungles of debris and mayhem just to say, "I'm sorry, but I'm too old to mention You in my Book again this Christmas"? The old are growing in number, like rabbits to sheep. And I am growing tired, tired of this Apocalyptic life as Paul of mayhem and death. Where you are winter without summer. Where You are embers without defeat of the Death that haunts You.
What does he see in You? The wicked innocence directed by naivete's age under the shoe size that they wear in age limit. Their sins are being born into each breath as they awaken the chaos of life and reaffirmation of retribution, anxiety, even Death. Where repulsion and retribution are met with sprinkles of revolution and rebellion. Aren't I the singer Scorpio? Nay. I am the Titan, Capricorn.
Death clings to your prosperity in age and wisdom as it mothers and nurtures you into infamy. Am I the beacon of Hope? Nay. I am Ra. I am Exodia the Forbidden One. I am Obelisk the Tormentor. Forever Tormendable... Forever...