Am meisten gelesen ▸
Dave Bonta
I remember the Moorkiller’s
stone horse in Logroño,
its terrible phallus.
Near the steps that pilgrims
once bloodied with their knees,
the jolly lacemaker.
We yield the road
to sheep, a bicycle race,
old men bowling in the afternoon.
tapping & tugging
at the side of the tent
early morning wind
around the headland
from the seal sculpture
this one moves
at the Osprey Center
a crowd gathers to watch
squirrels on the feeder
no does to herd
the solitary stag haunts
a caravan park
blood-red sunset
I raise the midge net
to take a nip
with each wingbeat
Hours pass.
The watchdog waits.
Steady as a rock.
Wanting to be seen.
But not heard.
Guarding his sheep.
He watches the intruder.
A cat to us.
Yet a villain to him.
A usurper even.
Hours pass.
Time is meaningless to him.
He could sit and stare.
As long as his sheep are there.
And would not care.
As long as they are safe.
Sometimes a right white mountain
Or great soft polar bear,
Or lazy little flocks of sheep
Move on in the blue air.
The mountains tear themselves like floss,
The bears all melt away.
The little sheep will drift apart
In such a sudden way.
And then new sheep and mountains come.
New polar bears appear
And roll and tumble on again
Up in the skies so clear.
The polar bears would like to get
Where polar bears belong.
The mountains try so hard to stand
In one place firm and strong.
Sleeping together ... how tired you were ...
How warm our room ... how the firelight spread
On walls and ceiling and great white bed!
We spoke in whispers as children do,
And now it was I--and then it was you
Slept a moment, to wake--“My dear,
I’m not at all sleepy,” one of us said...
Was it a thousand years ago?
I woke in your arms--you were sound asleep--
And heard the pattering sound of sheep.
Softly I slipped to the floor and crept
To the curtained window, then, while you slept,
I watched the sheep pass by in the snow.
O flock of thoughts with their shepherd Fear
Shivering, desolate, out in the cold,
That entered into my heart to fold!
The sheep beat a track over the mountain,
And men, sheep-like, follow them.
Who is there with heart enough
To beat a track for himself?
Not the strongest.
Not the wisest.
Not the most proud.