"sheepskin" poems
I was flying home from Denver
and the man next to me ordered 3 double vodkas
slipping the stewardess a hundred bucks
by the end of the flight he was asking me
to come home with him
he had a sheepskin bed throw
that would keep us perfectly warm
this chill winter night
I refused
called him a drunk freak
and giggled when he stumbled down the escalator
and split a **** in his forehead
that cracked like
like Easter
smothered in chocolate frosting
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
4.4k
There is hope beyond a papery pharmacy
that is stocked with ink and sheepskin
The clerk is finicky and silent, and elixirs evaporate
as you browse the papyrus shelves
There is hope beyond this paper pharmacy,
so abandon poisons crafted by pen-laden fingers
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
I remember it well
As if it were yesterday
We geared up and set sail
And embarked upon unfamiliar waves
It was I captaining the vessel
With One-eyed Sven my quarter master
He could cut throats and roll pretzels
His weapon of choice was his bow caster
This wasn't a mission of plundering
That alone left the crew in a state of wondering
No, we weren't looking for buried treasure
But for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
My first mate Mr. Obanion said to me
"Captain are we off course?"
Then my boatswain , Wiley asked sheepishly
"Aren't we going for *** and ******
I looked them in the eye at the same time
"Gentlemen, this ship is headed to Dublin"
"We're going to see a good friend of mine"
"Now get back to your swabbing and scrubbing"
This was an order of business not some sort of cruise
I'm sailing with a ship of one track minded fools
We didn't set out on a vacation of leisure
Were on the hunt for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
I did not mean to keep them in the dark
But they would think less of me
I needed these things
For the women I married
You see we'd been on the rocks
And I know she wanted these items
So I went over the sea with a fine tooth comb
Until I had finally found them
My men had sailed endlessly for months
They were worn down and ragged
Waterlogged and exhausted
While I always came up empty handed
But I had to save my marriage
Salvage my relationship
I knew it would work
If I gave my love these gifts
We reached the golden, calling shore
Of the beautiful Dublin
From the River Liffey and headed north
My friend Seamus let me come in
I came out shaking his hand
I was satisfied with my purchase
Until I was questioned by my men
What it was we came for in our searches
I had to show them, I was under scrutiny
I pulled out two stagecoach seat covers and a pair of pants
They were enraged and called mutiny
They blindfolded me and bound my hands
Now I'm marooned on some unmapped island
And I see my ship riding that horizon
This will sadden my wife, oh how it will upset her
She will never receive her sheep skin seat covers or her Scandinavian leather
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
I'm snuggled up,
all warm and cozy...
wrapped in your lovin' arms,
full body to body,
your leg over mine,
feelin' your breath
on my bare shoulder,
hearin' you softly breathe,
feelin' your heartbeatin'
along with mine-
My dreams are of
you and I...
we're in our home,
in front of the fireplace,
snaps and crackles
comin' from the fire,
we're makin' love
on a sheepskin plush carpet,
candles a'glow on the mantel,
country music playin'
softly in the room,
the scent of roses
in the air-
I awaken feelin'
satisfied and happy...
then I realize I'm in my own home,
my own bed,
all alone,
no candles in sight,
country music playin'
on my own little stereo,
rose scent
non-existant,
room full of daylight-
I roll back over,
tryin' to recapture
that dream~
I guess, I must have been...
Dreamin' In The Daylight!
2007
COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey,
~Angelmom~
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
Memories of past magnificence
A pall now hangs over her
Echoes of screams in the west
Decomposed disillusion
Inhumanity
Insecurity
Split personality
Search warrants for the haves
Kicked in doors for the have nots
Mr. Officer……Mi innocent
The muzzle of your gun has me reticent
From slavery our ancestors did run
In the streets the blood of my countrymen run
When will di trouble dun
She has been battered and scarred
Her name feathered and tarred
While the gleam in her eyes is diminished
She is by no means finished
Still the heartbeat of a nation
Vibrant, trendsetting, schizophrenic
Sometimes there is panic in this state of chronic
Some more equity is required in my city
The financial capital
What about human capital?
Some deemed worthless
Existing in communities of sacrificial lambs.
Others are sacred cows…..Wolves in sheepskin
Who pollute the air with noxious verbiage
White collar facades hide evil intent.
She will rise again.
If we have the will and the way
My city……KINGSTON!!!!!
