Our petrol sedan,
Looks so elegant and
Now running in its 7th year,
Still appears so new and
Škoda its maker,
Runs on a VW engine and
My HP Poem #1888
Only stays on the ceiling
When the upholstery is gray.
Church gyms are suddenly
Piggy banks to play
I will draw a city on
The bulletin board
And owl pushpins will inhabit it.
My mind is no longer in a
Casing of gray rick-rack
And suppositions I do not feel.
It is a precarious thing to
Play a solar piano
Under the midday sky.
Have you ever heard
It happened suddenly
That everything I could possibly
See became a photography contest.
Copyright 5/10/15 by B. E. McComb
A Volkswagen sinks in tainted ink
The purple bunny’s been painted pink
The hare is teetering on the brink
Of broken limelight square.
He rings the thing; it starts to sing
A duckling, suckling ****, goes ping!
A nettle stings the bunny’s wing;
The duckling gets no share.
A shard apart that scarred the heart
Ripped out the one who passed the start
And darting past her cart, remarked
Upon her vacant stare.
A stare so vast that sticks and lasts;
She’s passed the post, she’s missed the mast,
What matters most: what’s passed is past,
Surrendered into air.
— The End —