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Shevaun Stonem Aug 2021
He still looks at me
Like I'm his Meredith. Make
of it what you want.
A Grey's Anatomy inspired haiku

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
Megan Hammer Feb 2020
In the valley of darkness, I shall not want
Though a hole resides where the heartbeat should be
The vessels still do their work

My lungs decay, black and smoked out
And my organs dry up from strong rums
And the things I hold dear become a desert storm

But I shall not ask for the help of dying trees
Whose fruit, though ripe, would leave me with less leaves
Or perhaps with more than I could bear

No, I stand on the mountains
The mountains we lived in, where the church sits upon the hill
I stand on the mountains and call for him

I call for him
and I know - without science or senses -
That he is near
B D Caissie Aug 2019
Lonely Shepherd counting sheep
Close your eyes and go to sleep

Lonely shepherd counting sheep
None are missing but still you weep

Lonely shepherd counting sheep
The wolf will prey if you should sleep

Lonely shepherd counting sheep
None are missing but still you weep

Lonely shepherd counting sheep
Close your eyes and go to sleep
Proctor Ehrling Jul 2019
Shepherds, cobblers, carpenters and joiners of all creeds and worldly dreamers
You troubled souls, the brittle spirits drinking spirits cleaner
Taunted workers of yore, farmers gone and industries endowed
Disseminating futures, who's gonna build your ***** barrels now?
**** it, I'm going to work in a call center
Continuing clearing my notebooks. I think this one was supposed to be inspired by the death of coal industry and other types of jobs going extinct, but I am not sure anymore.
her milk is him

her eyes are full of good tidings,
washing my body with lavender soap cake,
all the dirt crumbs of a hard life drained
into a circle of holes that carry away carings,
to places where their squeaking can’t be heard

her hands, pillows for a head so sorrow-weighty,
her body, her hips, a bed upon to rest,
and he wonders,
how did he exist before she become his nest,
her hair of grass, now, a coverlet for twigs and strings,
when then he laid his body down for disturbed sleep

her milk is him, a restorative that refreshes his content,
how did, once upon a time, he let existence subtract
his time on earth without any relativity, time unrecognizable,
he was in no one place, pathless, subsidizing nothing,
unable to distinguish tween the straight and the curved

her milk in him, whitens his soul, she calls out,
you are my shepherd, my king, my David,
my white marble sculpture of our current existence,
when you drink the white of me, it is I who is fulfilled,
when you write of me, your milk is me

Luke 24:44
Then he said, “When I was with you before, I told you that everything written about me in the law of Moses and the prophets and in the Psalms must be fulfilled.”
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