Not a sound
in th forest
Not a leaf
in the wind

On the lake
not a ripple
there's a storm
coming in

Not a deer
in the meadow
Not a hiss
not a howl

Not a breath
Not a whisper
There's a cat
on the prowl

Not a twitter
of a bird
Not a Bat
Not an Owl

Silence in the forest
There's a cat on the prowl



All is well until he brushes against my legs, looks
up at me and meows - lunch time

shutting this lustful devil up into a statue
this is what i must do, to disguise my mutilated view
the ends of its unexperienced mouth tremble and twitch
as i force myself deeper and deeper into its abyss
and those live cheeks, curiously immature
turn to an indecent pink, in my repulsive, quivering hands
this statue i have concocted in my intellect
with these incomplete slots in my brain
there are no boundless alternatives to my, unsettling masterpiece
simply produced and seduced by me

You could not wait til halftime to check your poem or add one.

2. You wrote a sonnet about pretty horses. (Broncos)

3.You wrote a poem about kittens.(Panthers)

4. As the ball soars through the air, you are reminded of a bird in flight.

5. A Superbowl commercial inspired a new poem.

6. You paused the game with your DVR to write a piece.

7. You think the referees look like majestic Zebra on the African plains.

8. You ponder the coin toss and wonder of chance and philosophical questions as to whether life is like a paradox, then write yourself a poem about it.

9. When a tackle is made, you think upon the animalistic nature of humanity and write a haiku about it.

10. There is a notebook and pen right next to your remote and munchies.

11. You have a neck ache due to looking at your hellopoetry site and then back up at the t.v.

12. You write  Peyton Manning farewell poem.

13. The commentator of the game makes a poetical statement and you use it in your latest poem.

14. The crowd boos a player and you feel compelled to write the pain of number 94 in a poem.

15. Last but not least, you might be a poet if you are reading this and the game is on.

On Saturn's day, his body quakes,
the lights go out, and the craters form.
He drinks the rye to ease the shakes
and watches as the cicadas swarm.
His records are warped from cellar air,
his walls are stained nicotine yellow.
The night creeps in from beneath his chair
to taunt and **** this charming fellow.

Fifty years of motherless meals
and fifty years of loveless mistakes.
Fifty years of seasonal wheels
and fifty years of screeching brakes.
Fifty years of challenges met
and fifty years of swallowing pride.
Fifty years and not dead yet,
and fifty more before he has died.

He draws in deep from his old cob pipe
and exhales the smoke toward the fan.
Once the orchards are good and ripe
he'll go outside and tame his land.
Until that day, he's mighty content
with sitting back and wasting his time.
These are the last days before his descent,
there is no call for reason or rhyme.  

Fifty years of unpaid rent,
and fifty years of tall tales lost.
Fifty years he can't repent,
and fifty years of permafrost.
Fifty years that won't come back,
and fifty years of worn down soles.
Fifty years of catching flak,
and fifty years spent digging holes.

I want to cry
And fall apart
But I must be a brave soldier
And silence my heart