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Sonorant Jul 2021
Little lamb, lone in the brush
Without a mother’s feed.
Who is to groom the gloss
Of her delicate clothing?

Little lamb, who sings to me,
Unlettered melodies,
Why does she wag forth
These eyes of rust—
In pensive gloat ache
Sipped sinews of her throat?

Little Lamb, bleating to bleed,
Ventures frail, tender limbs
Deep within Tophet’s Vale.
Meek, she slips in buried sheets.

Little Lamb, orchid chewed to root
Bask and bathe the moon
Twixt her thighs.
Splayed upon pastures
Nourished with tears.

Wine spilled into the milk of being.
She drinks the rich grain.
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2021
his hobbies include
                          invisible girls
                     bubble wrapped
              shielding their eyes from the sun
                        up the side of his mountain
holding fast to the cable
                                  and the eventual terror of drawing
                     paper moons
                         framed a bit too
                                                   insular
                                                   binocular
                                                   funicular
                                                   vermicular
                         these out of sightlines
                                    opaque and cobwebbed
                               screening off
                       his ***** little secrets
Green twisted in bone
Moss growing on stone
The forest floor overgrown
Tree's groan and moan
A predator on its own
It makes its presence known
Its scars are clear and shown
Letting out a long howl
It continues its prowl
With a low growl
Overhead warns an owl
On this quiet night
The moon shines bright
Watching the fight
Blood shining in the light
~18/4/21
Manx Pragna Jan 2021
it was a cuckoo who flew the coup
took wing from his nest
off to push out eggs, like ***-pa
just another everyday coup d'etat

leopard leaping from his perch
pushing onward toward his prey
a small friend to no feline
trapped in a quick sand
left only to bay

you are these animals
Shevaun Stonem Nov 2020
i.
some days I am more
wolf than woman
and it’s hard to hide my fangs.
I’ll hiss and snarl and spit the blood
of those who trespass against my land.

ii.
some days I am more
wolf than woman
and it’s not that hard to understand.
I cannot be tamed or caged or chained,
I am the alpha of the pack.

iii.
some days I am more
wolf than woman
and there is no strength I lack,
but hiding and camouflaging
with the sheep
does not make my fur more black.

iv.
most days I am more
wolf than woman,
and you’ll find me bathe
underneath the moonlight.
in the slightest of mannerisms
you’ll discover, it’s not that
easy for me to hide.
hunting and guarding and marking
until the weary day turns to night.
in the way, that I tread the land
these claws covered by a pretty coat
and smiling- hah, no that’s the
predator baring her fangs to show you
how it’ll dig into your throat.

more wolf than woman | shevaun stonem
where's my fellow wolf pack?!
Max Neumann Nov 2020
tizz is an uncle, bro and dem richez
i was born viciouz, but always had visionz
a young boy used to build bridgez
between black and white, peace and fight

dreamy adolescence, i spit out whole heavenz
wit my divine essence, all dem "lyricis" be jealouz
but dey just "so called", cause dey so old
tizz grew cold, so not any of dem amateurs won't grow old

i'm so cold, i freeze, **** and stay, then i eaze among dem geez
we live in codez like secret service, dealin' wit burnaz
quick learnaz, sick and sane, our skin is thick,
we don't feel pain, black lion's mane, heaven yeah

no expression can illustrate tizzopish aggression
pay attention! watch out for dat other direction
receive my blessin', kneein' between me and the destined
it's battle rappin', it's slappin' againzt all of ya actin'

friendship versuz rush, some peepz start to blush
when you remind them of valuez, like some bad newz
i'm the man whose bad moodz be legendary, like a legionary
dealin' wit whatz necessary, cause i was born predatory

find tizz shinin' in the mornin' glory and rhymin' a story
readin' diz is mandatory, just anotha category,
stolen from the laboratory, ****, am i now swollen,
and all-in like all-night, alright, feed em just a small bite
The Global Family.
Michael R Burch Sep 2020
****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

“****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.

“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.

Published by Lighten Up Online and Potcake Chapbooks

NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! This poem also questions who the "original sinner" was. How was it not the Creator, if such a being exists, since owls are forced by nature to ****** innocent mice and other prey animals? Is it possible that the Creator is not so heroic either? Keywords/Tags: Death, Nature, Rhyme, Pain, Creator, Predator, Prey, Mouse, Owl
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