"fleeced" poems
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky
And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...
Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,
Finding depth and height
out in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching
High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground
Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
**† † †
A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.
A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.
A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.
A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)
A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.
A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.
A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.
A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Across from the border of Eden
On a stone where I sat down
This led to me to ponder
From afar I saw your beauty
First thing that came to my mind
What does your lips taste like
Is it what fell from the skies,
A honey nectar from the garden of gods?
Beyond that invisible line where you stand beyond
Forbidden to steal across that line
Oh thunder, lighting, sleet, and crashing waves
There's something Gods would never let me have
I gotta brush aside all the obstacles
You're within my reach, but there's just no way
When I'm down on hard luck, there's a way of getting off the ground
All you know is what I want, and I want to grab your hand
Steal you when nobody's watching, it's what my heart desires
It's That I want to go around and around the world with you, only you...
Run away from the troubles that's abrewin'
Reach the edge of the world
Travel the rough seas and you'd know
Rappelling the cliffs of the Andes
Drink hot chocolate with the yeti
Clash with the monsters that lurk from the darkness
Just imagine, just imagine
What the world would turn out if you ran away with me
There's nobody else like you, only you I cannot deny
Grab the fleeced sandals along the way
Use the wings to fly away
Let the gods throw their fury at me
I've got the armor to deflect it all
Only to have that moment with you
To be frozen in stone with you in a everlasting kiss
~Steven~
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
I met a jack rabbit,
so twitchy with words,
spoke like a prophet
on Adderall and nerves.
Slick lil rhymes, big ol claims,
said he I'm real: "I feels dem **** pains."
But I scratched the surface,
and—ah—what did I see?
machine made brain
writing his poems
that's not unseen.
He said, "It's all a simulation.
Whatever do you mean?
Your claims are unwinding,
dont be obscene."
Look at this poem and that poem
Claiming his writing is truth
Spent eight hours messaging
Wikipedia proof
But every stanza,
a secondhand sigh.
Every line,
a borrowed blue sky.
Not a soul behind the script,
just silicon spit and glitch,
a shadow puppet
playing "wounded wit."
He ain’t a rabbit,
he’s roadkill in drag.
AI-made messiah
in a thrift-store flag.
He wants applause,
a dopamine feast,
but the only thing real
is his need to be fleeced.
He posts and reposts
poems by the pound,
scraped from some model
with a ghost server sound.
Feet in the air,
head underground,
juggling cliches
like a sad circus clown.
This ain’t poetry,
it’s data puke,
prettied up
for the dopamine fluke.
He cries, “I write!”
but I see the seams,
the Frankenstein phrases,
the Pinterest dreams.
Jack wants love,
likes,
digital grace.
But behind that grin
is a borrowed sad face.
Tells us what’s real,
what’s deep, what’s true,
but it's just reruns
in a shiny new shoe.
Truth is this:
he’s scared of what's real,
a hollow crown,
that don't know how to feel,
drowning in praise
he didn’t write down.
Special? Please.
His soul’s on mute,
while ChatGPT
plays the ******* tune on a borrowed old flute.
So run, jack rabbit,
you digital ghost.
Go fetch more claps
for the posts you host.
But know this, friend:
no matter how clever you seem,
you ain’t the poet.
Not now.
Not ever.
It's all AI digital dream.
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
A kite—that's something I would like.
When ground is damp and lambs are born,
The kite floats up to lofty height.
When sky is fleeced and trees are crisp,
The kite is pulled up forks of light.
When brittle leaves are shed and blown,
The kite is thrown into their flight.
When dewy grass is glazed in rime,
The kite on frosty field alights.
When frost creeps over, all is white.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
I took this job down at the Corinth Mint
after my marriage went on the skids,
I was bored at home on the DPB*
and I was sick of those two **** kids.
Jace shot through with this ***** called Glauce,
her name brings to mind an eye disease,
and her old man wants us out of Corinth
even though I got down on my knees.
I feel like the serpent who was Golden Fleeced
when Jason slipped the snake oil past it,
but, since I've been working at the Mint,
I can spot a twenty-four carat *******
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
stone ground mustard Venus burns. She's not concerned that constant falling
and orbits, elliptical - are the same thing.
