❤️❤️❤️
Dear mignon,
Thanks very much for admiring the poems; I'm sorry you're lacking in energy. Yes, things change; and I think you know that if you do post your heart you're in a safe space here (i.e., with me).
You're welcome for my comment on your poem. How interesting that things changed so soon after you wrote it. Would you consider writing a second part? I like the form you chose.
Yes, Esmeralda, Esperanza; well, now I feel like writing a song. I haven't heard Garou, so I'll google later. It's my pleasure to add cheer :-)
This evening, I'm posting the first villanelle I attempted, in the voice of Shropshire sheep. From 2013, this was one in a collection of poems I composed after Grandad Teague died. I went on a sort of tour in my mind of places where we'd been together; and somehow, it comforted me.
Song of Sheep
We tread our small yet steadfast ways,
on paths to guide all travelling souls,
through freshening rains and golden rays.
While hilltops bathe in sundew haze,
or round the valleys thunder tolls,
we tread our small yet steadfast ways.
Our bracken moors sound joyful neighs,
of trotting ponies, dancing foals,
through freshening rains and golden rays.
Where picnic parties meet our gaze,
and offer crumbs from fresh bread rolls,
we tread our small yet steadfast ways.
In oaken shade we slow to graze,
as ramblers pass in happy strolls,
through freshening rains and golden rays.
Across this shire our thanks we raise,
with flags festooning fields and knolls;
we tread our small yet steadfast ways,
through freshening rains and golden rays.
🐑🐑🐑
Tomorrow: something inspired by John Isbell's latest poem.
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