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
These are some beautiful things:
A baby's first smile,
A bird in the wild,
A bride on the aisle,
A love that's worthwhile,
Warm wind in the trees,
The salt in the seas,
The buzz of spring bees,
Winter's first freeze,
A loved one's laugh,
A child's handmade craft,
An actor's autograph,
A newborn calf,
The sunrise in the sky,
And the sunset alike,
And kind passersby,
The stars in the night,
The wind in one's hair,
Sweet spring on the air,
A mother's care,
A child's prayer
The color of skin,
True feelings within,
The sound of violins,
And feeling sheepskin,
A book in my hands,
My feet in the sand,
Stories of another land,
And the promised land,
The leaves in the fall,
Mountains like walls,
Sounds of a waterfall,
The smell of rainfall,
Peace after war,
And petrichor,
And sand on the shore,
And a winning score,
Peace at night,
And perfect light,
And a first sight,
And a flying kite,
A smile so dear,
A kiss so clear,
A loved one near,
And a new come year,
And hope that everything will be okay
These are the beautiful things
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
RHCP, my stomach aches
i confuse what could be hunger
with weakness.
another long evening
my last smoke
went missing. my hand
shakes
violently.
I haven't slept in days.
I search for something.
Will someone catch the paper I've shredded?
My heart's blood spattered across sheepskin
skin torn asunder
hands clenched under
the table
Stop judging me and staring so critically
stare lovingly into my eyes and notice my effortless elegance
I lie when I say I don't want to be noticed.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
Chasey calls them the dead mama blues.
There's sadness, she says, mine has a scent to it;
Despair, a shabby **** who mugs me under my covers
On winter days at dawn,
Catatonia, which only a messy bed,a bong,a bag of Cheetos and a boy can cure,
And then way down from there,
Squatting *** close to the ground,
Smoking Gauloises in the dark,
Live the dead mama blues.
The only cure for the dead mama’s, Chasey explains,
Is a blood rare steak and Etta James greatest hits on vinyl,
Played quiet through the sweet spot of the night,
All the lights off, the dishes done and dry.
Helps if a sister has a slim hip man to dance with, she said,
So if you ain’t runnin’, the grill’s on me.
Come by sober any time after moon rise, Chasey yawned,
Cause this girl could use a shoulder and a polite hand.
And bring your slippers, she said
Easier to shuffle over **** in sheepskin, plus
We might go up on the roof later on
And smoke some of my cubans for a while.
Door will be open, so please don’t ring,
Hell what am I saying, you know the path.
Chasey yawned again, a big one,
Waited a few seconds because there was nothing else to say
And hung up the phone with a sigh.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
Hey, Superstar!
Yeah, you - Indie Kid! Sure you are. You strut around as though all
it takes
is
a few too many Wombats Badges,
Converse, Ripped Jeans (Add one addiction to New York, and, of course, the necessary)
Stupid f#cking Nose Rings and a Drop-Dead-FAG exterior. Name three songs the Ramones wrote and I might not rip that shirt right off your back.
You pretend to love festivals but really, you’re just Keeping Up Appearances; we all know that - like you’re some bad reality show. (Even MTV wouldn’t touch you. There. I said it.)
And then
There is her: a carbon copy eyeliner addict in her
Stupid stupid stupid! boyfriend’s
F#CKING C-H-E-C-K-E-R-E-D SHIRT
(And the tunnel she stole from the girl that started this.)
Don’t even chat to me about red-head and dip-dye.
And when did AC/DC become your social suicide?
You harp on about individual, rap on about original, well excuse-me-SIR-ever-so-sorry-MISS-but-dress-yourself-in-sheepskin-because MY GOD IT SUITS YOU BETTER THAN ANY PAIR OF VANS.
Haha. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Baa baa, Indie Sheep, have you lost your mind?
‘Cause your personality at least seems to have gone for a wander.
And come back, in a FASHION -
Tarred in fake love for Nirvana and feathered with the only fatefellshortthistimeblink-182yoursmilefadesinthesummer song you know.
Feathers? Really? I just told you that you ought to be woolly!
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:23 AM UTC
when forts were places without rules and they weren't uncommon and they just were,
when school was a morning activity and an afternoon activity and punctuation was more
important than the sentences themselves,
when I could sit on the sheepskin rug, skin glowing in the light from the incandescent
bulbs that are now almost impossible to find,
when Daddy's piggybacks were the highest I could ever possibly imagine I'd be, and the slide back down
was vegetables instead of dessert,
when superiority meant winning tag and soccer and having the best lunch,
when teachers didn't have first names or a life outside of class and to see them in the grocery store was
a bit of panic and a bit of pleasure,
when family friends meant a bunch of adults who hugged you and gave you candy as a political ****
you!" to your parents,
when sports were easy and not gendered,
when TV was good and didn't try to teach you anything, and then later when it was bad and still taught
you nothing,
when bedtime was three hours after a nap,
and when sitting up straight wasn't a remembered idea after four hours of slouching in a computer chair.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
An after midnight wolf
lives as a sheep by day,
amongst opposites
he sees through
sheep’s clothing
and moralizes through
insecurities,
though inaccurate,
accusations man
a marionette,
a wolf in sheep’s clothing
can manipulate but
is easy to forgive,
an after midnight wolf
can ruin his sheepskin,
and have follicles run dry,
alcohol and anger
and selfish malevolence
over compassion, thought and
apathetic benevolence,
the sun can divide strong from weak,
an after midnight wolf lashes
and drinks
and lashes,
regrets and lacks morals
yet lacks intent
only listens to his mind
and not his heart,
he sheers himself
with broken bottles
and it takes a while
to grow back
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
I’m a fan of my own poetry
I think it is most fine
I cogitate on every word
I swallow every line
Of all the words I’ve written
I hold each poem dear
No matter stones that you might throw
Nor how rude your Brooklyn cheer
I’d rather read my words of wit
Upon a restroom wall
Than Suffer Will and Chaucer’s
Works; inside some fancy hall
Folks today never talk like that
That train left long ago
So give me five my brother
Make it high; or make it low
Come share my homespun wisdom
I don’t promise it will rhyme
But you won’t need a college sheepskin
To interpret every line
I write words plain and simple
So a child of nine or ten
Can enjoy every story
As he reads them in the den
And I don’t need no critic
To explain or to expand
What the words meant when I wrote them
Because they’re already plain
If I never sell a single book
Well that will be just fine
For I’m a fan of my own poetry
And will read you every line
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:57 PM UTC
As we travel
through the hills and valleys
the calms and the storms
The words
strewn and carefully placed
Lead each of us to experience
His joy
Her heartaches
His regret
Her boasting
There is one here who wails
Suggesting she suffers from slings and arrows
When
in fact
Her wounds are self inflicted
She begs mercy
But deserves only disdain
She is a maurauder
the quintessential wolf in sheepskin
Her only comfort comes from
licking
and
*******
the
bones
Of the few and fair she pledged protection
lying a tangled mass
a macabre resemblance of
pick up sticks
in her corrupt cage of corpses
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
She tells you there is a hurricane inside my head
And how my pupil is not the eye of the storm
Agitation creeps underneath the layers of my skin
She is sure that I am trouble (or troubled)
Obviously, I am a thief in the night
I am stealing you away, after all
And she explains to your sister that I am the wolf in sheepskin
Just waiting to devour
I tell her I don’t understand what it is I did wrong
She tells me to exam myself once more and recalculate all my flaws
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
My dad takes me to the hospital on his bike.
It’s icy and he wears his sheepskin gauntlets
and I’m grateful to shelter behind him
secure in his familiar gruff intolerance.
This is not the first time he’s taken TOIL for me
and his frustration radiates through his layers
but this two-of-us space is still delicious,
still precious for its rare warmth.
And he parks, and we dismount like John Wayne,
and the wall of his leather back takes the lead
as I stride into outpatients in his impatient wake,
making demands for his boy from the nervous staff
and taking relief from the update on my progress
and for the scar that gives me some hope of distinctiveness
and a source of stories for years to come.
Stories with my dad.
