"shepherdess" poems
Keep up thy vigil, dimpled shepherdess!
Gift night a lantern light to guide lost stars
Strayed from the flock, treaty with tenderness
Soft grazing grounds in heaven's nebulas,
Look low for lone stars fallen from on high,
Feasting on kindling tree-tops laced in cloaks
Of lily blossomed snowy dew drop sighs
Billowed from scattered cushion clouded smokes,
Look further still beneath the ice-fringed eaves
Of gold-spun thatched roofs dotted down the lane,
Footfall echoes stolen by kingly thieves
Triumphantly majestic in their rain:
Look last for shadow framed in windowed light
Keeping thy lonely vigil through the night.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
~
a crystal cradle slowly falls,
from an indigo sky;
coyote’s distant howl,
blends his primal song,
with the whoot, whoot of the owl;
desert minstrels, keeping beat,
with cricket and cicada’s chorus.
above, a dark horse grazes,
in a field of ancient stars;
and below, encroaching mists
gather in the waving grasses,
crouching... waiting to devour,
all who venture near.
the endless whisperings,
of the brook, stream of
ageless waters, tell of tales
of distant ice and snow,
far above these thirsty plains.
aurora’s blend their magic,
their enchanting flame,
dancing in the rising ethers;
mesmerizing sleepy eyes,
a shepherdess is lulled away;
transported by her distant dreams.
dawn’s approach she fails to hear,
’til it's much too late;
when songbirds of the desert,
now seated in this orchestra,
sing her sleeping soul awake.
~
*post script.
watching the set of a cradle moon on a late night return from the rolling hills of Central Oregon’s high desert last month prompts just enough lines to keep these images alive, until i am able to give them complete thought and words this morning. aside from fatigue, i love driving at night. 197’s winding crossing down to the Deschutes at Maupin and then it's descent into The Dalles beside a wide Columbia; these, and my longing to be home beside my wife, keep me from sleep driving, alone with my thoughts and imagination. though rare to Oregon, there are times of year when the aurora borealis pushes its way far enough south to be viewed on moonless nights.*
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC
it's nice to know it's not for naught
there's value in what can't be bought
where my plans convene with thought
i invest different kind of plot
honeycomb are to the bees
as madness is to mysteries
and are polite priorities
nectar of insecurities?
the recounted sheep are bleating/(bleeding)
cry of wolf to deaf misleading
as i bray again repeating
every note so self-defeating
thrown about the limbs of trees
chaos with-in-discrepancies
that which we melt just to freeze
wring tangles such as these
my journey is while they sleep
shepherdess lost counted sheep
the edge, again, to fall or leap
for flight first failure grade so steep
My white whale wild in the seas
This ship no sail, nor north agrees
Ever-spurning taste of tease
I am ahabs intricacies
to illusion am i ******
eternally roaming the land
through burning thirst for empathy
-i'm plagued with insecurity
in an old biblical story
mortal glimpsed our father's glory
From that instant's blinding light
was driven mad took his own sight
if i could measure and define
truth and where it draws the line
which cliff faces only mine
encases truly, i am fine
chronic illness violently
supressing luminocity
onlookers hang silently
as ash consume ferocity
speed builds on tracks in my train
I know this is too fast, again
upon myself, 'you dare complain,
without reference to real pain?'
all avert their eyes, refrain
saying nothing is my bane
am i alone and insane?
this focus that i can't explain?
creating reason for my pain
purpose for and by diseased brain
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
At dawn's first light, she awakens,
casting off her grey stone shell.
Her skin reflects Old Sol's blaze,
revealing no sign of age or blemish.
She takes to the tower's spiral staircase,
descending with the timely grace
of Autumn's auburn leaves falling.
To the pier, she walks alone.
She comes to rest on an ivory throne
and casts her gaze upon the mountainside.
Dining on dates and a spectrum of berries
as she solemnly inspects every summit and base.
Sailing down from overhead,
a hunting falcon attempts to catch a view
of the maiden seated on her chiseled cloud.
She neither blinks, nor turns. Eyes set upon the jagged rocks.
Her purpose is frightful, but she continues.
From eras since passed and still to unhatch,
she waits for the mountains to come alive.
Once more, she will tend to her hard-set herd.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
to the fore, no dilly dallying,
no words wasting,
I don't write nursery rhymes,
just relay tales re the peoples
I have met journeying on this
natural good earth
I know, I have met,
Little Bo-Peep,
no fiction she,
she has counted my sheep and I,
hers
she pins and pylons,
her tales on my heart,
beetles, bugs and little boys,
crumbs in the bed,
no bleeding hearts here,
maybe a bandaid
on a boo-boo'd finger
this shepherdess tends her flock
and records their history,
the little foibles that make
life's little tantrums into loving poetry
when I think of her escapades,
I recall well that old Yiddish proverb:
*God could not be everywhere,
so he created mothers...*
and when not tending her babes,
she can bake one hell of a good word cake,
on her island~continent kingdom
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
my chest is full of burning coals / a penitent shepherdess, dreaming / above the slumbering world the moon changes shape / through the waking-world, spring turns to summer / i kneel before the garden in sorrow / one olive in my hand
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 2:11 PM UTC
Swaths of color
bring subjective representations
of objective correlative
puddles sit
collecting in black retinal holes
becoming what we wish
or believe we know
creating ****
to break a never ending cycle
adonis, taken before her day
filth meticulously applied
to create an unknown class
an artifice
a ploy
aimed at degradation
filling broken vessels
drained of all that has been deemed important
now is as good as any moment
timeless all one and the same
spinning girl, the shepherdess
seen all as one
dissolving time and space
an altered aesthetic
flattening planes
all is over
and nothing has ever mattered in the end
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
I love you God, I really do.
I am sure that You would know this better than anyone else.
But as I do love, so do I sin
For in loving you, so do you teach my tender heart to love another
Of mortal being (from dust do we descent, to dust will we descend)
And in love does my weak frame yearn
To be touched
To be caressed
For love turns (in the eye) the heavenly ******
To the hellish *****
From innocent shepherdess
To the alluring temptress
I tremble so when your words do I read in the Book of Truth
For the final judgement will (so) soon be upon me
When I will bow before You
A humble servant, shamed
For you breathed me into the world spotless and pure
And I return tainted, impure
With sins of kinds to many to implore
But then do I read in the same Book of Truth,
Of your love for me and all my breed.
How You,
The tenderest of lords do wield
The rod only to yield
When remorse do this lowly creature's heart fill.
For your love is fair,
Impartial and true
So my love is fair
A creation by You.
And so does this fiery flame that I do feel rages on
Burning me in this world and after
And so I pray to you dear true One,
Let me be her, and she, me
In a union blessed by Your holy grace
For then can I face
You as a man who has loved
And in returning, loved.
May 9, 2011
May 9, 2011 at 9:12 AM UTC
our mother
was not one
to make sounds
above an infant
in another’s
house, no, our mother
our shepherdess
mother
would have us flock
to god’s
epizootic
nostalgias
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
Mary Shepherdess with hair the color of bark
lead your sheep astray;
To the writhered valley deep in the dark
where the demons and witches play.
Little lamb be not afraid
your mistress is near;
don't listen to what she may say
she is Fear.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
Honeycomb are to the bees,
as madness is to mysteries;
and are polite priorities
nectar of insecurities?
The recounted sheep are bleating/(bleeding),
cry of wolf to deaf misleading;
as i bray again repeating,
every note so self-defeating.
Thrown about the limbs of trees,
chaos with-in-discrepancies;
that which we melt just to freeze
wring tangles such as these.
My journey is while they sleep;
a shepherdess lost counted sheep;
the edge, again, too fall or leap
for flight first failure grade so steep.
My white whale wild in the seas,
this ship no sail, nor north agrees;
e-spurning taste of tease:
I am Ahab's intricacies.
To illusion am I ******
eternally roaming the land;
through burning thirst for empathy
I''m plagued with insecurity.
In an old biblical story,
mortal glimpsed our father's glory;
from that instant's blinding light,
was driven mad- took his own sight
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
CLIMBING TREES IN HIGH HEELS
the swish of her
dress as
thigh crosses thigh
the static electricity of her
nylons laddered
from climbing trees in high heels
the rescued cat now
safely asleep by the fire
snoring not purring
the whiskey a jewel
in the cut-glass decanter
the glint in her eye
again the sigh
as thigh crosses thigh
she singing softly to her
self as if
she was the only one
left in existence
the clock leaving
a longer and longer
silence between each tick
and tock
and tock
the clock now stopped
looking elegant
in a thin white vase
the yellow chrysanthemums
just stare and stared
as if they were frightened
of the silence
a shepherd carrying a lamb
in chipped china
looking out of place
without his companion piece
a ***** shepherdess
broken only last week
it was ten past 7
though the clock did not know
that
Time had abandoned
the room
outside the first snowflake falling
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
She's leaving on a jet plane.
But I guess that she don't know, the reason why she's going.
A guess,that it's just to show you all the silly things,
The things that you're not knowing.
Things like love and slushy kisses.
Maybe being someone's mrs.
Oh little birds with folded wings they speak of oh such pretty things.
All that glitters is not gold,
She needs to say, before getting old.
Things that matter are not much.
She's missing moments from your touch.
Life is such a self-fulfilling prophecy. Where, I want you but you don't want me.
We're just two free spirits that roll in a glass.
A glass with a crack.
And that's a fact.
Wholesome, opaque,
How ever we dare,
As long they last.
And long shall they care.
As time is precious and so they may share.
Of idiosyncratic seconds, laid both open and bare.
As she lives for the moment,
She's just having a blast.
As the shepherdess,
Tears off her beautiful dress.
Puts on her genes if you know what that means.
A sheep in wolf's clothing, her hair is a mess.
And all the sheep fall, at her funny feet,
Which smell.
Her words be spoken, that only she can tell.
She wants to shout loudly but she's feeling so weak.
Knowing that her heart really doth skip a beat,
The frank shepherdess is really so sweet.
(c)LIVVI
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth
or so I was told at the humble age
of seven years old. I did not ask
and I did not question.
I saw that it was good. Or did I?
It was only the beginning
but what of the rising action
what of the darkness growing
over the surface of the deep?
I was yet to learn for sure
the conflicting nature of faith
or the meaning behind every rosary bead.
Thrown in at the deep end
I stared into the void. A vault
between the waters, or perhaps
an endless sky covered in stars
a ceiling in my bedroom
yet another thing I did not question.
Thus no answer came.
How was I to know the darkness
if not for the light of day?
I waited days and years
until the night came again
and for the first time in forever
I asked myself why
do I truly seek forgiveness
or salvation? Could I be
reborn into a creature
of fire and vengeance
or a winged bird blessed
with the gift of flight
and a lack of conscience?
Perhaps I could have been
state of the art
a true reflection
instead of this serpentine twist
somewhere deep within me
grinding, nesting
in the manner of a deadly disease
clouding my vision
and numbing my senses
taking away any certainty.
The very nature of existence
is to learn its meaning
is to doubt the ideal masters
and their conjured ideas of freedom
infinitive and infinite.
I do not have the answers
but I ask the questions. I am
in control of my own fate
I rise above the darkness
I am the master of the seas
the shepherdess of my own herds
I see all that I make of my life
and I see it is good.
Thus the heavens and the earth are completed in all their vast array.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 11:25 AM UTC
tables claim street
space
shaped like sheep
pens
foxy shepherdess
orders me
Mr Wolf marks
my card
economics of
ergonomics in consumption
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
[parade for sorrow]
I miss
blinking
[imp]
the man digging in his yard is looking for his dog. this is my lucky window. in this much silence, a baby could get a tooth. a mom a finger if a car door slams. the man digs and the ice comes for its heartbroken road. wounds move in a deerless world.
[born]
disguised
as
as if
I would know
[access verses]
a classroom, a house
but never
the ghost
of a church
–
the boys
they play
scarecrow
loves
horse, and the girls
the shepherdess
on a boat
names her dog
–
hey, distance
lose
the baby
(says
the empty
box)
[holding the baby]
a deleted voicemail of a boy asking his mom how to prepare a past meal. my handwriting an insect I want the best for. dream and the moth it won’t finish.
[vespers]
them raccoons out there is tarrying*
up
yr bible
–
*tearin
–
border: my eyes can’t stop what the back of my head is eating
mirror: a godless hyphenate
–
my man is a body whose moon is vacant
–
they is out there to flood
sightseers
with basilisk
****
–
in the valley of my choking
the fingers of my father
are going
dog’s-collar
purple
–
out-the-way churches. and acne
[declination]
in forgetting how many to save, god wants to know
are you still
seeing
things…
I remember the animal, the appropriate
mask…
once held, is the baby
less
wild
is the room
in the room
[sympathizer]
the many plain
sons
of god
their parking
tickets
[the mud on god's cheek]
at birth we are given a ladder we can’t see.
our feet
bare
[animal masks on the floor of the ocean]
mouse, teacup of the missing stork-
owl, lamb of night-
this was god. he was sad and everyone noticed.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
Our Lady Corona ,
Walks in heavy light,
She is the patron saint of the quarantine soul,
The saint of not to close ,
Of yes, of course, if you think so,
Of broken relationships filled with stress fractures,
Of racial violence,
Of No , I ******* think not anymore, not today,
Of lost ambition and found glory,
Of viral dances and memes,
Of shattered vases, hearts, and tears.
Our Lady Corona,
Shepherdess of our own moral ambiguity,
Of our lack of societal value in others,
Of our need to be, exist within our own universe,
Of our lack of empathetic emotional service,
Of our generational divide,
Of our continental divide, of the divide that is the political mainstream.
Our Lady Corona,
Take pity on we poor sinners,
Take pity on those we have wronged by our “snow flake” or “Boomer” additude,
Take pity on the hearts that blacken daily with their lack of remorse and understanding,
Take pity on the break down of human empathy.
For we ask in your name to be passed over,
The great equalizer you bring for some.
But in your wake let me singularly believe,
Not all things, not all people, not forever, just days,
Perhaps, just as all other things , you too shall pass.
LGG 3/19/21
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 10:05 PM UTC
as a shepherdess
overly
reflective…
at what age does it become
this black
hand
a grey
tear?
-
it worries me
your use
of the red
fox
-
on baby
there’s not
a scratch
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
A little girl was born in a square mile a babylondoner, February child, who had many sheep disguises , born in the hour of the sheep, in a house on the street where the Shepherdess Walked, travelling on the underground, one would have to stop, at Angel. Her Father called her after him, by all accounts she was the prettiest child, his fourth, her father was very vain, on this subject, it was hard for him to be humble.
Her name also had sheep, her name meant sheep, her middle name a Ram on a King. Her Father worried about the violence, the football hooligans , the fights between mods and rockers, he decided to move back to the homecountry, the country of her Mother and Fathers birth, the Emerald Isle. This coincided with an eviction notice, their house was about to get knocked down.
She moved to the plain of the Yew in the Emerald isle when she was four years old, they built a house in the town of the Castle by the river Barr, on a height that was named Harmony, that place did not often live up to it's name. Her father came from another town that was much prettier, not far away, houses and land were as rare as hen's teeth, in that town, it was not cheap either. Her Mother had an idea she wanted distance from her Mother in law, Rachel Ramona and her mother clashed a lot on ideas, but they did love each other, and Rachel understood her Mother, better than her Mother gave her credit for.
To RRK, her Mother was never there for her, her Mother had an issue with her, that is a puzzle to this day, it will probally always remain a puzzle, her Mother never talks about stuff like emotions, feelings, or the inner landscape.
RRK found refuge in the world of men from the youngest age, she felt like she belonged in that camp, this idea got her into a lot of trouble, then, now and probally in her immediate future.
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 9:14 AM UTC
Fluted cap dripping skull matter thin as blood
as ice, as milk,
we sat rotting in the sun
alone and pretending we werent
lest we be left out again
not again, my lover
my motherly carer my sister my brother
please see that the first to die does so
in the other's arms
corrupt and corroded beyond
ae looking glass charm.
The night floats through the day
as
Sun skins the dirt underfoot
and a whole winter seeps
our morphine stasis,
planted cosmically in place
forever and ever for a day,my love that I must one day forget
that one day must die as the earth dies as i must
only to be reborn as we dreamt
In the cold ashen season where coal
lines the cracks along our wall.
Heavenly July days that seem so far a way.
You gathered my thoughts,nirvana shepherdess
that shed lively shards of grass over formica;
You held me warm as the flies peeled my skin,
budding me close warm enough to make the needed death
feel not so drastic, feel calmer than words could express.
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 1:50 AM UTC