Pastoral Memories
The mail-order hickory shepherd’s crook
hangs on a low Ponderosa branch.
I don’t know how to sink my weight
like a sumo wrestler. I run as
fast as the Karakul ewe Fiona,
Thrust the hook around her wooly neck.
She back tracks, dumps me hard
in the paddock. But it is the big
brown ram Chops
who broke my arm.
Billy, the cashmere buck,
nailed me, leaving hoof-shaped
bruises along my torso.
When spring grass jumps up,
lambs frolic, kids cavort.
The donkey, Carmen Burranda,
eases, nudges, pushes
her way to forbidden pasture,
munches hot green grass, founders.
The wee angora kid, too weak
to suckle his dam’s teat,
the bleating four pounder
I took to bed with a bottle,
dies at two months.
Edgar Rice Burro, the newly castrated donkey,
bleeds to death.
Be aware, those who yearn
for pastoral harmony.
It is a fast track cycle,
digging graves
at midnight, life and death
a daily possibility.
~C.J. Prince
©2015
C.J. Prince Poet 
Very, very powerful, CJ!
Reblogged this on What's In It for Me? and commented:
The lifestyle can seem idyllic, looking from the outside.