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Sheep and Lambs
All in the April evening,
April airs were abroad;
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road;
All in the April evening
I thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary and crying
With a weak, human cry.
I thought on the Lamb of God
Going meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountains
Dewy pastures are sweet;
Rest for the little bodies,
Rest for the little feet.
But for the Lamb of God,
Up on the hill-top green,
Only a Cross of shame
Two stark crosses between.
All in the April evening,
April airs were abroad;
I saw the sheep with their lambs,
And thought on the Lamb of God.
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Devour
The present devours
the past
The hate that devours
love
Anger that devours
you
Hope devoured by
despair
Night devouring
day
And day devouring
night
The moon devouring
The landscape
These poems like flames
Devouring
me.
My mind devours
me.
Now is my revenge
I devour
You.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Whilst the dogs are growling at each other the wolf devours the sheep.
Up North
Oh, Bill and Joe to the north have gone,
A green shirt on their back;
There are not many ewes and lambs
Along Kokoda track.
There are not many ewes and lambs,
But men in single file
Like sheep along a mountain pad
Walk mile on sweating mile;
And each half-hour they change the lead,
Though I have never read
Where any fat bell-whether was
Shot, in the mountains, dead.
The only sheep they muster there
Leap through the mind at night;
'Twould be as red as marking time
To change green shirt for white.
And though Bill dreams of droving now
On the drought-coloured plain,
There's little need to tap the glass
Or pray for it to rain.
They have no lack of water there
But there is a stinging tail,
For men lie dying in the grass
Along Kokoda trail.
poem by David Campbell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Grieving Of Sheep
In the nearby paddock the combined bleatings of sheep
Keep preventing me of nodding off to sleep
And all through the dark night i lay on my bed
With their constant noising echoing in my head.
The farmer he sold off their lambs yesterday
For his lack of compassion in lack of sleep i must pay
Even far from the City all not peaceful and quiet
Their bleatings so loud in the calm of the night.
If i lost a loved one i would feel the same
And for my loss of sleep them i never would blame
But the farmer who owns them for them has no tears
He has been selling fat lambs for decades of years.
Though they keep me from sleep for them i do feel
For sheep too have feelings and their feelings are real
Like us they feel sorrow and like us they feel stress
And i do feel for them in their unhappiness.
Out in the dark paddock such noise they do make
Their constant loud bleatings keep me wide awake
And all through the night their sorrow is deep
And i cannot sleep due to grieving of sheep.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I love the lambs, not the sheep.
quote by Roger Peyrefitte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The sheep that is too tame is sucked by too many lambs.
A sheep will never be able to understand why Easter should be celebrated slaughtering lambs.
aphorism by Valeriu Butulescu from Immensity of the Point, translated by Eva A. Ziem
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Guilt
You accuse them of guilt and theft,
Of worried statements and mild skill.
Your desks of wisdom are contained in a box,
A box is always full of statements that lock.
Guilty people are like thieves, often called flocks,
Called sheep that mutter why they cry.
The lambs are like sweetness, but only sheep,
Their habits will cause us to shun and speak.
This habit carried anxiety and absoluteness,
My habit is of worry for those in worry.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sheep-Killer
I should have known, when I undid his chain,
That darkness had been busy at his brain
As at an anvil, sharpening a fang.
I should have known it by the glint that sprang
Into his eyes when the chain fell and he
Stood stiffly there, as though to let me see
That he had all the time in the world to spare,
If I so felt, to match me stare for stare,
His heart being innocent.
I watched him go
Out through the gate with just the slightest show
Of hurry in his trot, as though he kept
His body back from where his thoughts leapt
Ahead to the red kill; that holding back
A dog will never show unless the track
He follows is a secret he would keep
From men whose fingers smell of lambs and sheep.
I should have known, had I but had the eye,
That strain in hip and curving flank and thigh
For what must happen in a hawk's neck when
He spots the quail way down there, but with men
Too near in yard or paddock to make safe
The whistling lunge; the tension of that chafe
That is when lust has the red tongue on fire
But cunning is the muzzle on desire.
So he went slowly till I lost him quite
In the thick fog that made another night
Over the paddocks where beneath the trees
The lambs would be hard at it on their knees
Draining the heavy udders. In that fog
A lamb would learn the coming of a dog
Too late even to get upon its feet,
Or in one wild and lost and desperate bleat
To say that death was hard and life was sweet.
He got his fifty in a mile that day,
Crunched through the shoulders in the killer's way,
Ribs broken in to crush the leaping heart.
Though great my loss, I recognized the art
With which the thing was done. What speed, what power,
He must have known for that one breathless hour,
When long restraint was straw before the urge
Of instinct, the red longing, the hot surge
That leapt and thundered and would not be still
Till fifty lambs lay dead about the hill!
He always liked to work the sheep close in,
Sniffing the blood, no doubt, beneath the skin
He dared not tear because of watching eyes.
Why did I trust that shifty compromise!
Why must sheep stand, by fear together drifted,
Helpless as flowers when the scythe is lifted!
Who was at fault, the dog, or I, or the sheep?
But since a farmer needs must have his sleep,
That night I put a bullet in his head,
Gave the world back to God, and went to bed.
poem by Ernest G Moll
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The return from cows and sheep in cheese is worth much money every day in the season, without calves and lambs, and without the manure, which all return corn and fruit.
quote by Robert Grosseteste
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr. Sheep
Golly, mister, where you going? you'll be late for work careful or you'll drop your briefcase jesus, what a jerk there he goes down to the subway off to catch the train too bad for him he forgot
Umbrella poor mr. sheep you're wet mr. sheep walk on, mr. sheep walk on tell me, how's your little family? how's your little wife? are you going to live with these monsters for the rest of your
Maybe you got a little girlfriend stashed somewhere in town may be you ain't got a little girlfriend ha ha ha ha ha poor mr. sheep he's a lonely guy too walk on mr. sheep walk on dance, mister!
He's doin' ok oh, oh oh, he's all right let him get up by himself now i don't want to be too rough and i don't want to be too mean you're right - this world is awful tough i know exactly what y
An but i want you to know exactly how i feel and to tell you the truth right now i feel like going i feel like going baa baa mr. sheep careful, you're walking all over your own self now walk on,
Sheep walk on, mr. sheep walk
On, mr. sheep walk on
song performed by by Randy Newman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's Death Again
It's Death again - He's always there -
Watching, waiting - e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? -
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
The Reign of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sheep
Sometimes I get so angry with the simple life they lead
The shepherds smile seems to confirm my fears
Theyve never questioned anything, theyve never disagreed
Sometimes I think they must have wool in their ears
And when you see a can I see a crook
And when you see a crowd I see a flock
Its sheep were up against
Sheep were up against
When I was young they used to get me counting sheep
But the counting I did was all in vain
No when Im tired and Im trying to get to sleep
I count humans jumping onto trains
And when you see a can I see a crook
And when you see a crowd I see a flock
Its sheep were up against
Sheep were up against
[influential guitar break]
And when you see a can I see a crook
And when you see a crowd I see a flock
Its sheep were up against
Sheep were up against
song performed by by Housemartins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wolf
Never believe all you hear.
Wolves are not as bad as lambs.
I've been a wolf all my life,
And have two lovely daughters
To show for it, while I could
Tell you sickening tales of
Lambs who got their just deserts.
poem by Kenneth Rexroth from A Bestiary (1956)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Disingenuousness
Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.
Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:
Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!
Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
The March of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Liberty for wolves is death to the lambs.
quote by Isaiah Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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