"ewes" poems
The morning finds the young lasses milking
And the young lads in the fields cutting
Rams, ewes, and lambs eat and grow fat.
The hens lay eggs while the roosters are strutting.
The sun rises up for his daily walk,
Drawing the day across the sky.
He takes his daylight with him to another place
Because the moon's time is nigh.
Evening falls across the heather
And the stars come out to dance.
The faerie folk come to life
And fill the night with their lyrical chants.
The mists on the moors swirl and caper about,
Taking rock and tree to embrace.
The faerie folk make merry and dance about
'Neath the silver of the moon's face.
They dance to music as old as time,
Melodies and rhythms from long ago.
Verses sung in ages long past,
Songs only faerie folk know.
They sing and dance under the moon and stars,
As long as the night covers them about.
But the moon and the faerie folk must go their ways
For 'tis time for the sun to come out.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 3:48 PM UTC
How sweet is the Shepherd’s sweet lot,
From the morn to the evening he strays:
He shall follow his sheep all the day
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lambs innocent call,
And he hears the ewes tender reply,
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.
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The Shepherd of the highland,
The land on which the wind
Chills, any wind chills many ewes.
My ewes, my pride,
I do feed them my will
I do heal them with wit
Oh yes I do!
I have been such, since I was
And still, I need my self
I harvest reap,
I water deep,
I lurk heaps
Of stressing peeps.
And from day to day,
I, my healthy ewes take
To the slaughter house
To slaughter them.
They give fresh meat
To people to eat,
And beneath my feet
Their blood fleet
Feed the highland.
I kept away many winds:
Winds that chill
Root out and ****
Emptiness fill,
In the highland where I__
I after a drill
Still the shepherd, still.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:17 PM UTC
All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter?
I spoke a tongue that was passed on
To me in the place I happened to be,
A place huddled between grey walls
Of cloud for at least half the year.
My word for heaven was not yours.
The word for hell had a sharp edge
Put on it by the hand of the wind
Honing, honing with a shrill sound
Day and night. Nothing that Glyn Dwr
Knew was armour against the rain's
Missiles. What was descent from him?
Even God had a Welsh name:
He spoke to him in the old language;
He was to have a peculiar care
For the Welsh people. History showed us
He was too big to be nailed to the wall
Of a stone chapel, yet still we crammed him
Between the boards of a black book.
Yet men sought us despite this.
My high cheek-bones, my length of skull
Drew them as to a rare portrait
By a dead master. I saw them stare
From their long cars, as I passed knee-deep
In ewes and wethers. I saw them stand
By the thorn hedges, watching me string
The far flocks on a shrill whistle.
And always there was their eyes; strong
Pressure on me: You are Welsh, they said;
Speak to us so; keep your fields free
Of the smell of petrol, the loud roar
Of hot tractors; we must have peace
And quietness.
Is a museum
Peace? I asked. Am I the keeper
Of the heart's relics, blowing the dust
In my own eyes? I am a man;
I never wanted the drab role
Life assigned me, an actor playing
To the past's audience upon a stage
Of earth and stone; the absurd label
Of birth, of race hanging askew
About my shoulders. I was in prison
Until you came; your voice was a key
Turning in the enormous lock
Of hopelessness. Did the door open
To let me out or yourselves in?
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At the watering hole
the wildabeasts
are gossiping the news
it's somebody's
BIRTHDAY
and he may have the
Blues!
so they all told the
zebras
who in turn told
giraffes
they all told the
elephants
they even told their
calves
pretty soon the whole
Savannah
knew that they must sing!
all the lions and the
bears and every bird
on wing!
so they sent up a chorus
all the grasslands
RANG!
even though it was
raucous
this is what they
sang...
HIPPO, BIRDIE, two EWES!
HIPPO, BIRDIE, two EWES!
HIPPO... BIRDIE
DEAR FRIEND,
HIPPO, BIRDIE, two EWES!
and many BOOOARS...
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
The minutia of cotton fledglings, I play them over and over
In my head, the most enjoyable, a layer of dynasty added to
The mallard kingdom. And a rocking horse swims across
Each pond too, its head heaves and nags creating massive, huge,
Undulating circles around circles. One more coat of gesso and then
Even I, in my speckled red paint Commune jeans, and holy holy Protestant tee shirt, I can travel the world; maybe even brush up on my
Cuyp.
Whipping through the sedge-brook grass, busting out, shooting Through the other mucilaginous nimbuses rolling
Outward first, then fled upward into the beacons of the heavens-
Shouting, whistling, oozing albicant heraldic pillars and shields.
Twenty more colours to mix.
Together, the mallards and ewes and rocking horse, and I;
prancing, little dots, filing into order. Where nursing
Against the sunken pillows of grain, I enter each round of
This papyrus jungle. Neatly folding my hands around each
Milky white shade, rushing out into the aurulent sunglow. .
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
If I might see another Spring
I'd not plant summer flowers and wait:
I'd have my crocuses at once,
My leafless pink mezereons,
My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet
My white or azure violet,
Leaf-nested primrose; anything
To blow at once not late.
If I might see another Spring
I'd listen to the daylight birds
That build their nests and pair and sing,
Nor wait for mateless nightingale;
I'd listen to the ***** herds,
The ewes with lambs as white as snow,
I'd find out music in the hail
And all the winds that blow.
If I might see another Spring--
O stinging comment on my past
That all my past results in "if"--
If I might see another Spring
I'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief;
I would not wait for anything:
I'd use to-day that cannot last,
Be glad to-day and sing.
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Soft-littered is the new-year’s lambing fold,
And in the hollowed haystack at its side
The shepherd lies o’ night now, wakeful-eyed
At the ewes’ travailing call through the dark cold.
The young rooks cheep ’mid the thick caw o’ the old:
And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground,
By her Spring cry the moorhen’s nest is found,
Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold.
Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower,
And chill the current where the young reeds stand
As green and close as the young wheat on land
Yet here the cuckoo and cuckoo-flower
Plight to the heart Spring’s perfect imminent hour
Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one’s hand.
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Flits of crepuscular longing across the simoom in the night. For with samiel at the helm, all hell will take us for sloth. Firstly, a schism overtakes the wind, backsliding the doorstep of Lucifer’s kin. Keep an eye on the door’s of ewes. The child angered by sky will surely lust for the hedonists imbue. Then the rattle shakes, pelting trunks of lye, chafing the goons of the dawn and choking from the ***** in our young. Aristotle bakes yore, and relief takes the pen, until the quietness of the impala becomes transfixed by our brethren. Then sores take the skin by trial. Eagerly rushing towards the venomous trails, and only then does the bandit bemoan the pain. Only then will the hungered and hungry peel back their fingers for fare, there where the flocks lay in wait and in pairs. Here where the melancholy of revenge, fills our quivers with children’s tears. Only then do we make haste for the shade, otherwise the sun will cook our hides to the colors of the day, then we will lay quiet too. Maybe then we’ll be overtaken by the Xombie Moon.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Hello Dear Friend,
It’s been a while since I’ve wrote you.
Woes of lost friendship must have driven me here,
in fear of other lanes that is, to this letter.
Laughter and joy has been had, them in lieu of you.
Ewes can ape wolves, as you’ve seen in three years prior,
the choir sang the same triad, this time quiet.
Quite sad— I know, but I’ve spoken enough on me,
for thee I am writing, and to thee I now write:
You must have been busy bringing joy to the world;
or joy to a world, of one I’ve met never.
Another basis, wherefore, I stop this stasis
of silence. We’ll needn’t recall to remember,
for like the migrants of nature, nothing has changed—
only the season, or maybe just the weather—
regardless, the moral stands as thus: History
has shown those of the same feather flock together;
so, as such, we do not lose time in relearning
quirks or behaviors—innate powers take over
Then, again, the inane behavior shall ensue.
Fluid synchronization of minds—now union—
is source to the river highly known for knowledge.
Dialogue sows the seeds, such that comprehension
of grand ideas, which sprout like fruit at the Lethe,
can be harvested to feed the minds of others.
Thoughts that they found too puerile, we now encounter
regularly, and never have we thought to laugh
at any one. Instead we laugh coyly, as we
discuss things of great measure absentmindedly.
The weight of measure felt by us knows few others—
wherefore, I ask: what deserves merit? But One knows,
and those answers lie in the minds of the many.
But here I must stop, for I, quite abashedly,
feel your response to this notion has bearing on
the rest of my premeditated first letter.
With Godspeed I send this, in hopes—with haste, you’ll read
and respond. At last a new dialogue begins.
Remember: those who look— will find,
Your Dearest Friend
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
Somewhere between the here and now there lies a place forever, where I stand with you in the morning sun beside a waterfall, and watch the river of creation flow gently to the sea.
To take you in the water like a nymph all dressed in dew, while our spirits soar to mountaintops to fly with eagles and climb with ewes. In love is an eternity that cannot be concealed, but no matter what you say of it it's only what you feel.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "The Odor of Logbrain Crappó"
Lógbrain yóur **** is oh so ASSinine...
It is of course malign...
Yóu are the cón artist of the moronic chimERA...
Yóu are of course a resigned, all inferiór, cón artist that becraps the mind, body and soul, as well as the very nether realms...
óh óh óh.... Lógbrain yóu are lonely while taking care of yóur flock in the fields... óh óh óh...
Yóu ascend the flock...
ascending and mounting the sheep, one by one
Yóu are on top...
on top from behind... yes, óh Yes, Óh YEs, ÓH YES, YES, YESSS...
Óh soiinf osiujh8adabyghueyhiu rnolkm
Touching the heart...
Touching the soul...
Touching the woolly pudenda…
and thus issueth the "I"s, the "óh"s and the ewes from the egómaniacal shepherd ,
Crappó, the manna of the banana I-gód <> the delusion of illusions and confusions of a sick putrid sub-mind...
**** that only yóu and the sheep yóu have so deeply touched can feel it in the end... óh óh óh
Óh Lógbrain Crappó, óh please óh please óh please crap some more fine **** for yóur lessers, if any there be...
with yet another one of yóur masterPIECES in the fields of ewe.
Yes, Crappó, BÓTTÓM feeder, yóu and yóur fine **** are a pain in the *** to all...
This fine piece goes out to the greatest cón artist alive.
*Original ('An Ode To Loghain Carvó') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
for the love of pejorative poetry
~
i was minding my business,
the tending of words,
assuring they’re watered,
they’re grazed and they sleep;
dividing the ewes,
from the yous;
sadly, all shepherds have
one runaway sheep,
who needs for more tending
than attendance has thyme.
(there... see that?
see what just happened
to this story of mine?)
of course dinner is calling,
and it's not so appalling,
for we all need something
to serf on the palate.
and a wandering iamb
will serve up just fine,
yes! this palette will please
at this dinner of mine!
you tell me, “that’s mean!”
“no never!” i repeat,
for i say it’s merely
the culling of words,
... so to speak.
having far more to learn
than having been taut,
i tend rather high strung,
using all manner of phrases,
and words where ought not.
for instants...
i didn’t know,
to drive them to market
can drive one to drink,
if one isn’t careful
one can end up a shrink
(or was that need one),
or even worse,
wind up like Ms. Muffit,
who i’m told was last scene
eating her whey
through the curds...
(or was it having
her way with words?)
but back to my story,
the tending of verbs.
all I can say is
while minding my business,
as good reimer’s do,
in broadening horizons,
in pushing the boundaries,
one little poem
put a kink in my foundry;
all this to say, that
she struck a nerve...
(so is that more
like striking out
or striking it rich?)
but no matter,
for the world hasn’t
been the same since.
life's little questions
are now up in my face,
my wife doesn't speak to me
i’m losing grace,
and the more that
i wonder, i ponder,
(or was it wander and pander)
for does one miche in a niche,
and can one skulk in a sulk?
my point being simply this...
discovery or uncovery,
here’s what i found
poetry is simply,
it's so plane to see;
it's quiet oblivious
for someone like me,
she ain’t no noun...
no, i say “poetry” is a verb!
she’ll never be more than
a do-it-to-yourself project!
no, this tending of words
won’t make you a prophet.
so now, dinner is over,
they’ve served just deserts;
if you’re not gonna eat that,
would you mind very much,
if i had the last word?
~
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
I'm a Sheep
I Sheep and I'm proud
I can't live alone
Alone *****
Plus...m Not built like that
M not meant to be
So I flock with my other sheep
I dare you to try get me with squad
I get lost
You gone tell me you don't?
Never?
Not once?
Well I do.
Either mentally or physically.
So I follow, though sometimes I lead.
It's easier going with plots already began.
We get further, than starting from humble beginnings.
I keeps my rams on the down low
And my ewes updated
Wherever, However, Whenever
We got that social
And we quick with it
I hear you hate
I see you fronting
I might even taste your envy
I won't react... thats a bad touch
Might give me a bad smell
I'm to have more sense
I does what others do
To learn to be unique
I goes where others went
To find new places
I eat like the rest
To learn new tastes
In short I Sheep
I sheep to be different.
Don't you?
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
**
You are beautiful as Tirzab, my love,
comely as Jerusalem ,
terrible as an army with banners.
Turn away your eyes from me,
for they overwhelm me!
Your hair is like a flock of goats.
moving down the slopes of Gilead.
Your teeth are like a flock of ewes.
that have come up from the washing;
all of them bear twins,
and not one among them is bereaved.
Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranates behind your veil.
**
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
Two objects lying in a field; a plowshare and a sword.
“Which of these gifts will they select?” pondered Mazda the Lord.
Two brothers, sons of Adam both, were passing by that way.
They spied the glittering artifacts that waited in the clay.
Hevel saw the plowshare would be great for planting seed in sod.
Qayin, the sword blade in his hand, looked at his brother odd.
Hevel was a Sheppard who minded Rams and Ewes.
Qayin grew crops and farmed the land, the only life he knew.
For Hevel to possess that gift did not sit well with Qayin
In a jealous rage he used the sword and thus Hevel was slain.
Qayin could not face his mother’s eyes, with shame he bore his sin.
Of his free will he’d swung the blade that did his brother in.
Qayin buried Hevel in that field to keep wild dogs away.
Then with both glittering gifts in hand, Qayin wandered far away.
In time Man would perfect the objects first found in that field.
The weapon would proliferate, evolve from Bronze to steel.
The tears of Mother Eve still flow throughout recorded time
because we are the sons of Qayin and profit from his crime.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
The sheep are shorn.
The lambs have flown.
The rams are caged.
The ewes left alone.
The fleece now woven on foreign shores,
And the toilets are flushed,
Filling sewers strewn with rebel nails.
Near embers of tri-coloured blazes
We hear yarns of ancient wages,
Now spinning in their graves.
Our heirs have no airs of their own.
No promises kept for mothers weeping.
There is no wool on the wheel at home.
The keypad is the abattoir,
The counter a barred cage.
John Barry faces East,
The Rebel faces West:
One for reliance,
One for defiance.
All wait in requiem silence.
The Dailys wrap the Dail
Stained with lamb's blood.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Somewhere between the here and now lies a place forever, where I stand with you in the morning sun beside a waterfall and watch the river of creation flow gently to the sea .
To take you in the water like a nymph all dressed in dew , while our sprits soar to mountain tops to fly with eagles and climb with ewes . In love is an eternity that cannot be concealed , but no matter what you say of it it’s only what you feel .
Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 7:24 PM UTC
I was once a little girl
with ringlet curls and grass-stained knees
I was scared of the ocean
and soft for my mother’s tomato vines
but I was not pure with youth
because I did not feel clean then,
no white satin or freedom
I was not full of love
I feel pure now, softer
I know my whole, my skin, the corners of my mind
I know the flowers I have planted outgrow the ones I will pick
That lambs come in twos and ewes make me cry
I know how much one honeybee is worth and why I had to let you go
It is all bringing tenderness
It is all tenfold my young freckled face and sleeping heart
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
Commoners' indignant?
Youth disinherited?
Ha. Nay.
Intellectuals disrespected.
Visionaries neglected.
Aye.
Yous who don't learn,
Refusin' to see eye-to-eye.
You slight genius, Truth.
Ay;
Afraid to even say hi -
Much less engage in honest, forthright conversation.
Rely on your superstitious,
Your hope is to pray
For ignorance like arrogance be your prey.
Lambs what be foul predators
Fat on the blood of their own ewes.
Singin',
"We know not what we do!
We know not what we do!"
Yet, you do so willfully.
Soon-to-be-nothings;
Absence, as nothingness, will be your eternity.
For the unworthy are rejected, universally.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 11:46 AM UTC
I’ll be brief (about poetry writing)
giving up:
expelling of textual agitation in my breast,
expulsing supplies no more the longest relief,
its medicinal efficacy, worn down, placebo equal,
run its course, a good grief, displacing tired belief,
loss of poetry, boon companion, not too late, nor
too soon, conceding, everything due a finalization
woman prevented me from walking in the
tropical storms frothiness, opining to my whining
“that’s no way to cleanse a soul, you’ll lose your life,
not that weight that’s moved up inside, up from the gut
into hearts blocked chambers and clogged spokes.”
thinking the vocabulary, needs a thrift store trip,
to give it all away, besides, prove it, a good taxing,
donating might be quite righteous undertaking, like
flushing of the ewes, needs some new nutrients for the ole
two handed sleight legerdemain.
promised brevity w/o levity, no floating, keeping my feet’s grounded, my animal kingdom, my editorial staff, says a good quitting time is hard to find, addiction, a rolling stone, needs a coldstone fence immovable.
grabbed rucksack, inside Hafiz, Ogden and Walt Whitman, all very good company men, head to the poetry nook, to get my soul brown deep tanned, and enjoy excellent conversations with the Lord,
‘bout childless women, why cancer, and if there be a decent chance we could work out a real substantive cooperative truce between
deity & humans,
one that could hold for longer than a day, a good working relationship ‘tween sky, sun, water and wind, ok, fractious occasional, but on the whole works ok, gotta makes some more notes to keep my new boon above, my new oh lordy buddy well-contented, non-grumpy.
p.s. being an admirer~reader is almost as good as being a writer
9:00 AM
Mon Jul 13
2020
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 5:04 AM UTC
The sheep are aware of the pink months looming
when pale rose petals adorns their head.
The rams huddled in the corner suspect things
as the ewes are ushered off to the shed.
Th ewes are carrying their lambs, nice and warm
little jumpy playful bundles of absolute joy.
The female of the species, however, for the moment
are acting a little somewhat coy.
Buttercups and daises await for the signal
to burst into their own spring like song.
The sun in its resting sky knows what is what
and the day starts to grow a bit long.
Lemon and lime shoots appear on the twigs
pink and rosy red buds appear in-between.
Thank the Lord for Spring, it is in the air
but the lambs do not seem at all keen.
They are born in a hurry, their legs hard to stand on
They are encouraged to be a grown up quite quick
No time for prancing joking or cuddled next to mum
Time for Spring things, the summer clock begins to tick.
The warmth of the next few days seals the deal
Coats off, sandals on and salad days are back
Bread and nice chunks of cake land in the pond
and for that the ducks say thank you with a quack.
They have been smashing their beaks on ice for months
busy searching for little bits of food with no avail.
The squirrels are digging down deep with their family
looking for hazelnuts they buried on the trail.
It is all good; on marches the beautiful warm months
with the promise of summer next, a big fat yes you cry
A smile has come to all of your faces that I know
but for now let us enjoy the end of winter, I guess.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC