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Zhavaed Haemaed Nov 2020
My piano keys were meant to
click notes of an ethereal realm

Now, alas ..
They just tip tap on the laptop keyboard
at the whims of a nonsensical existence ..

Sigh !
Anyone having to work hours on the laptop would relate.

Green meadows and distant hills
The shepherd sings to the herd
An old folk song, of sparkling rills

The sheep graze, heads bent down
Little bells around their necks
Dance to the tune of the old folk song

The sheep love the water mud pools
Monsoon brings greens and browns
Shelter and food

The shepherd and his herd
From the neighbouring town
Enjoy the picnic, up the hills
On a road journey today
Bhill Jun 2020
Today's words are totally mindless but not factless.
Yes indeed...

indications are that the bananas are gone
the rowdy humanoids were responsible
where did the herd come from
is immunity now futile...?
yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today

Brian Hill - 2020 # 163
Find your own bananas...
Ron Sanders Feb 2020
Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
******* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.



Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com
CUT AND PASTE THE PROVIDED LINK TO READ HERO, A GENUINE MASTERPIECE OF LITERATURE. IT'S EASY!
Elkhan Asgar Aug 2018
Little shepherd, little shepherd,
Where's  your flock, where's  your herd?
Have you lost them in the fog?
Where's, shepherd, your watchful dog?
- Up there far, faaar away,
On that lane where horses neigh.
Keep on walking a little more,
Take no notice of a bear's roar.
Do not rush now, take it slow,
Before you reach the meadow.
You will see a stocky dog,
That guards my grazing flock.
To a little shepherd boy from Oghuz region of Azerbaijan
Tanay Sengupta Jul 2018
Rain on me,
I have been longing to be free.
Lost in my world, needlessly.

Rain on me,
I am tired of fighting but I will not sleep.
I refuse to be reigned and I refuse to be a sheep.

Rain on me
and show me the way.
This place is empty and I cannot stay.

Rain on me
because it has been too long.
I am sick and tired of pretending to be strong.

Rain on me,
I want to see the lightning pierce the sky.
As the thunder roars and the clouds fly.

Rain on me.
Let the winds take my mind to another land.
No one needs to know and no one needs to understand.
Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.
a man
was panther
only seamier
and familiar
allure there
his rhythm
but his
tail was
claw that
his meter
tore an
ambulance only
his soul
found while
straw was
scent vying
for more
A scent that has afield here
Vierra Apr 2018
The world turns on a Shepard’s staff.
He, of whom the Shepard is, is a guide through the treachery and trickiness of the thick weeds.

The foothills have been passed and the plains of this earth is now the marked destination to rest. We eat there. Beware
the wolves

The sheep have been calm this journey, and it’s lax for the collie, our animal ally.
He is prepared at a beckoning and that is all that is required for herds safety. He comes and goes throughout the brush to scout and prepare reconnaissance. Again, a ally.

The sun moves slowly and eventually rests past the horizon. Twilight and on a clear night, spreckels of stardust show their face over the herd and friendlies. The wolves do not bother the fire tonight.

We rest with a relative ease.
We wake and begin the day.
Pedestal talk from sheep
Shreekant Dhuri Apr 2016
'Tis a tale, a sorry tale
Of a man, never took the leap
Of a man, free yet caged
A lion amongst the sheep.

A man of great ability,
Of unrealized potential
Confined and clipped by limits
The herd had deemed essential.

A man, a brilliant man,
Stripped of glory and his claws.
Left forlorn and wounded
By the sheep and their laws.

A man, a greater man
Led by the lesser to believe
He owed them much and more
And everything, without reprieve.

A man, a most herculean man
Could have the world, his to keep.
Alas had he only remembered
He was a lion, not a sheep.
The poem isn't just for prodigies rather it's for everyone - all of us, as individuals, possess the potential to do something truly extraordinary; to achieve it we must not fall prey to mob mentality.
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