The cover never tells the truth,
for every story... has papercuts
when you've turned the page.
Every fable can tell a tale,
some sweet as pie, but not all apples are
syrupy, some putrefy from the core.
For this cover shows her reading,
while rabbits playfully play.
Not one for ill suspense..
The book was different ways to
cook rabbit, she knew they
attended this spot.
Know your pray,
Remember that to be at ease
gives them a false sense of passivity.
Now when your ready, make your move..
The best practice is to scare, for a moment of
uncertainty will make then scatter in directions
With that she slammed the books pages together,
startled bunnies ran in all directions...
The ground around sewn with steel teeth
gentle steps to snap shut...
She stood up proud, that the book was true,
not all tales are fairy tales some are truthful.
As a few were still squirming, she did an act
of kindness, the book heavy as it came down.
The family will feed well tonight,
she had to wipe off the fur
but there were plenty more stories
of how to capture and create
that fairy tale meal..
Under the pale blue sky
A small bird chirps softly as it watches the world go by.
Soft green grasses wave in the breeze
As the rose's heavy perfume tickles my nose and makes me sneeze.
Your eyes dart toward me, a dashing golden hue
And I stand stalk still to study you.
Long ears flick back and forth, covered in waves of silk
And I can make out a small cotton tail the color of buttermilk.
You glance over your shoulder, wide eyes studying me
before you spring across the meadow, happily free.
Happy Spring! :)
Louis: ‘There’s something about shooting that makes a man feel fully alive.’
Anne: ‘Unlike the birds I suppose.’
Louis: ‘They’re born to be shot, my dear. Like rabbits...and poets.’
Watching blob-out-B-grade Boxing Day TV has its moments. :)
‘Des par tous et tous par un.’
- Alexandre Dumas
If the mending walls
will stop trapping you in
from the hunger and from the beast,
then I'll offer you my entire sea
to set you free from the shattered
pieces of 'it' so you won't bleed.
Strolling around the deepest shack
in the challenger deep,
pelting all the flowers
Let the magician form them into rabbits.
Magician, Magician, Magician who?
Magician, Magician, Magician of the Challenger Deep.
Magician, Magician, Magician who?
Him who can heal through his fingertips.
But it is an Easter
Sunflowers poked their heads
Out of the winter’s snow
Which thawed under
The rays of the radiant sun
Burrows of eager rabbits
Were left vacant
As these fluffy tail adventurers
Chased greener pastures
Star studded drops of dew
Outlined lily pads
Around in tear filled ponds
Blades of green foliage
Perked up as the
New days of warmth
Lit the fields with love
I stretch out Thursday afternoon
until it is see-through at the edges.
I talked to so many people today
and all of them chanted: go west
but maybe that’s not what’s best for me.
Down south is crawling with ***** whispers
and I want to pull them out of the ground
and rinse them clean. Like vegetables
spread out on the kitchen table
in late September: orange and purple
and the scent of soil heavy
by the open windows.
At my aunt’s house,
as a kid, the mudroom was my favorite place -
transition point between low-ceilinged
dark and quiet inside space
and the impossible Vermont sky,
the chickens and the garden
and grass that sloped down to a valley
the size of my child fist. Sometimes in the evening
we’d see coyotes creep from the shadows
of the trees down below, or hear the foxes cry.
We would hike up the gravel road
and climb the mountain before the sun set,
scramble back down in the dusk.
I wish I remembered more
than just picking grass and slowly
splitting it into strips, to learn the way
my hands were capable of deconstructing.
But it came in useful later,
when we went into the woods
to strip the birch trees of their bark:
the best kindling for fire.
So smoke rises and chases us.
To keep the smoke away,
my aunt says, you have to think
about white rabbits. Little
does she know - my ideas
are always half-baked or burnt.
Never the way they should be.
So I do what I think I hear her say –
and I think about white rabbits,
covered in mud.
When I was a child I thought about wind.
Where did it come from, how did it begin?
Was it caused, at all, by the waving of the trees?
Was the waving of the trees, caused by the breeze?
I still to this day, remember thinking many things.
As a child my mind pondered, how do birds use their wings?
How and why, do rabbits hop,
Why do fish swim and firecrackers pop?
Ants are plum crazy, how they dig in the dirt,
I wear my pants but my sister wears a skirt?
Why does it rain and why are you sad?
Does the light switch frighten away all the bad?
Now that I’m older I still think alot.
The problem now seems... oh ****, I forgot!
Brian Hill - 2019 - February
Inspired by the mind of my young brain..
One of my earliest memories is of the wind. Why are the trees causing this wind? And then we grownup!