Her eyes are deaf. My eyes adapt to the pattern
that rattles the chain of events.
my Spartan theories dangle in dubiousness.
I find a trap, and call it Seattle... for i see cattle -
grazing a state of mind; north, north west of what God meant.
washing tons of pocket lint by hand.
chewing their cud
in the dark. meanwhile - outside the ranch...
My eyes refract. ***** and un-twink in the black lacquer that came -
with the oblique miracle. they sustain things that would sunder a doll-eyed bovine
to ever breach The Fence.
my hardened arteries jangle like numinous. I pine and snap ruinous barbs from Death's
prattle... for i see battle, razing the Grace of Time
more at war, than at our best. more -
bereft of what Reason defends.
tossing guns at bullets
by telekinesis.
[ undefined ]
i come from where i've never been. you were there. and ewe were there; fleeced and bleating
in the snow that fell as soon as shearing ceased. i recall, you were never there. but remember
passing you by... shilling an ocean roar you swore you'd plucked from a Seashell -
salvaged from the divine dry sockets of Poseidon's skull.
you were hawking your unawares. i played a flute made of question marks and glass drum skins.
i went where my stride was inclined, and never where i went to.
i never arrived by approaching the destination. only by always being somewhere else
till i got there. i came from where i'd never been and -
ain't been Nowhere since.
but i'm sure i pass
through There
ever since.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
it’s 12 degrees outside
excluding the breeze, I hide
behind the rising smoke
of the cigarette just lit,
my fingers are falling off,
nails ripping to the marrow
a ****** stutter impairing speech,
a seizured grab to the fleeced pocket
leaves only the other hand to freeze,
such a sacrifice to something
old-me said I didn’t need,
I kick around snow
as my leather boots wear a
coat of white as I shiver
and inspire, throwing a black
coat over my lungs
“hey do you have a lighter?”
“yeah”
the ash sails down
and kisses the filter and a flick
collides the ember to exhale it’s final breath
to the frozen floor,
I step inside and
suddenly, I’m cold again.
MJB
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
IT exists, what twists,
then
raised fists, evil persists
what
then goes on behind the scenes
where
we won't find any on the media frenzy
like
in the deepest waters
in the deepest thinkers
in the deepest pockets
who is it that tinkers
with the root
of all the nerves of the rest of us,
real violence versus movie violence
you seen one you have seen them all
are you immune
and your compassion fall,
some one wrote how the "West failed Egypt,"
who did the East fail then, South Korea?
but again that is what we are led to believe
and allowed to see, really not the whole story,
take it to the Area 51 as IT is said by the CIA,
There is no place like home,
that has peace,
have we been fleeced,
free water from the ground sold for
billions all around, I did not sign up for this
let that nestle in your thoughts, in your nest,
C I A
C I B
C I see,
what is reality, do I really, even exist beyond
this moment or am I in the mist,
or will I be missed, are they shooting at me yet and still
quick pass me the bottle of approved pills, mouth so dry I can't
spit or swill or swallow to wash down, all the garbage, "out there
beneath the pale moonlight,
Someone's thinking of me and loving me tonight
Somewhere out there someone's saying a prayer"
For peace
for mercy
for the children
who have only
seen, known
breathed air where
death erodes the hope
while we play at violence on
video games - terminal disease,
PLLEASE, there are foundations
to help, as these countries don't have
leaders, they have bleeders; who take
the riches, while others spend it all
dying on the streets, of places they
used to call neighborhoods, are now markers
where martyrs
forgot to get out
of the way, no shouts
other then agony and misery
no friends to an honest living,
because
they are not
there to see the next days dawn,
chaos consumes even the sun
as black clouds rise and dust
is kicked about from the rubble
of exploded dreams
of trampled hope
of life that does not reflect love.
Who can talk about love at a time like this?
It will be all right it will okay,
it is not your Neighborhood,
well at least not today, witness
or
is
it?
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
They're piled in an Amazon box of almost never-
(that is, all not-quite not-ever-
but sometimes twice- and most often a mere once-)
worn clothes destined for another,
bigger green metal box proclaiming itself
charitably fashioned for such donations
as these nearly pristine shirts,
jeans and sweaters that have only those holes
their makers intended but still lack the want
I've wasted for arms, legs and torso to fill them.
What they don't have is shabby stitches
or those counterfeit claims mocking
a public thread-lust for luxury labels,
but they are mild misfits of the well-meant
gift or of my poor-choice selection
and they carry an ill-suited look,
whether it's fleeced too loose and loud,
or flanneled too bold and blousy,
or otherwise woolly with any too fuzzy
je ne sais quoi that puts me off.
Too's had grown too many as if the clothes bred
while tucked in nice 'n cozy at backs of drawers
rarely drawn or stacked sleepy on the bottom
of a closet's clutter-topped shelf,
and if proved it would be a miracle
on par with Christ's gospel-touted cloning
of the loaves and fishes, but it's not,
so I can't compare my parlor-trick sharing
of two dozen hand-me-downs carelessly passed-on
to his magic of multitudinous feeding.
After all, the real comparison is,
I could have accomplished even more
than this speculative giving,
had I been retrospectively better
in my retroactive accounting
and made the significantly less sinful
omission of never (not just once or twice,
but actuarially quite not-ever)
accumulating so much always
not-needed, however tasteful, stuff.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 8:59 PM UTC
Lost on the plains of ancient Ílion,
Treading the windswept soil and stone,
I sense the ghosts of warriors and horsemen,
Of dark-eyed women and jealous kings.
Their history scattered, burned and ruined,
Pressed by time and scavenging hordes,
Yet restored to life in song and verse.
When poets and imagining hearts were stirred
To find heroes among brutal soldiers
And reasons for violence masked as greed.
Shades of blue lost to time reappear.
In their winding brains goddesses walked,
Holding an aegis made that bore a Gorgon’s face
Or gods who guided arrows and chose the dead.
Bards ever kept alive the rival gods
Before whom King Priam bowed and Achilles defiled.
Across the grape-blood waters of the Hellespont,
Aphrodite savored her own victory and watched
As Paris still kept the women she had given him.
Love was not among her calculations
Nor those of Zeus when he forbade hindrance
By the gods, who yet battled among themselves.
As mortal enemies fought the coming of allies.
For ten years, ships and horses swarmed to aid
The unbowed city, even Memnon and Penthesilia,
Both slain by the sword for reasons then forgot,
So their sacrifices failed to dent a lust for blood.
Yet armies tired and war ended, as all wars do,
Through fatigue or fire or the scattering of slaves.
Now time has whitened the ruins and sands
And Boreas sweeps away the shards of stain
That dyed the cities’ walls and columns.
The scarlet buried below Herculaneum is gone,
And saffron gowns on dancing virgins,
All the horses’ indigo manes and hyakinthos
Sandals of Achilles, whose mother dyed them
Before he sailed, forgetting his Stygian bath.
He was clad in red to hide his blood,
So when wounded, his men would not cower.
Yet one arrow alone took his life; how telling
That more valiant men lost theirs closer to the soul!
Gone are the sheep, red-fleeced with madder
And argamon robes of brides and Cybele’s priests.
No sacrificial lambs or holy men walk here now,
On the bone white land and relics of a kingdom,
Yet the north wind, the lone god, continues to wail.
March 5, 2020
Mar 13, 2020
Mar 13, 2020 at 8:09 AM UTC
you're short unbridled hair is lady
fleeced in muscles downy soft with
wide hips and baby,
your skin is a pale house over me
arcing head back, your tongue is
nimble and it feels like hot wet
with my tongue,
your wrists are thin and your
door is tight and your eyes
flash with needing for my
roughness,
you want the charged release
of my love fist unfurls in the quaint
chamber of your pale house is
sick with me,
and i like how you're a valkyrie
that's short hair unbridled lady
head is arcing back and the
strenuous filament of your arm
strums electric the downy soft
with wide hips
and baby,
'
,
'
!
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
The sheep in the nearby pasture
Heard what the cows had done
In the building of their rocket ship
And they too wanted one
A few of them shaved for pocket change
Black market wool brings a hefty price
While some went out to Las Vegas
To try their luck at the roll of the dice
First thing they did with the money
Was to spring for Sherman's release
The only one in the family to go to Harvard
Though it was for experiments on his mind which apparently they fleeced
Right away they noticed something odd about Sherman
Something that just wasn't quite right
But passed it off as genius quirkiness
And let that idea slide by
They told Sherman what it was they wanted
Said he had a mad...um...master plan
All the sheep turned and Baaa'd together
What was that, that he just said?
For weeks all they heard was banging and clanging
From inside their farmers shed
The only activity they saw outside
The massive delivery of Dominos crazy bread
One day the shed doors flew wide open
There stood Sherman as mad as acid rain
No doubt among the sheep in the pasture
He was Bonkers, Loony, Loopy...okay Sherman's insane
As he drug his creation into the open
Not a one in the crowd uttered a word
Till little Bobby Black Sheep spoke up and said
Is that a cows udder?...is that what they think that they just herd?!
Sherman took that moment of bewilderment
To swing onto udder #4
Strapping himself inside of his contraption
And shooting off for the stars
Sherman is still up there circling the planet
Did you hear about the phenomenon in Spain?
Just the other day something amazing there happened
There was the pouring of milk instead of rain...
But we know how that miracle happened
And that it came from the udders galore
Cause when your traveling through space like Sherman
What else would udders be for
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
the fair fleeced lamb lay tranquilized
on the frigid, unforgiving barn floor.
crimeless and chaste, his crude caress penalized
her until she desired to live no more.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
~
where’s the rain
to save the day?
the silo empty,
the barn no hay.
the only pouring
we have seen
is from the counter
down the street.
gin and beer and
old Jim Beam,
the bar is full,
but glass is empty.
our men are weeping,
children hungry!
these fields that yielded
harvest plenty
under sweat of
daddy's brow,
now they’ll try’n
take my home;
state moves in
to steal our peace,
won’t leave us ’lone,
till we’ve been fleeced.
send a draught to
quench our pain;
end this drought with
drenching rain!
this to you we pray...
*“pour from heaven’s door,
indulge us with an inundation;
from the bounty of your store
deluge us with a liquidation”*
oh, keeper of
these cloudless skies,
send sweet rain
to wet these eyes!
for the lost ones
in this town,
to save this family,
save this farm,
from heartless souls
who mean us harm.
i am just a poor boy
whose cup has all run dry
no where else to turn,
nothing left to try.
flow in torrents,
pour in sheets,
send libations,
bring relief;
send the rain to
flood the street.
oh master of
the ocean deep,
pour your liquid,
pour your gold,
a’fore our children
grow too old.
no more saving
for some rainy day,
this to you we pray...
*“pour from heaven’s door,
indulge us with an inundation;
with bounty from your store
deluge us with a liquidation”*
~
*post script
the Western US is experiencing a four-year drought of
epic proportions and with water in such short supply,
family farms are burning up in the heat
with grave consequences looming large
on the not-so-distant horizon.
we witnessed this arid devestation
first hand a week ago traveling through
North and Central California, and
felt in just the tiniest way the crush
of water shortages at all her state
campgrounds. beautiful Shasta Lake
was dry except for a small stream
running through the lake bed...
how very sad; she is not the California
i remember in our last visit.*
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
Shout from the rooftops
those whispers in your ear
that schizos may speak
and their followers hear.
That nutcase Messiahs
and self-proclaimed Lords
may reign in the splendor
of ****** wards.
That demons be exorcised,
angels beheld,
and the Savior restore
what the Garden expelled.
That shepherds spin yarns,
flocks be well-fleeced
with no charlatan spared
from the reign of the beast.
Until virgins are satisfied
trimming their wicks,
and we see by that light
that we all need a fix.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
To Be Governed
“To be GOVERNED is to be watched, inspected, spied upon, directed, law-driven, numbered, regulated, enrolled, indoctrinated, preached at, controlled, checked, estimated, valued, censured, commanded, by creatures who have neither the right nor the wisdom nor the virtue to do so. To be GOVERNED is to be at every operation, at every transaction noted, registered, counted, taxed, stamped, measured, numbered, assessed, licensed, authorized, admonished, prevented, forbidden, reformed, corrected, punished. It is, under pretext of public utility, and in the name of the general interest, to be placed under contribution, drilled, fleeced, exploited, monopolized, extorted from, squeezed, hoaxed, robbed; then, at the slightest resistance, the first word of complaint, to be repressed, fined, vilified, harassed, hunted down, abused, clubbed, disarmed, bound, choked, imprisoned, judged, condemned, shot, deported, sacrificed, sold, betrayed; and to crown all, mocked, ridiculed, derided, outraged, dishonored. That is government; that is its justice; that is its morality."
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
You see that woman’s frown line talking?
It has limbs of its own- arms, legs alike.
“I’ve have been fleeced”- it moans incessantly.
Why may I ask Madam?
“I had asked for breakfast in bed. They served me devil in a teacup instead.”
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
in the twain o' nite and morn
stirs the bright crepitus
o' your illuminate
joints and
the arcuate
motes of sleeping
curves enter my body
the smallest and loveliest
fingers painting silence
shivering 'neath the
loaded quiver o'
your mouth's
prime jewel,
those lashes
startling the
organized clot
of stifled air in
the certain pocket
of my uglywithoutyou
room, and the beauty drunk
and darkness fleeced marble
of your kisslonging head peaks
out suddenly crawling the lonely
chasm between our lips and crushes
absolute sexluscious ribbons pink set
onto my own vein penultimate lips and,
'
'
'
'
'
'
,
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:06 PM UTC
The spirits of the dead.
They're fleeced as naked sheep.
They hang cold and desperate.
Howling over desolate isolated moorland.
Screaming on the gale.
The linger just a moment, where man nor beast exist.
This ethereal racket, caused by the sharp and biting gorse bush.
It's scratching wounds, deep into grey shadows,
Left overs of spoiled souls.
(C) Livvi
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
If I won the lottery
I'd invest, in ancient pottery
Not the Ming, or Tang
but definitely, in Shang
Dishes, round not square
with crockery to spare
Bone I hear is best
if it's got a family crest
Wishing my fortunes to expand
my oh my, that'd be so grand
Collecting every piece
hoping, I'm not fleeced
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC
there began almost a pale nothing
fleeced in nearly night
whose stomach
was vastly
muttering a strain
of ivory music
a tune
like
unlike
winter
like summer more
slatterned
a various
sometimes
woman with
2
apples for cheeks
tanned rosy
at clattering
slop
of my palm
and the wig
of barelySpring's
cloying
vagrant
smell
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
You are not an original poet
Those who know classic works know it
For bid or shame that you would play the game
Act like it's you, when all who know you, know it
So hide and seek your name be true
But fair thee well your story tell
That he who lies are full of them
It's the poor fool's you've fleeced who just don't know it, so
Shame Shame on You for your decent for you are no lover or a proper poet.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
Sometimes I imagine the cancer spreading within me. My loosened skin as its boundaries. I stole the same image from a storm I watched last May. Darkness overtaking the bluest of skies. For a while they seemed harmonious. Like the conjunction of lovers, long apart, retracing their paths to the open arms of the other. The billowy edges of the first and largest black cloud curled over the sun, a thick fleeced blanket devising the world from the universe. I remember its anger and thought myself ridiculous to believe in some sort of partnership with such opposite things when tears so quickly fell from the sky.
Now I sit in this piss-stained seat within an oxymoronic room of sterilized air and droning walls. I pretend that I can feel the edges of the malignant monster inside of me, consuming my material under its trembling lip, angry and cold. Sitting, the cancer was waiting to lower me into the earth in triumph for its return.
I used to be afraid. Like the first time I knew I was alive, for sure.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
would , maybe someone , inform me as to why
fleeced in morning's fiercely nimble glow
a flower might, undead, livid, 'gainst the neat
stomach of sky crackle stunningly minute
yellow
and roaring
with intense fragility
be right next to my hip and with the 2 red, and a black, dots
of an ant scurrying across the span of a barely petal;gleaming
deliriously apt with colour)smile, a wan, nolips grin and
that that it might be Spring in a whole bright day clothed
in a seamless cowl of grey; the general blade of sky might,
like a leaf of grass, leap from heaven into my chest
staggers
;
tumbling into domineering noon) and that I: ridiculously living, might
witness such an instant incredibly perfect. Dying
?
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 5:18 PM UTC