"bleats" poems
Christmas Eve was coming
There was plenty to be done
There were protocols to follow
There were programs to be run
Presents needed wrapping
Elves had duties of their own
They've been doing it for centuries
They could call Christmas in by phone
Reindeer games were scheduled
Christmas Carols to be sung
There were toys to be assembled
There were bells that must be wrung
Christmas Cakes...no problem
For we all know there's just one
It gets passed around each Christmas
And that is half the fun
But, back now to the reindeer games
Donner wasn't there
But, neither were three others
It gave Santa Claus a scare
He called the elven vet in
Said "find out what it wrong"
"If I don't have all my reindeer"
"It'll ruin Rudolph's song"
The vet came back directly
Hoof and mouth was what he said
The reindeer must miss Christmas
They were all confined to bed
Santa couldn't take it
Reindeer home...what would he do?
He thought real hard about an answer
Where would he find something that flew
The vet said, "I've an answer"
"But, no questions...just your trust"
"I'll get your gifts delivered Santa"
"I just need your magic dust"
Santa said "do your best Doctor"
"We can't have Christmas end like this"
"Are you sure you have an answer?"
"We can't give Christmas time a miss"
The vet and elves went searching
They formed a team like none before
They went around to the animals
And then they knocked on Santa's door
Santa looked at what they'd brought him
His reindeer gone, but here they stood
A team had been assembled
It made Santa sink into his hood
Harnessed up before him
The vet had two dogs and a bear
A ****** goat, and donkey
And a bald, blind cat...stood there
He smiled and said "Dear Santa"
"They may not look like that much now"
"But, they'll get you where you need to be"
"And they'll be led by a brown cow"
If you hear some noises
From your roof, like bleats and barks
Some, meowing or some mooing
And other strange sounds in the dark
Remember, it's just Santa
With his new team for the season
Rex, Rolf, Billy, Ben, Bessie, Joe, and Mike
and a bald, blind cat who's freezin'
Merry Christmas to all and to all....don't look up!!
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
**Mastering the whole range of bleats with meanings-
made him think his command of 'goat lingo' was perfect,
But a cheeky Anglo-Nubian goat wasn't impressed by his fluency so remarkable,
"Vocabulary is not all, my dear Sir" she bleated back " your accent is singularly atrocious"**
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
I lack inspiration, when sound does not riddle the causeways of my mind
when echos bounce less around my cranium and more from my lips i find..
solace,
solace in the fact that no longer am i directed from indirect communications but more from the sound i make,
i learnt to grasp the steering wheel in both hands and turn sharp in the corners,
i learnt that without sound echoing through my ears my eyes work with pinpoint accuracy..
i never noticed the way the grass grows over old cobbles..
i never noticed the way my heart beats
the way it skips, and bleats,
i learnt not to be a sheep, but a profit,
a guider to the blind,
don't tell them I'm blind as-well
because it doesn't matter if i can see or i cant
it does not matter if what i say is truth or lies
but if the fiction of my antiquity compels you to lift your heart up
brings joy from the desolation of your mind but to the fore front of the battle field that is your life i have achieved something incredible, I've achieved peace
peace through happiness, joy through inspiration so read on!
read on young soldier,
your broken mind and battle ready battle wounds are bound too tightly by your compassion to conform
take of your bandages and read on! read forwards and on wards and strive to learn, why
why young soldier i know you've never been trained
and i know your mind is ill with discontent and i know your shoes are whittled to your socks and i know
i know how hard it is to stand with two broken legs and only the solace of that barren bare cranium to lean on
but in my antiquity young soldier
i have learnt that we are all warriors
fighters along a broken line standing our ground against greater odds then you could ever conceive of battling...
i know young solider that many will fall and die
and many will perish to broken minds and hearts and souls,
but the ones who make it through this perishable existence, the ones who fight beyond any compassion beyond any reason,
god I've met boys who will tear out each others throats with their teeth I've learnt that men are shells of creatures that have never been fully understood,
my existence has been about
nothing but fighting
and now i have reached an age where i can lay down the rifle of my words, i can leave my blunted knives to rust in a back closet i realized young soldier
the agony of your existence may seem like the end, but its just the start.
and when your reach a point in your life where you can rest,
savor it,
do not let someone tell you how to exist without your consent , do not fight a battle you do not want to fight,
stand your ground young soldier
re-reinforcements are on the way
L.G
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
313
I should have been too glad, I see—
Too lifted—for the scant degree
Of Life’s penurious Round—
My little Circuit would have shamed
This new Circumference—have blamed—
The homelier time behind.
I should have been too saved—I see—
Too rescued—Fear too dim to me
That I could spell the Prayer
I knew so perfect—yesterday—
That Scalding One—Sabachthani—
Recited fluent—here—
Earth would have been too much—I see—
And Heaven—not enough for me—
I should have had the Joy
Without the Fear—to justify—
The Palm—without the Calvary—
So Savior—Crucify—
Defeat—whets Victory—they say—
The Reefs—in old Gethsemane—
Endear the Coast—beyond!
’Tis Beggars—Banquets—can define—
’Tis Parching—vitalizes Wine—
“Faith” bleats—to understand!
2.5k
****** up paddy's weekly binge,
did nothing for poor mary's twinge.
she quelled her urge with robbie rasta,
who smoked the weed,and **** was faster.
the ***** guru jumped with fright,
yo husband early home tonight.
don't ye worry, stay in bed,
the fockers ****** right off his head.
mary, mary, the drunkard bleats,
der is tree people beneath dees sheets,
shot op ye dronk i am no cheat,
get outa bed an count the feet,
sorry me darlin, der's only four,
staggered to the bathroom door,
where ye goin? what ye thinkin?
to wash me feet, they're fockin stinkin.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 12:00 PM UTC
Terminal is a bullet to the neck from 200 yards.
Terminal is the bleats of sacrificial lambs served under the table.
Terminal is the silence and the spectacle.
Terminal is the confusion of warped legacy.
Terminal is the predator of scapegoats.
Terminal is the wasp in the hive.
Terminal is the city devoured by the hill.
Terminal is the scale teetering on an edge.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 10:17 PM UTC
steel is what controls me,
steel emotions wrapped in spikes,
steel skin holding you back
steel eye hiding my vision
but I'm growing tired of steel
I'm angry at its coldness, the grey flesh and cold heart
the agony of never being warm,
my friends are the same,
we draw our time from the fix,
lets melt ourselves down
I'm braking free
me and my barbed wire birds
I'm done sitting on the fence of angst but not being sure
if I can climb over
I'm done being a nothing following the crowd between rows
of steel and barbed wire
I'm done dancing between laser beams
and nightmare filled dreams
I'm taking my heart in my hands and running ,
Ill treat it like water slipping through my fingers and the only way to survive is by running faster.
so much faster.
Ill not let my heart slip through my fingers as my wings begin to spread me and my pack
of barbed wire birds,
our wings are made of corrugated iron folded to points
and the motion of flying stings my soul
but ill fly
you'll watch me glide
we will dive of the edge our hearts in hands
god
you'll see me fly, broken bleats from broken wings
bound together with the lust for more then to feel steel against my skin
because I'm flying northbound for warmer skies
lets glide past the the equator and through the tropics
I want to feel the heat that would melt a man
we are the hearts
we are the gods
the deity's of my minds
ill build shrines to myself just to scream
WE ARE THE HEARTS
my soul beats free as my barbed wire wings
no longer am i wrapped in steel
Ill take you with me, swap your heart for mine
scream like banshees
a technicolor passion drives me forwards
we will lay down ourselves to show you
as you sit waltzing through your strip wire fences
Ill turn them to wings ill float so high above you..
Ill scream at the 5 am light and bring up the sun
the world is yours
I am no longer a sheep
guided by lack of sleep
we are a pack
guided by our hearts
by our love
powered by our bleeding
battered
damaged
broken
barbed wire wings
L.G
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
the quick brown fox
jumped over the lazy dog
and spun a fancy tale
about the history of clichés
it beat a valiant bush
before burning a broken bridge
and kicking its own bucket
under six feet of foliage
now its dead like that horse it beat--
from counting chicks and party tricks
to counting sheep and hourly bleats
the fox is dead but oh was it quick!
May 13, 2023
May 13, 2023 at 1:37 AM UTC
Life got too hard,
and he just gave up
he tipped his ***** bottle
swirled into his cup.
No ice please I hate 34 degrees
hurts my teeth they start to chatter
then I start shaking my knees.
This bars my Christmas
my birthday,
my new years, no ones here
its my bar at my house
I sleep in my sleeping bag full of
beer cotton mouth.
The mice even left.
Without that molecule
I couldn’t snore a wink
the sheep in my dreams are drunk
they stumble fences and pant bleats
They guilt me to sleep
not calm soothe or meek
they taunt me of loss of love
and a family that cant speak
The roaches are gone
they stopped playing cards
I watched them wall glide
and asked them to stay in my floor
Then the roache left too.
It seems cant do much
drunk klutz falling over tables
maybe my liver loves me
maybe that’s stable.
I go shopping for droppings
for things that I need
if I loved myself a bit
maybe I'd do speed.
End it quicker.
The cirrhosis is my friend
he gives me gifts
cramps in the morning
and blood in my ****
I think if my liver were the garbage man.
He'd bring me good news
but I think liver got mad,
downed the last of the *****
My liver left too.
Now I'm a maggot bag stinking up the place...No one knows.
Who knows.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Like a white sheep she bleats for her Shepard.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
Out of the loop de loop into the swirl of hoopla hoop
Transfer into the oasis of illusion, awaiting the water boat
Fall over the bolder dropped from your shoulder
Rolling and gathering moss, scraping off the parasites
Bowling the ball down the aisle into the skittle alley
Knocking down those fellows who denounce you
Don't hear you, read through your eyes to the back of
Your head and beyond, into their own ace of space
Rolling around the ground belly aching their sound
Machine, mean warriors of gloom, for soon they'll fall
Short of time to relish their pleasure boat, punting along
Paddling their pedalo into the grey below, capsizing
Forlorn arms stretching out to capture, only trickery
Bickering, as you fall through the gaps and rake your ratted
Soul with grit between teeth, spit, of solemn men who
Give out black track thoughts for you to devour.....
Finality bleats, gongs the looming song....the hour, fatal shower
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC
Are things really as they seem to be ? ......He was trying to explain his vision to a friend, who was listening with a Bent ear, that kept some of the Truth from entering into the ear canal and properly vibrating the ear drum. Thereby, making for a somewhat distorted message .. And the "Stirring-Vision" was explained and detailed as follows: "There was this dog I had, that instead of Barking , it meowed and wanted out in the Middle of the Night. And,there was this Cat I had, that instead of meowing, it Barked and it wanted to jump up on people and wag it's tail. There was this horse I had, that instead of wanting to come into the Barn at night, it preferred to lay in the Mud-Wallow. And, there was this Hog I had, that instead of Oinking and wanting slop for food, would try to jump the fence to get to the Salt-Lick.. There was this Rooster I had, that instead of crowing in the early morning, it let out Bleats and desired to chew on cans. And, there was this goat I had, that instead of wanting to climb everything, spent most of its day in the Hen house , as if it were an egg inspector. There was this Parrot I had, that instead of repeating words that were taught to him, simply called out .."Please Milk Me". And , there was this cow I had, that instead of wanting to have a peaceful day of chewing it's Cud, spent almost all the waking hours, Repeating every word it had ever heard. Then, I saw this snake , crawling away into the tall grass, trying to get away before it was discovered. Yes, there's something about snakes, just always trying to change things. Slithering away, as blame on changes, goes to another as he claims his credits !
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:10 AM UTC
My words have been stolen
as I put my heart upon the shelf
quivering in it's sudden new position
cold and vulnerable
outside of it's bone prison
which gave airs of security, protection
what a mistake, that.
The daggers ****** between
proving the weak points of the
flesh to be real
and not phantoms.
After a long talk
we both decided it would
be safer on the altar.
It seems my argument
made sense
since my heart agreed
wholly and without reservation.
In the night we have long
conversations
my heart and I
calling to me from it's new
residence
asking when it can come home again
weary of the cold
and trembling when a stranger
walks too closely by
I reassure - even when they peer
closely at the jumble around you
you remain invisible
my voodoo is that strong
It agrees with a wet, thumping sigh
wistful and nostalgic
for the incessant whispering
of the Siamese twins
named, unoriginally, the Lungs.
It wonders what treasures
the gurgling idiot stomach
is dissolving today without judgment
(unless, of course, the stomach is throwing a tantrum
and decides to toss everything back out.)
I understand
these are the musings of an *****
misplaced
who misses home and forgets
the pain which drove it away.
If only my brain would forget
that old library
huge and dusty as a mausoleum
never throws anything out
just shelves it and adds it's placement
in the card catalogue
(If only it would upgrade - cross-referencing and rediscovery
would be easier.)
However, the librarian holds grudges
when the heart has been
played with too roughly
and keeps the pain files on her desk
constantly rifled through and
shuffled, reshuffled, shuffled again
"One day I'll have enough to write a book"
she mumbles over the complaints
of my heart as it bleats and moans
about it's new home
She doesn't hear it - it's too far away
from the Central Nervous System
for the message to be transmitted
in the proper form.
When she remembers
that ole librarian of my brain
where the heart has gone
she stops to listen
and in anger over it's pathetic pleas
she cries
"We have not learned
So you cannot return
If I did as you request
We would take back up the quest
And we all know...
He -
He -
He... "
She breaks down in literary sobs
reminding the heart of
the nature of it's exile
and why
it's truly
for
the best.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 8:55 PM UTC
*The sacrificial lamb
On the altar of your manhood
Bleats not for mercy
Calmly places
Precious head on stone
Cold and yet familiar.
Descent of hefty glistening blade
Splatters blood-stained
Doubts and fears,
Drenching peasants' shirts,
Generations
Of patriarchal reasoning.
Slightest quiver
In resolve,
(The lady's
Last refute,)
Gives pause,
A slight reflection.
But no,
The Jester
Gains his poise.
With thick dark fingers
Fate explodes,
Lest uncertainty reign the day.
Indeed,
The quintessential
Manly gesture
Castrates
The righteous perpretrator
As if the deed
Was done to Self.*
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
loitering in German is repulsive
always inebriated, even –
understand?
repetition and throat plug
pronouns (she gags on “du”
bleats “mein”)
exotic? nah. adored?
well
they tell me “das Gift” peals a
heavy cognate; it also
answers to “poison”
but Gifts in King’s
is “toxic” not
sorry
are – not – toxic
so flash me that
yellowbird
lather, anchor in strand
these quicksilver
nothings, murmured
honeydew venom
overheard myself last night
calling du but your scent
killed by mein pulse
almost fooled me, nearly
sounded like
the antidote
and other delicious gifts
you’ve given me
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
Let us go ewe and I
When with bleating out against the sky
Like patent leather renowned in fable,
Let us go, though uncertain quartered feats,
The mutton retreats
Of restless nights in fun house hotels
And raw dust l'enfant motels:
Bleats that bellow like hideous ungulates
In unheated tents
To bleed you to an ouvre question ...
Oh, go ahead and ask, " Feel my ***
Let us go us two misfits.
...
*Apologies to T.S. Elliot
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 10:25 PM UTC
Socially Engaged Poetry
As an effective tool for advocacy
Creating partnerships and sharing skills
A voice to the voiceless, Split this Cliché
Empowerment to the empowermentless
Through bleats of provocation and witness
Copyrighted and stereotyped
In a World That is Forever 1968
Exploring and celebrating the many ways
We can score yet another guilt-grant
Asserting the centrality of the 501C3
Through bearing witness to diversity
As long as it behaves itself and thinks like us
Accessible and yet authentic
A n d l i k e d o s t u f f w i t h s p a c e l i k e u no
cause spaces
are authentic, and,
like
stuff
Poetry as a living, breathing art form
If you listen, you can hear its respirations
Gasping in the long, dark night of group-think
Obedient to a mission statement
And the careful construction of resumes
Committee integrate complexity
Formula dampens the authentic voice
Perform this vital work imagining
Personal and social responsibility
Revolutionary transformation
Write and perform this vital work support
Of human social justice experience
Grounded in holistic spirituality
Flouting the patriarchal something-ness
An act that requires community
If you love freedom, you dare not disobey
And let all the people say “Cogent!”
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 6:15 PM UTC
My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;
'We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee'
poet.
So to you I said 'I'm ill'
'Care to spill?' she hisses.
'Yes' I said
My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
'Prince and King Godber'
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded dwarf on a throne.
She responds;
simple, ****** surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain't slept...
Small **** Na **** but let's not go into it tonight,
naked.
In her dreams he's laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn't know till it was too late.
The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire
Pain. Passion, Nighttime.
'Do what thou Wilt' says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.
I did, I do, I do - boom boom. no one laughs.
She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don't you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair
so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to **** myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.
Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.
Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming **** this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half ******
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that's saying something.
Come and bathe yourself in my immortal **** she bleats
'look it up in your encyclopedia of shames'
you'll just find a picture of a woman.
It's intoned meaning
It's poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.
screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, ***** on the doormat.
Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna **** us.
Already has.
**** it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don't go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
A text message with uppercase letters.
He could of been an auctioneer "YUP".
Instead he works inside eyelids.
My caukerspaniels ears look like **** carpet tube socks.
Im dreaming of women and dogs all over my one pillow matress.
The same ones who ruined couches and charmed the mail man.
He ran off like a dobermen unaware she extened the leash button.
If im lucky the mornings are reliable (they usally are)
The man upstairs our heavy metal enthusiest
Tap dances away the land words aspestoce flake by flake.
Hes proud of his roman garden (its really greek).
Business as usual,
I take a deep breath and loose fifty pounds all over again.
The fountain gets hot and my dollar store shampoo
makes my hair smell like juicy fruit.
The kitchens old.
The antiqicated refridgorator farts like a unrully bachlor.
And the microwave was upenheimers favorite way to nuke a
cold cup of coffee. I regrett the things I did to save time.
The sizzling eggs cry "you dont know how good you got it".
The toast smashes the yoke.
A head line reads:
over four hundread civillians killed from drone strikes.
The radio bleats "waking up..... welcome to the new age"
"Welcome to the new age".
I thought of the boy in the bubble and paul simon.
"These are the days of miracle and wonder"
"These are the days of miracle and wonder".
Outside my double pain window I look for women in jogging shorts.
Its still not warm enouph. Instead I find an army of children waiting for
Their yellow bus. A boy drops his lunch and a girl picks it up.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
Among the days of December
A new member joins the fold.
Born of love and melodies
A song sung once and then retold.
Hope wrapped close in silence,
Cotten swathed defiance,
Far from the tyrants of this world.
For a moment there is peace,
Time catches breath,
Young prince lays sound asleep.
Counting the bleats of passing sheep
Your parents guard the door.
For when you wake from slumber
And satisfy your hunger,
Opened eyes shall discover,
That all this world is yours.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
Birds gather on tree,
Innocent as morning sun—
Cat bleats by window.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
A mug of camomile tea is best accompanied
By the gloam of a late summer's day and
The distant bleats of young sheep,
I find. Peace lies between
Two silhouetted trees, black
Against a blueish sky.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC
We drove, ever slower, past the cotton candy sunset
A million puffs of pale sugar on a blueberry and peach tongue
Painting gold on the coffee stands and farms
Wisps of revolution buried in corn fields
Efforts of industry defeated by vegetation
A million shiny, waxy leaves embracing their sweet, warm gold
What is our beauty compared to yours?
Rain compared to heat cracked earth
And the bleats, brays and bellows of creatures I can never see
Pale and pink
Compared to dark and rich
What is my beauty compared to theirs, dear captain?
I am the pallid princess of spoiled kings who cackle and beg to suffer in privilege
What am I?
I am the alabaster adolescent of a kingdom made to forget its King
What am I?
I am the chalky child of forests and deserts and seas shrinking and expanding in fear and taunting of a patience waning star
One day we'll all drown in our greed and blood
And I weep for the children that fathered me
Leaving a legacy of corpses
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
The sheep who adore me
scrape and peel at my lyrics
so I shred some gibberish into a song.
“What does he mean ‘I am the Walrus’?” they ask.
One woman bleats so loud
she doesn’t notice that I’m
politely calling her a ******* pig.”
When I begin wearing
my repulsive glasses,
I see a pair on every face.
Can’t they afford minds of their own?
“They’re gonna crucify me,” I predict.
Then I tempt fate once more saying “shoot me,”
and one man does.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC