DAY 22: Pastoral Memories

Fiona

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

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About cjprinceauthor

I write. I read. I write and read...I listen to raindrops on begonias, talk to ravens, dance with dragons. I practice Tai Chi in a barn, I sleep with earth stones and tarot cards. I celebrate each day. Join me!
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2 Responses to DAY 22: Pastoral Memories

  1. Flicker says:

    Very, very powerful, CJ!

  2. Reblogged this on What's In It for Me? and commented:
    The lifestyle can seem idyllic, looking from the outside.

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