A Poet’s Play
Ode To Ewe — Journeyman’s Sketches — A Poem To Spring Forthcoming; A Winter’s Fugue.
A Natural Joy; A Chilling Slender — See the Eyes that make the landscape so populated and alive amid a Chill; Story to be told.
Ode to ewe, mask-fire; ire to the belief on the hard hollowed ground.
Are you in pain — can I maketh it all well?
Tallow and shield; hobble and guild, for an Offal pie —
Descent meal, lorded over-exposure;
The Shepherd’s boy once said,
And the Shepherd’s boy walked, and he walked, and walked yonder-far in the ewe’s field.
You and I have much to remember;
The Shepherd’s boy once said,
No cudgel to harm her, no diamonds to cheat, except for the scissors to shear her.
Oha — Oha!
That will be our days,
Oha — Oha!
That will be the day.
Harbinger of some irreducible light —
’Tis a season with little of the ways of joys,
Only to the heckling of winter-beholden till the spring thwarts this
Icy debtor away from our hands!
Melting away any fine-threaded thought,
Bricks to the perihelion — kicking the yore into an axe, splits thus;
No yodel could so soothe the eager brow to dawn!
Niceness sells the Stella shore — yet, leaving all retarded
In the trueness afflicting this world: Suffering, the world if I could know it,
I would outlast it not and remain a companion ever by,
And a good measure of it, daily — to the yearly compromise.
Thence, the Shepherd’s boy goes on saying…
Oha — Oha!
That will be our days,
Oha — Oha!
That will be the day.
A frozen ewe thawed against her lamb’s carcass in the deepening snow-storm;
A one-time lamb humming remains limp evermore to the rejoice of the tumbling season;
The slaughtering is done, and the dues are to be paid with the Ewe hefty wool once we stir;
Ill and gay, the night is hunted through the stomps of its pending atrophy to the season’s last remains.
Sun comes, and the sun beholds what must remain loyal in the twiddling function of the indifferent season.
Light is squandered for a few abject thoughts, plain as the pleasant day;
As to the youngster who condemns himself early to death —
Twaddle becomes all the recognition of the days of mislaid youth
And unfounded and a-stray; I never remembered myself to be such,
But I must be mistaken in memory, for all wool is on my tights.
Your pain, and your pain alone — for all of this might of living.
A Natural Joy — A Chilling Slender
The Shepherd calling evermore; rejoice evermore!
Natural diet — recoiling thenceforth —
Oha — Oha!
That will be our days,
Til a breaking of spirits,
Concluded, and the
Humane animal looses
It’s winter-holden coat
Oha — Oha!
That will be the day.
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©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms
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