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 11:58 AM UTC
the wind whisked away the kite
with a whipping force abrasive to chill reddened cheeks
went away went away the kite flew free
saucy clouds white with ****** of whim
the airy attitude elevates the aesthetics
small fall eyes chris crinkling in winter weathering the biting air
hidden by a ski cap and sheepskin innocence
the white knuckle grip shadowed by the fluttering fragile flurries
white the purest closeting the sadness at home
between father and son
love unrequited
engorge on the winter scene
but do not venture near
for families are the greater fear
not a crack will you see in day
and o' they do go out and play
but tarry neither close nor far
pretending supernova star
for they are safe to watch to learn
because all families end in turn
the dark winter sphere gorges
at any shine found so gorgeous
mood reflects a cold solstace glow
happiness you are struck down low
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
you stainless steel
stain-maker.
a hate-lump of drums, wicked.
stick it too your browbeat
widget
of precise niggling...
ink links -
to kerosene. and scribe farce
for the disabled.
but wrap it up in
' what's up ? ' .
but
get unstuck
on
other people.
sheepskin
your grey wolf. and -
leap shins and fair maidens.
skip **** that's too
mythic.
reel-in your best
wishes.
for weak wishes
ditch *******
So wish strong;
and
all day long,
you should rob
lightning
and come
wit
it !
be
exactly
the right wrong thing
to catch
fire
most likely.
[ so dig it ]
hide your feather in your cap
where your head
might be.
and your macbeth
has a
happenstance
for a sequel
and a meaning.
be in-betweening
and lost
chapters.
[ be these
things ]
but bring the
laughter.
last about a day
and i got somethin'
fo' ya
still immaculate.
just lean back
a bit.
and that'll be the bit
you're
after.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
It is 1826, and last time I heard from him was 7 years ago.
“I will be back, mother” he promised in his military attire.
The worst part about a broken promise is voiding a word of its meaning.
The rifle that killed my son murdered the word ‘back’;
I do not trust the milkman when he says he will be back with my change.
I do not trust the government when it says it has a back-up plan.
I do not trust my husband when he says he has my back.
It is 1826, and last time I felt good looking in the mirror was 25 years ago.
“You look beautiful”, my husband said but he wasn’t looking at me.
I saw his eyes escaping mine and drifting to the unknown lands of easy days .
a walk back home with shoes that fit,
a dinner table with bread that isn’t stale,
a bed with soft sheepskin that doesn’t scratch the wounds opened from the death of a loved one.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
Don't you dare fall in love with me
I'll hurt you.
For selfish reasons
I'm a wolf clothed in sheepskin
Don't let me get underneath yours
I come not from a broken past
But something's happened within
A heart that avoids everything
I'll lure you in
You'll be my taste test
Chewed on and spat out
Discarded cud on the mud
Don't you dare fall in love with me
Cause I'm not broken
And can never be fixed
I'm a rose with thorned stems
Hold me and you'll bleed
Let me go...
Let me go
It's better for us.
If that's so
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
There's a time machine whirring in my head
that needs no dials or crystals.
I shut my eyes and whoosh I’m off to tour my universe.
I am five eating sherbet
nurse-brought to ease the ache
where tonsils lately flared and burned.
A sheepskin's offered at the high school gym.
Hands swirl pressing ink into paper
that binds a home to me and me to labor.
I toss Dad a curve and it snaps in his glove.
We sip Boston Coolers on the stoop.
I watch a shovel of earth fall to his casket.
Checking the mirror I escape the garage
steering past farms where ancestors whisper,
“Welcome home, son, won’t you stay awhile? ”
Glad for the offer I cannot accept, I drive on.
My machine can fast forward too
and the future beckons like Odysseus’s Sirens -
promising pleasures and hidden perils.
Next month’s journey to Anasazi lands
is already mapped and scheduled
and we are camera ready.
After some future dusk
I will join the ancient ones in the past tense,
but for now, undaunted by submerged rocks
I advance steadily toward the Sirens’ song.
There is a time machine whirring in my head.
You have one too.
There is much to see – and time is dear.
Come ride with me!
June, 2006
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Oh, what a suit;
what fine noble thread,
below blinding pearly whites
and such a nice hair of head.
"Lose a little now to gain twice as much later.
Don't be a dope," (schmuck, fool, sucker.)
That's what he said through sharpened teeth.
I should've known better than to believe a single thing.
A wolf invited himself inside and talked me into buying his sheepskin suit, but it turns out that he was a fox disguised as a wolf in sheep's clothing, and so I bought the wolf's skin too.
"A two-for-one deal,
whaddaya say?"
I can't believe I fell for a walking cliché.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
Sorry! Oh, little sons of the Divine,
Born into this callous land of vices
That prides on and on on a’himsa,
And a wolf-in-sheepskin democracy.
On this land of your nativity--your due,
Nurture yourselves as good humans,
Staying away from the bug of hatred,
To serve it ‘n to transform it for good.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC