A flock of sheep, both strong and wide,
Once grazed together, side by side.
Their meadow stretched, their bellies full,
Their shepherd’s watch was calm and dull.

But foxes, hungry, sly, and lean,
Crept plotting through the grass between.
They whispered lies from ear to ear:
“That ram’s your rival, keep him near.
The spotted ewe steals more than you,
The lambs are lazy, this you knew.”

Soon bleating turned to bitter cries,
Each sheep believed the foxes’ lies.
They split apart in scattered bands,
No longer joined by common stands.

And while they quarreled, blind with rage,
The foxes feasted, stage by stage.
One by one, the flock grew thin,
Till little strength was left within.

At last a lamb, who’d watched with care,
Stood tall and spoke a warning fair:
“These feuds we fight are not our own,
They’re seeds the foxes’ teeth have sown.
If we unite, their tricks will fail;
Our strength is shared, our bond a veil.”

The flock drew close, their circle tight,
Their horns prepared, their stance alight.
And when the foxes charged once more,
They met a wall — and none broke through the core.

⸻

Moral:
When liars teach you to divide,
Remember: they stand safe outside.
The bait is quarrel, the feast is you;
Stay whole, and foil the trick they do.

The End

semiotics ~ relating to signs and symbols

"playful semiotics that makes this digital (poem) feel
weirdly tender"^
(W.A. Gibson)

dear friend,
will always take tender
even weirdly, perhaps especially,
when so rendered,
and so sweetly tendered

but here's the rub,
try the onomatopoeia of
tender

say it slow
the tongue reaches up to touch the roof of the mouth,
twice,
ending in an  smoothly soft exhaling,
(go ahead, divert, try it, then return)
here,
but I do not search for a semiotic,
for there can be none,
(and there is indeed, none)
plain or weirdly,
that captures the incredible elegance
this royalty of word,
so nuanced,
so wildly variegated,
a thousand shades of existential coloration,
far exceeding the rainbow's basic monochromatic monoply,

but I know my.reader,
many of whom at this exact moment
(are taking a pausal break)
are taking forefinger to stroke a sleeping cheek,
a hand to rub and trace a comforting
reassurance to a distempered child,

so I need not supply even one more,
or than to mention in passing
my tenderest adoration to
all of you
who foolishly read my dabbling,
and within them find
nuggets I did not even contemplate,
and bring me,
eyes wetted.
to this moment,
(9:00am Thu Sep 18),

yes, eyes wet,
this silly old man,
whose heart may be yet healed,
with
the
weirdly wildly
tenderest of
gratitude
        

                                                      ­                nml