I was counting on the sheep
to get me to sleep;
but, they bleated about
like a rain shower in a drought;
and then the roof leaked.
.
To say my curiosity was piqued
was to speak about me
and my inquisitive self;
and it’s best not to do that;
leave nosing on the shelf
and pretend not to see.
.
Whether I am or not
is a moot point –
as some moot pointed out to me
the other day,
or maybe a century ago –
it was one or the other,
I uncertainly certainly do not know.
It is time for change.
One sheep, should (IMHO), be called a ‘Shoop’ and a baby ‘Shoop’ should be called a ‘Shop’.
I know that, to save confusion, we would then probably have to rename the old ‘sell-stuff, buy stuff’ “shop” places to something else – perhaps they could be called ‘Buy-Places’ – and then we would be sorted out for the duration.
Sheep could relate to sheep numbering 2 to 20, and ‘Sheeps to 21 Sheep and above (‘To Ovinity, and beyond!’ you might say).
White fluffy clouds in a clear green sky
Nibbling the grass as I walked by.
The electronic sheep went ‘Bleeeeeep!’
-which didn’t help me get to sleep.
I wandered lonely
as a sheep,
thinking many sheepish thoughts,
though none were deep;
I wondered for a while upon
where the other sheep had gone.
Whilst munching grass
and chewing cud,
across the fields
like a cloud
I’d scud.
I am the ghost in the machine,
the elephant in the room,
the fly in the ointment,
the wolf in sheep’s clothing;
and I have a loathing
for what I am.
I am the ghost in the room,
the elephant in the machine,
the wolf in the ointment,
and the fly in sheep’s clothing;
and I have a loathing
of what I have become.
I am the wolf in the room,
the fly in the machine,
the elephant in the ointment,
the ghost in sheep’s clothing;
and I have a loathing for this type of poem,
where the combinations grow
with every word
ever more and more absurd –
I am the septic in the poem,
or should that be sceptic?
Anyway, as I was saying,
I am the poet
in the septic,
tank.
No, that’s not right…
I am the poet in the room,
sheepishly wearing wolf’s clothing,
flying in the ghost machine,
whilst coated in ointment…
allegedly.
Ship to shore can you hear me?
Is there anybody out there quite near me?
I’ve come round to thinking,
that my craft is thinking;
and even though the water’s only three foot deep,
I know I’ll wake up when I go to sleep.
I know I will wake up when I go to sleep
It’s no use my even counting hundreds of sheep,
they just stand on the hillside there, in a flock
and then they all run about, they run amock.
Thoughts and images confuse my mind,
I’m looking for an answer,
a question I find;
I seem to be the blind man not leading the blind,
how on Earth do I get to unwind.
I’m like a coiled spring,
a wound up thing
that wound up here
on the first day of Spring,
or that sort of thing.
I’m the man in the corner,
a little Jack Horner
for the twenty-first century,
and I don’t want to be me.
I know I will wake up when I go to sleep
It’s no use my even counting hundreds of sheep,
they just stand on the hillside there, in a flock
and then they all run about, they run amock.
See here for the photograph that inspired the words – G:)
It’s about the trees,
or the sheep,
or the sky.
Swaying in the breeze;
chewing the Winter feed;
or hanging ominously above us –
you know which is to which.
All together
in one picture
they sit side by side,
juxtapositioned
by Nature.
I’ve tried counting sheep;
but, I ran out of fingers –
too many sheep;
not enough fingers;
I tried counting fish..,
fingers!
I tried using my toes,
still not enough.
So I am sticking to counting
unicorns and dragons –
I’ve limbs enough for those.
◦
I was driving along
in my auto-mobile
when I did see
sheep on a hill.
And when I come back
in my auto-mobile,
having been to town,
if they haven’t gone
they will be there still.
Graeme Sandford 