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Patrick Wilson  (email, website)


About the Poet:

Patrick currently resides in Brunswick, GA where he teaches at a local Job Corps Center. He has an AA in English Education, a BA in English, and will soon be pursuing a MA in English.



Baby Sheep

One night, a baby sheep asked his mother a question:
“mommy, where’s daddy?”
The mother sheep with tears in her eyes
knew the answer, but hesitated to supply.

“mommy,” the baby sheep said.
“Son, Daddy Has Gone to Another Pasture.”
“is that where the other daddies went?” the baby sheep asked.
“Yes, Son, Beware of The Shepherd’s Crook,” the mother sheep said,
as her tears began to simmer inside.

“the shepherd’s—what?”
“The Crook, Son, The Shepherd’s Crook.”

A transient immobility came between son and mother.
purity marching with WISDOM,
And then the fated query:

“will we ever see daddy again?” the baby sheep asked.
“I Don’t Know, Son! Ask Our Current Shepherd;
He Dwells on The big, green Hill in His big, white Farm,” the mother sheep said.
My Companion

We don't know each other;
We haven't formally met,
Yet like a Machiavellian brother,
You aren't painless to forget.

I show up to rake;
You hop around and take,
A blade of grass, a leaf or two or even a stick,
Perhaps a worm -- who knows -- you can pick.

Unlike the vernal winds of April,
Your presence neither hinders nor is it helpful
As you seek from pile-to-pile,
I watch and tremble
Hoping you won't demolish my temple.

At the end of the day,
I don't understand why I call you a friend:
You are a bird, and I am a man.
It appears I help you more,
But you never lend a helping hand.

What a selfish plan!

I guess I have grown accustom to you being near;
Like the sun, our friendship will disappear.
Until morning, we will fly to separate nests.
Only to begin our friendship, again--
With reverence and bliss.
Love Is Fruitless for Those Who Aren’t Fruitful

Love is fruitless for those who aren’t fruitful;
It’s not gratuitous as liberty.
But it idles as if it were.
A mannequin on display—‘for sale not,’ it says.
Forlorn! My heart is.

Sour Day

This day tastes like buttermilk.
Why? I dare say not,
for we clabber, churn—churn, clabber our own culture.
If—by circumstance—we don’t
imbibe what our day milks,
how would we know what sweetness is?
Sporadic Mirth/Seasonal Love

O, darling I my confession my ardor to you:
Every year, I wait for Demeter to greet Persephone.
From Hades, she brings Spring blessings to all.
Flowers bloom for every heart and every man;
Wooing bees across the land. So foolish and
indolent, I buzz by many of flowers
Finding only one that my heart desires.
You reject me first—hour after hour.
Day turns to night, as your beauty overpowers
my mind: To the hive I retire.

Hyperion rains his heated rays down upon my tired wings.
Letting the world know what Summer brings.
Your stems sweat sun-dried nectar,
only sweet for your accepter,
But again, I taste none,
for you reject my heart and my tongue.

Sarritor weeds out our land,
for the Fall claims the dead.
My once mirth heart lies upon
the foliage of misery—beneath your petals
and on brown sand.

Rejection, again, Mother Nature’s plan.

Winter comes without much fun.
Snow buries deep: two hearts that ought to be one.
In three months, this cycle will begin—Again!

Though I must confess,
My love for you