Where stray sheep lie
Hazy pastures in the misty morning grey,
With dreams like dew drops on each blade.
We graze upon the meadow on the dawning day, in plains we once forbade.
We shepard no one unto their slumber,
For we ourselves are lost.
And when us strays must go under, our souls must weigh the cost.
Good little lambs are counted against the stars, but not the ones who've gone astray.
We go where the stray sheep heal their scars, the hazy pasture in the misty morning grey.
Tingly skies full of surprise oh how I love when with surmise,
the little rascal aims his dart as if it were, poetic art !
Unpredictable seas with droplets that spray oh how the sharp rocks being where they lay,
Affects how sea nymphs stalk and capture their prey as if it were, a play !
Restless winds pervade the air oh how the clouds suggest a dare,
Looking like sheep jumping over fences oh how it stirs the sky and senses !
Crackling fire illuminating the shadows of the night oh how with mysteries of the light,
Animals will watch the humans make camp as if each camper is, a scamp !
Powerful gaze holding years of hope oh how with vulnerability and the will to cope,
Looks knowingly into the void as if it were, a mental sanctuary to be employed !
Unstoppable magnetism attracts us to one oh how unexpected, powerful and fun,
When cupid’s arrow aims for you, there isn’t much that you can do !
The only masters of words
are lawyers and politicians,
twisting syllables into chains,
binding the public
with illusions of justice.
International law?
A fragile parchment,
easily burned by power.
The mighty—
America and its allies—
violate it in daylight,
and walk away untouched.
The court that dares to judge them—
a kangaroo court,
mocking its own shadow.
And you, Africa,
you global south,
clinging to Roman-Dutch law,
do you not see?
You punish yourselves
with borrowed codes,
carrying wounds
not written for your soil.
Justice is no relic.
Law should be a river,
flowing with the times,
not a stone wall
blocking progress.
It should shield the weak,
balance the scales,
and light the path
toward a better society.
But in the world of wolves and sheep,
law is but a costume—
a shepherd’s cloak
draped over the wolf’s back,
while the flock dreams of safety,
never knowing
they are already lost.
COUNTING SHEEP
Mike the mouse tossed and turned in his bed
with visions of furry sheep in his head
but instead of sweet dreams
he heard their loud screams
as they chewed on his favorite bread.
So if you can’t sleep, take a cue
from Mike, his sheep, and all the ewes.
Just laugh and don’t fret,
You'll find no regret,
For dreams can be silly, it’s true!
©Sara Etgen-Baker 2025
Stout sheep
to peep
in bush
to push
wild grass
in mass.
Curvy
strong horn ,
born with
soft skin
woolly
silky.
To date the snorthog
has only been seen
late at night in the bedroom
disturbing me and my dreams
first he hogs the bedclothes
then snorts up a storm
while I lie awake
counting sheep
trying to keep warm
but before I become
a grumbly old grouch
there is yet one solution
have him sleep on the couch
weathering Wales in bleak winter is hard
though starred sheep remain sleek
taverns roaring fires a feat
making Celtic maidens sweet
~~~~~~~
I used to think blood meant forever,
That family would never hurt you.
“Blood’s thicker than water,” right?
But I take the water—
Wash away the blood,
Remove the red-soaked stains from my life.
Blood thicker than water?
Maybe in another life.
Family—
A word that holds little meaning,
A word they never earned.
They should have been my safe space,
Yet now there’s just an empty space,
A place I no longer belong.
I’m still here,
But they are gone.
I’m the black sheep of the family,
You could say different from the rest.
I never fit, no matter how much
I changed my shape or colour.
I tried to change,
Tried to blend in,
But I hated that I had to pretend—
Pretend to be one of them.
I finally realized maybe the black sheep isn’t bad.
Maybe being different
Is the realest thing this family has ever had.
Alone,
the dog outrides the flock,
warning away the terrors of night.
He sees
the cheery glow of the shepherds’ fire,
murmured talk and quiet laughter
float past him softly
on the chill autumn breeze.
He longs
to sit with them beside the light,
sharing avidly
(tongue lolling,
slyly smiling)
in their good-natured jokes
but that is not his place:
He is a dog and no man
and his place is outside
in the dark, a sentinel.
He sees
the sleeping flock,
pressed body to body to hold their warmth,
and longs
to lie in their midst as one of them,
dreaming sheeply dreams,
but that is not his place:
He is a dog and no sheep
and must remain awake outside
to guide strays back to the fold.
The flock stirs anxiously and bleats.
His ears prick, he hears it too,
the tugging untamed howl
of wild wolves in the night.
The ancient wolf in him
longs
to melt into the forest,
romping with them
on their feral haunts,
but that is not his place either:
He is a dog and no wolf
and his place is beside the flock.
There once was an old Pope from Rome
who had the Good Book a huge tome
an altar ego and mass appeal
so he made the Vatican home
2015 he addressed the environment
on climate change caused by man
and issued a Catholic Church encyclical
the first-ever since Popes began
let's trust instructing his cardinals
to avoid any more scandals
when pontificating and preaching to the choir
to burn less incense and light fewer candles
altho' it's a slippery slope here's the dope
and no I won't soft-soap
there's not much hope of Pope on a rope
but I can cope so I won't mope
now hear my voice as it's a choice
if I may be quite so bold
religion is discretionary not hereditary
and the herd of sheep in the fold should be told
They claimed this world, Its not
what it seems to be.
So it started to unravel,
bursting at the seams.
So I lied in a wake.
Unable to slip away.
So I'm begging you now
go back to sleep.
counting your stars
while they poison
your sheep.
Once the wave is set
it's doomed to repeat.
Thats where they linger
hidden within your dreams.
Just waiting for your fall
that's when they spring.
We can never give back
All the life that was taken
for fear of fiery lakes
and the land that's forsaken.
So I'm begging you now
go back to sleep
Counting your stars
while they poison your sheep.
Having counted wooly sheep
was woken from a deep delta sleep
in the middle of the night
thought I'd heard a pig snort
but no that can't be right
tho' kicked out of bed
and landing on my head
knew where I stood
for delegated to the floor
then relegated to the room next door
when in no uncertain terms she said,
'You're sawing wood, you snore!'
Not as such a silk purse,
but a sow's ear would be worse.
Not so much a pig in a poke
(jiggery-pokery),
more a poke at a pig in a joke
(piggery-jokery).
All in all,
Sy-hokery!
There once was a man who found sleep
Through enumeration of sheep.
Not those in his head,
But roaming instead,
He’d census the sheep in his keep.
'Write Thirteen Beautiful Lines' Poetry Contest: Sponsored by Constance La France (April/May 2025).
Where hills are alive
with imagination
carried by clouds
toward their destination
Lakeland fells and sheep
Liverpool of cormorants
Wales with its dragons
Yorkshire and terrier dogs
in Lancashire towns
of redbrick and cobbled folk
who worked with bare hands
to build a much better world
beneath these beautiful skies.
confined to this endless hole,
there is no rest for my sinful soul.
continuously repeating “this is the last time,”
while the lords heart breaks as he writes my fine.
battle it every day when you were ordered to flee,
how can i run when it has full control over me.
filled with regret and fearing it will never leave,
the lord has warned his sheep many times not to let the wolf in sheep clothing to deceive.
i know when it is staring at me,
for some reason i choose to ignore.
there is a way out to be set free all i need to do is open a door.
you say you fear to be judged by people of earth,
if thats what you fear how about the day the lord judges to decide your worth.
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