"herding" poems
i was born with a scent
of wild flowers in the air,
the smell of wood-fires,
and the cooking ***
I was born to be proud
of the blacked badge
of my skin.
my first tears flowed
from the sting of smoke
from the pain of the thorns
in my naked small feet.
How i hated , at first
the long hours, herding cattles
Shift_But i loved the hills
And the river-when it gave me fish!
i learned to listen
To the song of birds
To watch the colours
of down and sunset
I learn to love
The land that gave me
my own black badge
The badge of Africa
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.
But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
***** nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.
The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,
the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Despair, lose all hope
that’s what the sign says at the gates of hell
and at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center the sign says
Be kind to our customers who are waiting and suffering.
Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.
A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said
is Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 6:00 AM UTC
What is a Father?
Is he a Person?
A Thing?
Or a Feather?
What is his Life?
Is it Carefree and Spontaneous
Or Tormenting and Strife?
Who is he in which a Person could know?
What are his Abilities which only he could show?
Does he Work, for the sake of a Family?
Or sleeps and pigs around, being a Menace and Lazy?
Who could this man be, to the Eyes of Children,
A Hard Rock or a Soft Leaven?
Does he Pile over Everyone
And takes Control?
Is he the Eagle, the Head of the Nest,
Playing a very important Role?
Does he impersonate Father Christmas
With all his Treats and Gifts?
Is he a Lover, with a Strong Heart for *******
Hugging greatly and giving Love-Lifts?
Does he Pray,
Or Face-Religious?
Or a Braver,
Or Spontaneous?
Is he a Disciplinarian
Wherewithin all Members under him
Are tuned to his Command?
Or a Freester,
Who gives his Kids their darling Freedom
Without any Demand?
Does he care,
For the People and Loved Ones around him?
Is he Provocative,
Uncaring for Anyone behind his Dim?
Mostly, he is the Grass,
Herding the Future for his Offspring?
Or the Lamb,
Stubborn and very Unwilling?
And so, whatever he is,
Or does,
A Father is a Father,
Anonymous or Specific
I wouldn't mind.
Just as long as he has
HEART, STRENGTH, FREEDOM and PROSPERITY,
KINDNESS, BRAVE, PROTECTIVE
And RELIABILITY.
I'll be Glad and Content. As any Son should be.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
They set off from white rocks,
red geraniums, blue tile,
and let the green sea
lift and drop their ships far above the white foam waves.
The stony islands that were home
were swallowed in minutes by the hungry Atlantic
but they hunted the big fish,
the giant whales with human eyes
who rolled and sang and swam
in oceans a continent away.
They came from Sao Jorge, Sao Miguel
Faial, Pico, Terceira, Horta -
Nine island emeralds set in a black volcanic chain,
neither of the old country nor the new:
Halfway there and halfway gone -
secret jewels of the Portuguese sailors.
They sailed into unknown waters,
south around tropical shores
where dragons smoked and writhed on the rocks
and birds with brilliant red and yellow plumage
rose in clouds around their heads.
Then north, and north, north again
to colder waters
where sea lions barked and lunged
at the strange massive wooden beast
that coursed the waters,
strung with brown bodies swaying
on the lines and cursing the sails.
North still they swept
casting contemptuous eyes on
the cheap turquoise waters and monstrous slow turtles
of the Sea of Cortez.
Coming up from the desert, past the palms and the yucca,
the Joshua tree and Spanish daggers,
they chased their smooth grey prey,
riding the vast Pacific on their wooden island,
herding the leviathans onto their spears,
adventurers with an audience of only
gulls and sky and seal.
Until they sailed too close one day
to a rock-strewn shoreline
and saw the golden hills.
Gnarled oaks like grandmothers from home
with orange poppy jewels at their feet,
missions strung like beads in a ruby marked rosary.
The boats slowed, ****** in by a Scylla of soil
rich and brown and loamy
waiting to be seeded with grapes and apricots
peaches, avocados, lettuce, alfalfa,
fertile and heavy with sweet promise.
And the whales sang and the lions barked and the gulls cried
but the sailors were entranced, encharmed, ensorcelled.
The treacherous sea, the mysterious deep, the stony jewels of home,
called and wept
and waited in vain for the sailors
- beached and grounded -
cutting not waves but earth,
tracking seasons not whales,
seduced by dirt.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
i can feel spirits of tortured souls
they can crawl right up my spine
they won't let me let the horror go
their suffering is all mine
i can hear voices of murdered dreams
like a ringing in my ears
i ask god why i'm serving screams
i ask why i'm herding fears
i see fingerprints of ****** grips
crimson smudges paint my wall
i write down their troubled scripts
every time those spirits call
audio recording
https://soundcloud.com/gary-loftis/spirits-of-empathys-burden
if you like my poetry, like my page please
facebook.com/Garyspoetrypage
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
The Slow-Bullet
by rgpage
In the early days of Viet Nam
the American draft was going strong.
Young men in their prime of life,
were forced and herded into world strife.
A generation of America’s best, were
then brought home and laid to rest.
Wall Street smiled, the money flowed
the “fat Cats” called it money owed.
In towns and cities big and small,
families waited, worried, and cried.
Groups appeared, dissention grew.
"Mothers grab your son’s and hide."
There were those who felt their duty strong,
to take the leap toward blood and strife
with McNamara herding them along.
Known to the grunts as “Mac the Knife.”
The madness grew to a global scale
with those that were for and those against.
In bombing, selective targets became the norm
keeping the rest of the world from harm.
With those who didn’t feel their duty strong,
a path to the north they took.
They packed what they could, burned their cards
and paused for one last look.
With this some parents felt relief,
while others felt the disgrace. Of seeing
the grief so many went through after
having their futures erased.
The war took over 58,000 American lives;
men and women both, (before we flew away).
Wall Street got their wages for blood, with
broken lives in pain, many thousands more would pay.
With thousands more that were yet to be lost, after returning home.
Physically and mentally scarred, even those seeming
perfectly whole. Then saying good-by to the ones they loved
in their own special way. They stoically waited for the slow-bullet to come to finally take them away…
Suicide has taken 3 or 4 times the lives than the war took. My heart cries for every last one of them…Robert G. Page, Viet Nam Vet. ‘66-’67.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
FINGERTIP
( for Shyam )
as a little child
I travelled
up & down the Ganges
its sister Yamuna..her brother Brahmaputra
their names
upon my tongue
my voice calling them
into being
awed by their sound
mantras for my mind
riding their waters
in the little ship
of a
fingertip
traveling only as a child
can
now
here I am
still that child
become this man
still offering
my devotion
from the Dev Bhoomi I come
tracing Shiva's hair
from here to there
"Ganga Ma...Ganga Ma!" I cry
herding the river
from Gaumukh
watching her
spread her fan
into the Bay of Bengal and beyond
still sailing the same old
fingertip ship
a bit old and
battered now
soon I will stand
on Indian soil
call all my childhood rivers
to me
bow as they
flow into me
their names
upon my tongue
calling upon
all the Gods to come
as
one
"OM!"
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
childhood memories are
speckled with the scent of summer sunsets
formed with the bonds of friendship
and late night promises with giggling faces
childhood memories are
climbing crooked trees in the spring
the smell of freshly cut grass
and sleeping in until 10
childhood memories are
snowflakes blinding the humongous ski goggles
pressed against the large frames of thick glasses
and the promise of hot chocolate by a cozy fire
childhood memories are
marred by the yelling from downstairs
tightened faces and clenched fists
shattered glass and crimson splattered on beige tiles
childhood memories are
earbuds plugged tight in small ears
books clutched in trembling hands
herding confused brothers up creaking steps
childhood memories are
sadness leaking from the soul
withdrawal into the land of silence
an unhealthy obsession with escaping into fiction
childhood memories are
nostalgic
terrifying
what shaped me to be me
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
building purist æsthetic
proselytizing solar-powered heliolatry
commemorating historic concert
sensing dark forces
fokken lekker antwoord
pumping sensory overload
featuring high-tech dee-jay
admiring gelato micro-truck
laxing laying lazing
"doing something nasty"
continuing quality content
entering another cathedral
journeying without borders
"exactly one year
since visiting vatican"
appreciating full-time gigasphere
awaiting pyongyang performance
depicting unlikely crowdsurfer
foreseeing exponential improvements
furthering esoteric agenda
sensing profound incompatibility
data-mining people's infidelities
anticipating futuristic caffeine
perfecting invisible propaganda
researching mind-control techniques
polishing psycho-social weaponry
sensing social embargo
flourishing frantic fanfare
admiring longitudinal monument
parodying marketing slogans
cycling through österreich
eyeing dystopian disneyland
streaming crosswords extended-play
herding glass kittens
deleting idiosyncratic fragment
loremipsum-ing laconic loudmouth
receiving ultramodern telegram
eigo-ga wakarimasu ka?
guzzling duck-fat fries
encouraging panic selling
(juxtaposing past incarnations)
getting black-and-white privilege
renewing boutique account
relishing cinema poutine
re-entering hibernation mode
opening old windows
continuing zoo motif
absquatulating excessive excesses
nullifying originality claims
proliferating protean persona
disappearing sidewalk alphabet
shrugging opprobrious moments
enjoying vertical alignment
re-entering cyberpunk paradise
approaching island sun
soaring beyond monoliths
trivializing extraneous argy-bargy
decreasing character limits
dumping generic accounts
uglifying commit message
escaping into idiosyncracy
moonshining great lake
exuding idiosyncratic propaganda
living nineties' dreams
making occidental cuisine
envisioning idiocratic president
expropriating your time
ascending homely helix
singing fat lady
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
I thought you could see through my disguise
See through the charade of everyday
I thought you were different
From the others
The ones who tell me to
Get up
Get moving
Or get out of the way.
While everyone else was herding past,
You offered me your hand
You were the first to tell me
I was worth it.
But that was your game,
Your play.
I wasn't special, not to you.
You led me along
And I enjoyed the ride,
Not realizing that it made me
Just like the
Rest of them.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
This Morning
I woke this morning to a beautiful dawn, the dew wet grass shining in the already bright sun
The Lady has blessed me once more
My tumblers run and dart, spin and frolic my private acrobats
Soft sweet calls and ankle swarms and my large cattle dog gently but with insistence herding me into the kitchen and my duties,
My Eastern altar is glowing with the suns rising
and wrapped 'round with the grasses and flowers of summer
Incense rises and the candle flickers as I ask for Her protection for these... my wandering one's today
The kettle's boiled and the day's tea is made and blessed and seven dishes filled and emptied.
The sun fully risen now and the house stirs family sounds as heavy steps wander above and radio plays softly
Round me now still piles of soft satin slick fur breathing soft and deep
noses all counted and accounted for
bellies rubbed and ears all tickled
7 foreheads softly touched and charmed
and all are safe and sound this day in our Lady's care.
I wander the garden now caressing those blooms that require some extra essence,
All that's needed is water and sun and love
through each touch comes life and will and care and thus the wheel turns and the garden thrives
Lilac, Lily and Rose and Ivy abounds and the garden thrives
I walk now from the front to the back door carefully sweeping
my chants softly sung
and the smudge bundle of sage and roses lit and smoking
salt scattered and swept and once more my small realm is safe
My Lady guard this house and all who dwell and those who would stay
I trust my most valued Companions are in your keeping
My Family My life are in your keeping.
I celebrate my life withing your Circle and my Joy within your keeping
All of this and things unspoken Joy and Light and Love
My Lady, Bless me.
Solita -2007
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
The Lung.
The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests.
As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces..
The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces.
Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world
that is most unearthly to there reason.
Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp.
The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung, the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row.
Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night.
A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young.
Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
Barrels of oil painted smooth in acryllic
fill up the cracks with a feeling
spit out the money to feed the machine
Fair if it's toiling kids
draped along spoiled villians
immersed to serve the version of a billionaire's dream
eat the rich
Try me after I've been taught
I could've bought my chain
I would've lost my name
I should've dropped my shame facade
to play the game
We grew the youthful breath of heaven from the clay beneath our bones
imbued and innervated
aided you and drew the oath to play within the zone
circle reverie treasury burdens
bury the feathery,
herding squarely to fame - put on a show
eat the rich
dare me
you and yours invaded
bated breath had sung belated effort, whistle "death has reared it's head
at our expense so grab a sword.
We can war this **** straight out of this ole ditch
and fix whatever ***** gone wrong with it
with grit and sense
and build a fence"
Forget the soil your roots are grown in,
if you want to.
bask in shadow
of the weight of trust and decency
impeding our advances to your winner's table
fabled robin hoods with internets
guess who's deft enough let you know through every filter
left for us we may upset your dinner guests
let em know what's on the menu
eat the rich
let em know
The irony in learning
how to burn the fuel that kills you
after all the warning signs were there
sound familiar? it's a slog
burnin up, they'll crawl around
and find a meal on common ground
try the light show one more time
maybe that'll work
"The serfs are like a herd you see
they can't be riled along without a sermon
Burden them with silks and styles
worry them toward money piles"
Remind them of the fire they've been turning
Analogies aside I must abide by me and mine
but I've still got my eye on anything
...concerning
eat the rich
with discretion I guess.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 7:35 AM UTC
Birds own the day
Bats own the night
Birds see in grey
Bats think they're right
At the break of dawn
Both take flight
Until darkness is gone
And we live in light
The beginning of dusk
Spells the end of our luck
Vampire bats steal our blood
Empire gats steal our love
The birds and the bees
Are no match
For the bats in the trees
They drain our youthful creed
And cause our heart to freeze
Until we hear the pleas
Of others being drained
We're glad they're in pain
We want them to be stained
By the nightly game
We've nightshifted into bats
Encouraging a nature nocturnal
It's like herding vampire cats
When the winged war is internal
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
I have to admit
That I immediately knew what the media meant
As I grew up I drew out-
Side lines
Meaning kinds when you omit the 'n' so I'm sent
To set askew a few lies, yes my butterfly knife flies like a feather pen oh I've been
A berserker moving farther
Further herding words heard for war it's forward
But since before he was drafted roughly but justly
Just to sink in ink engrafted ****** because he's
Made for brigades who blockade it to shock it
Force it shoot it and make it play its poor music to Bach it
Oh face it, we rock it
The battalion's out there and they're shouting
I'm silent but they rattle
Yeah my rabble of stallions, they're rowdy
But of course, off course it is not all Norse my love because
They say the other north
Yeah your horizontal course turned up with a
Tincture of madness
And that is the one, single error and I'm glad of it
If you catch it
Maybe a troublemaker by nature but baby a peace speaker missing demeanor
With misdemeanors when getting meaner
But I practice a bit
In an out-there train re-accident be-
Cause the battalion's out there while they're shouting
I'm silent but they rattle rapidly
Yeah my rabble of battle lions rabid
To vaporize vapid rabbits
They're rowdy and
And love is getting much louder than growling it's
It's sounding much louder than growling
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
.*lex lupus / fuchs zwischen wölfe: ******* Mowglí, somehow... death to the pirate, the one-eyed... Dajjal and the "concept" of money... Tom Petty died... Wayne Static died... the media? zero coverage... so... it's not like they care.. but when they do care, i care: in order to not care.*
you do know
that if you keep pushing
the wrong buttons,
the lone wolf phenomenon,
will become a wolf pact,
a lex lupus...
you know that, don't you?
it would take 3 ****** Jihadi
terrorists to take out 71 civilians...
it takes
one lone wolf Norwegian
to take out 69 civilians...
we. are, horde...
**** your little get-together
wine parties...
i'd rather shove a shoe lodged
into a pineapple up my ***
than listen to this sort of ********
better dead,
than having to attempt a death
while. "trying"...
but wolves do not hunt in groups...
well...
some sorry ************ to howl
at the moon!
who did what?
is there any proof?
there isn't any proof?!
so... what's the argument?!
none...
so...
batman lego movie
giggles all over again?
you irritated me,
just to say this much about
falling in love
with Val Kilmer!
lone wolves...
who's who...
Mr. Speaker / Chief Whip?!
it takes about 3 Jihadis...
to **** as many people
as a "lone wolf" Norwegian...
i was just about
to mind the I.Q. test...
wolves don't hunt
outside a pact of a brigade...
wolves are the closest
associate of the velociraptor...
shove a fox among them?
52 people died from
3 Jihadi associates...
Breivik killed 77 people...
see the ratio?
wolves are not solitary
animals...
they have a pact...
foxes... foxes are solitary
creatures...
thought it was the plain said,
otherwise reiteration
of the "already" said obvious;
so no mention of Jihadi
retards?! no? nothing?!
3 Jihadists killed less people
than a single Norwegian...
oh my... oh my my...
please keep these idiots
on the beach, in the desert,
herding sheep or what not...
keep them busy engaged in
harems...
or whatever the **** they
get up to...
please... keep them away from
what is becoming a sensation of:
a boiling kettle.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
saying **** off* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
Innuendoes were woven within each pressure
point of his embrace upon her being, oral
expressions were versed within probing
fingers as they were proficient in understanding.
Stimulating her positions of enjoyment, murmurs
were the braille of his perception, and he read her
well before even a touch was entitled upon.
Waiting moments had counted down to this joining.
As lips wandered like a Shepard herding the feelings of
her body to points she hadn't realized, he collected all her
urges in a inception of gathering dew, that he tasted with
haste. Fingers were a delicacy from her origin to his emotions.
Her breath upon his lips sticky as tongues delivered silent
messages to another's attention, woven silk was moist
between accents of loves intentions. No words were spoken
only the smiles of elation that swam in each others eyes.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
When the government does not lend a hand
To those who work and those who till their land
And they silence their own peoples voices
Making all the wrong federal choices
But maybe my voice is precious to me
Are my eyes the only ones that can see
They are herding us like a shepherds flock
simply running down the time on the clock
to lead us into a massive brainwash
Independence an enemy to squash
so open your eyes before they're sewn shut
Remove the blindfold, it's time to wake up
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Threatened, repressed Inner
Backed into a jagged-glass corner by Outer
As
Hatred is suspended within Inner, on piano wire
stretched too-tight.
Outer is Legion, a communist social-anesthetic
Dominating, binding, and herding Inner
Into that small little corner
The one that forces a Balance to sway
One way
Or another
A torrent, Black
A river, Red
and Inner stands over Outer
No longer Repressed
Hatred
(Over)
Love
Truth
(Over)
Lies
Life
(Over)
All
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
En route from Dharmapuri
To Krishnagiri
Amid the tamarind trees
There goes a flock of sheep
Shaking heads
Jumping merrily
Hither and thither
Behold! there, one man becomes
A flock of sheep
Evolving in to
A black little lamb,
A mother sheep munching on paper
And a goat kicking another one
Among the group
There! a flock of sheep
That has turned in to a man!
Where on earth
Are you?
Wails the flock of sheep
Bleating be..........be......teasingly
Tongue brushing ear lobes
with ruminating saliva
Beside that flock of sheep,
Dragging along a wounded right leg,
Staring at the sky
Standing transfixed,
The shepherd was the other person
He was a memory
Of having been a flock of sheep once...
On each path he treads
A thousand flocks of sheep passes
In joy and mirth
Despite being poor at herding
The one who happened to stop by
Bumping on a lamb that fell down
The photostat of a goat
With burned legs
Lying in the womb of a pregnant sheep
He is sleeping...
Looking at each bird
That flew across the sky
He laments
That they are his lost sheep
Beckoning the crows, sparrows and parrots
The birds in turn fly away
Frightened
As though seeing a hunter
The stick he held
Was mistaken for an arrow
Piercing the ground
His prayers,
Not to let them fall
In to the lakes of the sky
Was blocked by the clouds...
En route from Dharmapuri
To Krishnagiri
Amid the tamarind trees
There, goes a flock of sheep
There, a shepherd !
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
Shielding the devil
whilst angels fall in decay
herding sheep to certain peril
with haste, to no delay
how many voices would it take then o' vile serpent
leading the world to Hell
one giant machine full of robots?
nay human life you so oppress
viewed as migrant pigeons scouring the wasteland for bread crumbs
well murderous fiend, you sir
starved wolves do turn
the ones with knowledge of your sacrilege
they do devour
I pray to be the pack leader one day
I pray
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
.
“The lunatic is on the grass”
Signs don’t really matter
Spelling corrects the mood
Dancing on the scattered blades
My word, he’s such a crazy dude
“The lunatic is on the grass”
Park place settings filter
In silverware and dreams
Sidewalks offer no relief
That’s when the pain excites the screams
“Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs”
Memories grow within the weeds
Flowers cast in sad defeat
Caretakers watch as footprints carve
Barking out orders, then repeat
“Got to keep the loonies on the path”
Herding shadows singular
Days to nights of gloom
Read the writing on the wall
This is the dark side of the moon
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 10:00 PM UTC
Round the path these wraiths walk
paced to keep the gears turning
save for a few this is Lady Justice
her arms holding even the smallest souls
sounds of buzzing and locks clanking
dominate above the incessant chatter
backyard handshakes hidden from prying eyes
dogged deals shaping these shatter lives
and the word of the day is always "waiting"
taking one last look at the hands of time
before that dreaded voice bellows through
then its the cold slap of flash on cement
these veal on twenty three hour lockdown
spinning their tales these jailbird tailors
lying to each other for stolen smiles
each in a different stage of the same life
bathing in the omnipresent light of fireflys
dreaming of a wisp of smoke or a hand stroke
whichever waits for them on the outside
they'd believe in the patience of the buddha
if religion were on their tapered tongues
as it is there's always faces against the glass
eyes peeled to savor the brief passing drama
apathetic to the other prison dog's plight
drooling for the next passing hour
as they count them like sheep herding sleep
cleansing their conscience in the communal rainshower
everyone praying for the wings of freedom
to fly them from these sullen gates
the others still suspended in solitude
letting one man tell them when to eat and wake
their voices becoming mere whispers of wind
poets robbed of their rhymes and words
grown accustomed to breathing processed air
measuring their time in months, weeks, and years
locked away with the shadow of their fears
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 9:50 PM UTC