#herd
Write a little poem, post it online,
see if anyone out there likes my rhyme:
I’ll talk easy, like a cowboy to his herd
Love songs and lullabies down to the word
Peace on the mountains, green pastures for rest
Sunsets of colors only seen in the west
Nights full of stars so easy to see
Life is the spirit that sets you free
5/20/26
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 3:23 PM UTC
New Heights
New hires
No Shows
Yes sires
King Earth
Wealth perth
Owner
Commander an Z
Go Sleep
No Zee
Camps Awake
Clapped Cheeks
Grown Cheech
Alley Cat
Roam the Village
Gun safe racked
Us armed
Bullet proof windows
Kevlar vest
Team on my back
Crest on my chest
Central best
Central west
Paint go bang
Whole city gang
385 million arms
For thy Nation
The Greatest
Who Paved it
We crave it
We beg it
We fight it
We grave it
We write it
We wrote it
Dont Quote it
Quote hit
Numbers climbing
Bodies piling
Bible lying
God ******
So tragic
Face traffic
Cult classic
Jun 28, 2024
Jun 28, 2024 at 6:41 AM UTC
𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘶𝘴.
It always works,
Doesn’t it?
But beware
When you cross that line
And nobody knows
What is true anymore.
The bandwagon
Sure is prone
To crashing.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 10:04 AM UTC
Trodden puddles; muddy waters of cattles laiden on the
path of a dry river bed. The surrounding being ever present
of one's land loss. It's love (like many hearts) so bare to the
humid air, under these heated moments. Skins have broken
out, in my rash decisions.
Don't butter me up, to spread the falseness of a left hand.
Though it's right isn't always holding onto doing right.
Shall I tend the field—once after the herd passes? Let no puddle
be open on where you walk.
May 29, 2022
May 29, 2022 at 7:43 AM UTC
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 !
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 6:24 AM UTC
#*
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*#
Aug 5, 2020
Aug 5, 2020 at 1:27 PM UTC
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
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 9:28 AM UTC
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:
[email protected]
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 3:05 PM UTC
- 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.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
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.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
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
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 6:57 AM UTC
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.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
'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.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Small voices can stand tall
When planted in your heart
The whispers can begin to
GROW
And turn it into a spark that
IGNITES
YOUR PASSION
And amplifies your words
So they are never overshadowed
And they are always
HERD
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 7:44 AM UTC
Normal is over rated,
that's walking with the herd....
I'm no sheep of woolly needs
I walk a field of individuality...
I feed on truth on the evidence that feeds knowledge,
I'll never be a sheep that follows a herd....
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
What's in this city?
What brought you all?
Is it what you see,
That sent the call?
You must be so careful,
I do decree
-
For what you see
Is nothing.
Really.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
#For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ,
in them that are saved, and in them that perish:
To the one we are the savour of death unto death;
and to the other the savour of life unto life.
[II Corinthians 2:15, 16]
I take an ember from the pyre
and consecrate this smoldering fire:
a glowing coal on which to burn
an aromatic thought, and earn
a crown, perhaps… or a stampede:
mad hooves to make a poet bleed.
An ode to the dull-wit herd’s defensors:
self-appointed poetic censors.
Where would we be without the squeal,
their rolling eyes, their bovine zeal?
Quick to enforce what’s orthodox –
(upon their coward souls a pox)
swift to castigate dissent
their peeved opinions swift to vent –
lest people think that poetry
should harbor strength or liberty…
They offer up their condemnation
spiced with righteous indignation:
“Racist, sexist, bigoted too!”
(which means they disagree with you)
Their catch-all battle-cry for trouble:
“INTOLERANT !” (They are intolerable.)
“It’s narrow-minded, mean-spirited, hateful.”
Such input ought to make us grateful.
Theirs the reactionary faction:
poetic thought-police in action.
To stand opposed, reviled by such
may indicate perhaps, a touch
of true and living inspiration
causing unsympathetic vibration.
If wit in rhyme has touched a nerve
for bold opinion, dissident verve,
then let their frowns be crowns of laurel
rather than further cause for quarrel.
Accusation by the herd
is compliment enough. Preferred
to empty praise for vapid lines
from toilers in depleted mines.
Cows are fattened for the feast.
They have a space to moo at least –
then comes the reckoning at the end.
But a Poet’s curse is to defend
inviolate, his chanted word
against the corn-fed lowing herd.
When they, in turn, inflict their verse
no vengeance dare we take, nor curse.
But calmly, let us pour upon them
words that build into an anthem
strengthened by scorn, a song of change
to goad their dullness, and derange
their poetaster fantasy
exposed as moral bankruptcy
symptomatic of a dying nation
set against lyrical liberation.
I pray my words may rise to heaven
free of rancor, void of leaven
a fragrant smoke of life to life
ascending God-ward through the strife.
(But let them rot, a charnel breath
to dying souls as death to death.)
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
We used to have a larger group
Ten thousand head at best
Once we had the largest herd
Of Longhorn in the west
But, times got tough, we sold a few
There was the drought back in '11
I didn't know it got so bad
But, now....we're down to seven
Yep, seven steers and cows and calfs
Out standing in our field
There's not a lot of meat out there
It's really a poor yield
The Longhorns down in Texas
Took our football tickets back
They said that our best looking cow
Was like a blanket on a rack
We've done our best to make amends
We'll be on top once more, I'm sure
But, we have to keep the calfs all fed
Or else ....we're down to four
There's lots of land for them to graze
They'll grow big, I am assured
But, now I find it difficult
To call seven head...a herd
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
The firelight was fading
The shadows grew in size
In the distance if you listened
You could hear the faintest cries
Of coyotes and of timber wolf
Signalling the end of day
Howling at the growing moon
Keeping night spirits at bay
The last piece of the sagebrush
Was burning to it's core
The flames that danced as quicksilver
Now, they danced no more
The fire, once was blazing
It's flames a dangerous height
Was now a nest of coal chunks
to warm us through the night
Four days out and three to go
We'd be in two days ahead
The scheduled trip with this years herd
And we'd be back in our own bed
A smaller group of beef this time
But, that's the way it goes
At least we'd leave the mountains
Before the early snows
Coffee from the morning meal
Was still sitting in the ***
Two minutes in the embers
And it was steaming hot
The first round of watch was up
And the coffee was re done
The second watch, for wolves and things
Needed coffee and a gun
Two went down the first night out
We heard the wolves, but missed them all
They'd been following us for three days now
And at night you'd hear them call
They signalled that the day was done
And that the herd was staying still
The darkness was their element
It was time for them to ****
The fire was near finished
The flames were all but smoke
but that cup of cowboy coffee
put life into this old grey cowpoke
If the wolves kept at a distance
And just kept howling at the moon
We'd lose no more beef tonight
And be home two days from noon
The fire spit and crackled
The night was damp and cold
The stars were silent beacons
To the wolves so quick and bold
We heard them in the distance
Howling loud as if to say
Will you make it through till morning?
Wait until we come to play.....
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
I took the path less travelled by,
and found to my chagrin
that the path I walked was paved in good intentions
and devoid of friend and kin.
Though in walking those trails, I only meant well,
The herd is the entity that most oft prevails;
The lion devours the lone gazelle,
who of the well worn path did not avail.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
It's easy to be good at many things,
It's sad to be known for just a few;
It's alright to try everything once,
But it's hard to be an Ace among the crew.
It does take a lot of courage
To accept the norms and later pine;
But to stand up to what you believe in--
That takes a hell of a thick spine!
People call it arrogance,
To walk away from the crowd;
But with time, the one who walked away,
Is the one who walks proud.
Free will is an illusion for many,
It's a social necessity to walk in a herd;
Society accepts you on its own conditions--
Which if not fulfilled, you remain unheard...
There's a monarchy of tradition,
That feeds a monopoly of disappointment;
*It's your charity to their egos,
That secures your appointment!*
Go, find where you belong,
Amidst this raging tide;
Swim through the mailstorm,
Pull at the chains that keep you tied.
Break free of those psych bonds,
Move out into the light;
Rid yourself of that ancient poison,
And proclaim your own path as right.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC