"clambered" poems
Two boys
and girls
unclothed each other
simply at a picnic
flush with wine
alongside
sun-flecked trees.
The girls,
easy as the
forest round,
burned,
delicious,
as the boys
eager and nervous
in unequal measure
partly gave up
concealing
their joys
at forgetting
or remembering
in flickers
their bare bodies.
It went on
over nettles
and half-hours
and clambered
trees and
photos taken
almost formally
(on film,
of course).
And boyish lust,
at first sinuous,
a darting tongue,
began to
soften against,
for instance,
the sheer,
unthinkable
texture
of the two
girls carved
now backward
over the bough
of a storm-felled elm.
And there
in the embers
of evening
they learned
to thrill originally
at the vast,
gorgeous
and astonishing
irrelevance
of what
might happen next.
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 7:05 AM UTC
“Congratulations
You managed being five feet above the ground”
Said a man who
Can’t contain a slight, sardonic sound
The situation:
He’s reading eating magazines from the coast of Spain
And yelling himself blue
For the jeepney won’t hurry in the pouring rain
He smashed his head on the glass
Wishing for a train
It nearly cracked / but his
New cadence sounded quite sane
“Congratulations
You took five before you smoked the first one down”
Said a man who
Complimented me for sinking above the ground
“It’s estimation
I might trip before a wheel enters our lane”
I yelled the truth
At this moment, his presence started to stain
A boat that had already passed us
Yelled, “All aboard!”
We weren’t sure it would float
But it had a great deal of cords
Then we clambered on
There was a myriad of golden spades
Two for every buried fool
That was forced to stay
The stench was concealed
By the satisfied old man
A woman muttered
That she was headed to Queensland
A driver viciously flung his arms
Into the air, in apt alarm
The intersection’s volley
Aimed for the starboard
Everyone reached for the mast,
Hoping to soar
“Congratulations
You nodded off before the lights started to blare”
Said a man who
Lied, ostentatiously impaired
I’m at the station
Then, I noticed to my side was a golden *****
I dug myself through
The mahogany and got on with my day
In the rain
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
Evening was in the wood, louring with storm.
A time of drought had ****** the weedy pool
And baked the channels; birds had done with song.
Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon,
Or willow-music blown across the water
Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.
Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding,
His face a little whiter than the dusk.
A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.
The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs
Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours
Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.
He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove
To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him,
But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.
He blunder'd down a path, trampling on thistles,
In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.
And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought,
And half remembered starlight on the meadows,
Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men,
Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep
And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves,
And far off the long churring night-jar's note.
But something in the wood, trying to daunt him,
Led him confused in circles through the thicket.
He was forgetting his old wretched folly,
And freedom was his need; his throat was choking.
Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs,
And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps.
Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!'
Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom,
Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns,
He peers around with peering, frantic eyes.
An evil creature in the twilight looping,
Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off,
He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered
Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double,
To shamble at him zigzag, squat and *******
Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls
With roaring brain--agony--the snap't spark--
And blots of green and purple in his eyes.
Then the slow fingers groping on his neck,
And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.
3.6k
Guns,
Long, steel guns,
Pointed from the war ships
In the name of the war god.
Straight, shining, polished guns,
Clambered over with jackies in white blouses,
Glory of tan faces, tousled hair, white teeth,
Laughing lithe jackies in white blouses,
Sitting on the guns singing war songs, war chanties.
Shovels,
Broad, iron shovels,
Scooping out oblong vaults,
Loosening turf and leveling sod.
I ask you
To witness--
The shovel is brother to the gun.
3.1k
I woke in the early hours to find
My head between her thighs,
She hadn’t been there before, I swear
And I’m not a man who lies.
I’d seen her out in the Public Bar
Of the ‘Jacaranda Tree’,
Halfway along the Outback Track
On the way to Wendouree.
I’d seen her dance on the table tops
I’d seen her prance on the bar,
I’d said to Lance as I saw him glance
‘I don’t know where we are!’
He shrugged, to say that he didn’t care
As long as she danced that way,
Her stockings, down at her ankles and
Her skirt in disarray.
‘Now there is a ***** to turn your head,’
Said Lance, with a burst of pride,
He’d been out on the verandah, then
He’d turned to go back inside,
She’d joined him there for a moment,
Just brushed by for a quick connect,
But he hadn’t noticed her eyebrow raised
In a sign that said, ‘Reject!’
We both had our eighteen wheelers parked
Outside in the hotel grounds,
I was headed away up north
And he to the lights of town,
He offered to give her the sleeper cab
While he drove the star-filled night,
I looked away and I thought it sad,
But the trucks both looked alike.
I heard him leave at the midnight hour
And thought she was gone for good,
It wasn’t often I hauled this way
Or stayed in this neighbourhood.
But then I clambered into my bunk
Above, at the cabin’s rear,
And fell asleep like a hopeless drunk
Till the morning sun drew near.
I made an offer to buy that pub,
The ‘Jacaranda Tree’,
But only when she agreed to stay
And dance on the bar for me,
I asked if she’d meant to go with Lance
And she looked at me with scorn,
I sleep the sleep of a new romance
And the pillows keep me warm.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
You know that feeling that you get
After a joke you tell falls flat?
Humiliation unrepressed;
I'd summarise my life as that.
Twenty-one years down the line
But worn as if I'm eighty-odd.
Drug dependant, but still here.
All miracle: No added God!
The classic jokes all told again.
"He looked so cute but what went wrong?"
Too much attention, look away
And **** off with that birthday song.
Twenty-one yet still sixteen,
The pinnacle of gentlemen.
A deviant of *** and lust,
And sickness from adrenaline.
Happy birthday, happy birthday,
Psychedelic astronaut.
Years ago you clambered out
And started having second thoughts.
On hands and knees, I'd crawl back in,
Just like Shawshank Redemption.
This may explain my love of ***
I shall make no exemptions.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
*Where were you when life dripped off my chin?
Intaking's a sin. You're a sinner.
I can't eat dinner, I'm not hungry.
It means nothing. THIS MEANS NOTHING.
It's the mirror, and it's controlling.
Reloading another bullet for a throat that's decomposing, and
as acid clambered up my mouth, I had quick thoughts of death.
A moment where flesh and bone may rot away the failed flavor,
yet a knotted mass of pain I'll never lose stings today,
gauging my limbs until nothing remains of me.
This pain is an everlasting parasite, and I cannot be saved,
for this nasty sickness is called a brain to me.*
Nov 1, 2020
Nov 1, 2020 at 11:35 PM UTC
Oh waiter my dear fellow
There's a beetle in my soup
He's swimming around the croutons
In a never ending loop
Oh waiter tarry hither
There's a slug inside my pie
He's guzzling the gravy up
And the pastry's gone all dry
Oh waiter while your present
There's a mouse under the chips
She's built a fence of runner beans
To guard them from the dips
Oh waiter please attend to me
There's foxes in my drink
They clambered in a while ago
And plain refuse to sink
Oh waiter hurry back to me
There's a walrus in my cake
He bellows if I dare approach
And makes the jelly shake
Oh waiter fetch a napkin
There's a horse...
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
It’s thirty years since I travelled back
To wander my childhood home,
To check out the trees I used to climb
And the fields where I used to roam,
I remembered the friends that used to play,
Wendy and Paul and Mark,
And the local bully that had his way
Back then, in the Boating Park.
We’d go up there on a Sunday, pay
Our money and hire a boat,
That fourpence each to the gatekeeper
Saw the three of us afloat,
Each boat had paddlewheels either side
You could turn, and stop or start,
Or spin around in a circle, just
For fun, at the Boating Park.
The Park, laid out in a rectangle
Took an hour to paddle round,
Once out of sight of the gatekeeper
The banks would muffle the sound,
We’d scream and shriek and laugh and beam
As we rammed each other’s boats,
I often thought it a wonder that
We didn’t puncture the floats.
Then over beyond the halfway mark
We lay in the shade of trees,
The sun would sink, it was getting dark
And we’d hear the murmur of bees,
We had to pass there under a bridge
And duck, for the bridge was low,
And that’s where the bully McPherson stood
On the bridge, those years ago.
He’d jeer, throw stones and catcall as we
Tried to get under the span,
Then climb and drop into Wendy’s boat
He wouldn’t have tried with a man.
He’d paddle over the further side
And make her get out of the boat,
Then paddle it back the way we came
Get out, and leave it afloat.
One Sunday I sat under the bridge
With Paul and Mark beside,
While Wendy came along on her own
As if on a solo ride,
The bully tried the very same thing
But we each pulled on his coat,
And when he came up, he couldn’t scream
For the water lodged in his throat.
He splashed about and he tried to grab
The boat, but his clothes, like lead,
Were trying to drag him down, while Paul
And Mark, they stood on his head.
Wendy had clambered up on the bank
Controlled, and well in command,
For every time he tried to get out,
She’d stamp and stomp on his hand.
The paper said it was very strange
That he must have put up a fight,
But hadn’t the strength to pull himself
Up out of the cut that night.
His hands and fingers were shredded, where
He’d tried to climb up the bank,
But the weight of his heavy, sodden clothes
Were the demons he had to thank.
I went to visit the Boating Park
It was just the way I feared,
I met up there with an older Mark,
A man with a greying beard,
He told me Wendy and Paul were dead
Weighed down with a sense of sin,
And the gatekeeper at the Boating Park
Had gone, when they filled it in.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
Only two weeks ago it was quiet,
apart from the owls at night.
But now the song thrush has started
his merry, desperate tune,
and a murmuration of starlings
daily pervades the sky.
By day, falls of lambs
spring on grassy banks,
their mothers staring back
at the farmer's straining dog.
At a shout from his master,
he hits the floor,
his wagging tail halts,
pricked ears fall,
but his eyes remain fixed
on the now fleeing flock.
Thistles have clambered out of the ground,
buzzards drift high above.
Now a screeching pheasant takes flight,
my spaniel's footsteps are like
a skimmed stone on the brook -
he tries turning it into a runway.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
Went to work,
toddled of to eat my lunch,
it rang very loudly,
screaming,
mother answer me,
so I did,
the vibe of the cell,
The voice said momma,
you're there munching,
but your little dog is wailing,
why,
why, said I what's the matter?
"Mother you locked the dog in the study",
gee ****
I think she needs a ***
she hadn't had her dinner yet,
No sign of the spare key.
son in law climbed on the roof,
forced the window,
that's the truth,
clambered in from land outdoors,
the door was opened,
dog took to her paws,
dashed outside, running free,
my cool doggy had saved her ***
no mess on the carpet, the floor was dry.
the good dog had a better day.
(C)Livvi
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
Tendonitis
is a small price to pay for euphoria.
he gasped at the brink of
success
mouth agape and strained
like pulled taffy
This project
embraced him entirely
consumed like a long lost relative
Sometimes we don’t climb.
we dance.
It was no longer clear
whether he climbed more than
the earth climbed him: she clambered inside,
ascending further into his psyche
with every
stretched, pulsing
muscle grasp
happiness bleeds into our
contorted
torso-Grace.
like water running the
pigment lines of
saturated paintings.
He cried out
impassioned,
shedding the skin of his palms
again-
upturned and reaching
like a caustic supplication
endowed with
vibrating desire,
quaking faith.
This time
he fell hard.
and again,
slap mat against the grain
of success
flung downward
like a thrice worn shirt
But wait-
and watch.
She calls him weeping-
a contrite lover
and he will return
to her brutality
nursed with humility-
intoxicated with exhilaration.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
rafferty and riley decided they would fish
go down to the river to catch a tasty dish.
sat there with there rods and a sandwich tin
when riley got a bite and the fish had pulled him in.
rafferty went to help but on the bank he slipped
then poor rafferty in the water dipped.
they were soaking wet and clambered to the shore
and neither one of them went fishing anymore.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
589
The Night was wide, and furnished scant
With but a single Star—
That often as a Cloud it met—
Blew out itself—for fear—
The Wind pursued the little Bush—
And drove away the Leaves
November left—then clambered up
And fretted in the Eaves—
No Squirrel went abroad—
A Dog’s belated feet
Like intermittent Plush, he heard
Adown the empty Street—
To feel if Blinds be fast—
And closer to the fire—
Her little Rocking Chair to draw—
And shiver for the Poor—
The Housewife’s gentle Task—
How pleasanter—said she
Unto the Sofa opposite—
The Sleet—than May, no Thee—
1.4k
rafferty and riley decided they would fishand go down to the river to catch a tasty dish. sat there with there rods and a sandwich tinwhen riley got a bite and the fish had pulled him inrafferty went to help but on the bank he slipped then poor rafferty in the water dippedthey were soaking wet and clambered to the shoreand neither one of them went fishing anymore
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 3:13 AM UTC
Ed thought he was a cat
So he gave a rat
To his dearest friend Magee.
He didn't take it lightly..
The rancid little thing
That poor Ed did bring,
Fell from Magee's hand,
Into his frying pan.
The rat cooked in his dish
Among the chips and fish,
And neither of them knew
The rat had joined it too.
The men clambered, glorped, and glopped
Until the timer stopped.
So they put it on a plate,
And then it was too late.
The grimy paws dug in
As Ed's face begin to grin,
And Magee was most aware
Of some furry little hair.
Magee quickly threw it out
And hit Ed all about.
He shooed his pal away,
Soggy Ed was now a stray.
But Ed finished up the dinner,
Though felt a little thinner.
Now old Ed has fleas,
And will probably get rabies.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
***Too tired to fall asleep,
I stared at a vivid flickering screen
And forced myself to eat.
1:15 a.m to 4:45 a.m
The hours- I didn't notice them,
But asleep I almost fell.
I dragged myself into slumber
And into a trance I clambered,
The blinding darkness I remember.
I awoke moments later
Under my demons' satire,
Stuck in a crater.
Everything was a blur
Four walls were six saboteurs,
And colours astir.
All attempts to cry for help
And get away from a faint death knell,
Just shoved me deeper into my shell.
Uselessly trying to move around,
My gasps were so profound
And I could hear the deafening sound.
I tasted my own fear
And flung it with tears,
The end must have been near.
The agitation was intense
Sweat ran down by head
And negativity within me spread.
I was trapped inside myself,
To a gust of wind against my chest
I almost succumbed to be at rest.
And then I ran as fast as I could,
Although blind, I said I would
Escape this maddening noose.
Silenced screams were now heard
And out loud I said "cursed"
I was finally free from paralysis unheard.***
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
I remember summers ago with a boy, who wasn’t so sweet but could read aloud like a gypsy and read your hand lines like a priest. I’d kick off my shoes and we’d spread a huge blue sun-bleached towel on the sand and prop up a chair. The metal grew hot in the sun. I remember a cooler full of Coke cans and plastic cartons of strawberries; we lived off those for days at a time (along with the occasional Hot Pocket) because we were too lazy to bike out to town, and it was too hot to leave the wooden floorboards and ice towels of our house. The windows let in the evening lights from a few miles away and the distant sounds of Spanish street guitarists. Sometimes we clambered up on the roof to hear them better, and you memorized one of the songs they’d play every night, spinning out a rough version on your guitar. But you couldn’t pronounce the words as well.
When we went out on the beach, you hated the waves so you stayed high from shore while I waded out until the water reached my belly, feeling the coolness seep through my shirt and the sand riffle between my toes. I’d always wanted you to join me. I wish you didn’t hate the waves, but you did so I just stood there alone, taking in salt from the breeze and the laughter of two sisters dragging buckets of water they could barely carry from the ocean to their sand castle. Again and again they came and went so that they could fill up the moat, because you couldn't have invaders from the next kingdom over to be able to kidnap the princess so easily.
May 7, 2011
May 7, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
A fragile little bird, with a torn wing sits on a wire, separate from the others, clinging to himself in the cold wind
All his life he has had to hold his lungs close to himself, hold his heart even closer, for heart is a traitor
Hold it in, close the doors and nail the wooden planks, line the heavy furniture long the doors ,walls naked devoid of any ink that would sketched his heart,
Windows bleached to strip off any residue of sunlight that might have clung to it, fragments of his soul and snatches of painful memories and strings of feather lie like a rug on the floor,
Thousand words as lithe and sharp as spears and bullets, crash, burn, the outlines of his heart, they steal an inch of his soul little by little,
Terrorists crawling into the skyscraper, there are 22 bombs on the top floor
There are thousand bombs in his heart, that never burst like anguish of people does, but when it bursts,
It busts like meteorite crashing, tearing, slashing, and destroying every inch of land that ever grew flowers
A bird, careless and homeless, falls off from the pole, the fragile little bird opens up his arms, she descends like an autumn leaf, signal of change,
Her painting lines his empty walls, and her words clambered up his heart and opened up his arteries
But she, a careless little bird, saw pale skin; she never saw the flaming mind looming inside,
And it burst like an atom bomb, bullet filtering though her veins
His aim was never at her, but she was the victim of his anger
His anger was only consequence to those thousand bullets aimed at him,
The fragile little bird like a crystal glass dropped, crashes into tiny shards,
That ****** your feet and bleed into droplets of lost happiness.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
so guess what, one day
I found a key (to a closet (in the church.))
and it was very dark and dusty
in there &
the ladder nailed to the wall was only wide
enough for
one
foot
at-a
time,
so, it’s lucky that
I’m skinny enough to wri-i-iggle my shoulders
up and through the hole in the
closet’s web-trailing ceiling.
I clambered up there and into this black
forest.
Plants were sprouting
up in big rills and clumps--
stalks thin as my finger and
pipes wider than my waist,
some fading up into the ceiling’s darkness...
others squatting low, and glaring up
at me with One. black. eye.
they were all deathly still.
Then,
the creaking boards, the black forest, the cramped path of unmarked dust that winds between the pipes, all that just
SIGHED and VIBRATED,
and with a hisssing hoarsse
!shhhhhhhh...
breathed!
and my heart just stops!!! BAM!
{cricket}
and i feel ****** into a dark mouth! i am caught and trapped by this black closet’s maw andI’mwaitingfor Godknowswhat tocomewrigglingfromthepipes-- ! --!
and then guess what?:
!b’URsting up its throat
is a SONG!
slowlyand Suddenly,
a blaring, screaming,
golden
!EAgle of a chord
that s(oa)rs and c’RASHES into anotherand another one
all rising and falling,
champing at the bit until One Thousand hhums and shhivers
fill each pipe.
and it feels like
holding ten coins in a stack and making them jump-clink-clickity-HOP together--
oh, it feels like
pushing your fingertips into a bucket of cold paint
it feels like the moment after jumping off of a tall tree
it feels like un-rippling your braided hair with both hands
like a songbird’s claws curling about your finger,
like closing your eyes in a hot summer-sun
and falling asleep in a hammock
it feels like holding a blacksnake
that curls and struggles strong against your wrists,
that’s what this church ***** feels like.
I’m gonna **** the genius that started playing while I was in there.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
A toast to the life of my good mate, Bill Massey
We toasted life with “steinies”
Watching Ngauruhoe smoke,.
We clambered over tussock
Laughing easily, “bloke to bloke”.
I Knew him as a good sort
Those forty years long past
But realised much later
That Bill’s friendships last.
To appreciate the standards
That Bill would always keep,
The quality of thought
That his ministrations reap.
The camaraderie enjoyed
And the bounteous Joi de Vivre,
And the lengthy conversations
Over occasional cold beer.
Elements of friendship
That once won are not lost
Until cruel deaths intervention
Is counted heavily, as cost.
But the flip realisation
Is now readily made clear
That time shared gave value
That we both held as dear.
Bill was a good friend
In a firm, gentle way
And I thank my good fortune
For that long distant day,
When he entered my door
And smiling, held out his hand
And I entered the realm
Of a Gentleman’s Man.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 June 2011
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
A soldier cowered in a muddy hole,
The crack of weapon-fire tore the dark sky above,
and he felt hopeless because of the fight raging around him.
He cried to himself, feeling all was lost.
The barrel of his rifle, he put into his mouth,
ready to end the terror of this life.
Then an angel appeared and slapped the gun away,
"What are you doing my child?
Don't you know this battle is not lost?
And after, there are still more battles to fight.
The war will not go away because you do.
Do not let fear consume you,
for there are many depending on you,
and you must fight not only for them,
but for yourself as well."
The soldier turned to face the angel,
through his tear drenched eyes,
but the angel was gone.
Yet the battle was not,
so he picked up his rifle, brushed off the mud,
and stood on shaky legs.
The fear was still inside, and it was all around,
but undeterred he clambered from his hole,
and rose to fight again.
Because the fear was strong,
but he was stronger still.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
We all piled out of the pub
****** as a load of newts;
'Where to now boys?'
Bellowed naughty Niall O 'Neill
(that's notorious nineteen pints a night Niall)
As he tottered over to his Pa's Rolls Royce.
*'Do ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful
I just seen you put away?'*
Enquired serious Sean slurringly
From his slightly inconvenient
Viewpoint in the beery gutter.
So we all clambered gaily into the car
And roared off into the enchanted night
And then this ****** stupid clodhopper
Who didn't even have his driving licence yet
Came round the next corner in his Ford
And got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come.
*'Oh **** would ye just look at the mess
The oul' fella's made of me Daddy's car,
And it's his pride and joy so it is!'*
Cried Niall O'Neill in incandescent rage,
As he surveyed the largest insurance claim
In the County Wicklow for twenty years.
How fortunate Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both testify from their vantage point
In the front seat of the devastated Roller,
The accident was not Niall's fault at all, at all,
As the other stupid sober ****** was on
The wrong side of the ****** street.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
De elevating power might
seem a futile task for a mere
earthling, disadvantaged by
stature, and of course due to
being under surveillance from
an altitude beyond reach, of
even, the imagination.
Such being the predicament
of an elderly Weasel inattentive
to the hidden dangers from an
intemperate predator soaring
directly above, just waiting to
profit from this evident dotage.
Down swooped the winged
carnivore, availing of surprise,
up-draught and velocity, it
quickly sank its talons into the
side of the disabled animal
and rose triumphantly into
the empty sky and high.
But just as possessions fall through
fingers, the winds of change were
about to reverse the tide of misfortune.
The stunned carcass, which only seconds
previously seemed as though was dead
as dead could be, suddenly posed a
problem for its captor (in flight).
Immediately, there was a notable change
of direction and a notable drop in the
flight horizontal, the big bird was visibly
in trouble, the Weasel had sunk its teeth
into the undercarriage, securing itself
from being released of the foot spikes.
The underdog was not going to go down
without a fight and there was nothing,
absolutely nothing The Eagle could do,
no negotiation, no solution other than
land, because The Weasel was not going
to let go and The Eagle was loosing fuel.
Efforts to dislodge The Weasel proved
nugatory, yet, The Weasel was prepared
to **** the Eagle in flight, a pyrrhic victory
is as democratic as one could wish for.
The Eagle had no option, down it came,
flew low along by the tree tops in an effort
to detach itself for The Weasel.
The Weasel availed of the Hobson Choice
and released itself from the breastbone
clambered on to the branches, making
its way out of the tree.
Meanwhile, The Eagle after a huge loss
of blood, left a trail along to forest floor
for The Weasel to follow
Ps.
The leech Eagle ended up in College Road
Sligo where it has a nest.
What became of it, is still unknown, but we
are sure, that The Weasel has not given up.
This is the Fable of Free Travel.
A pass given to the author by
a Government agency in Sligo
Ireland, and taken away with
no explanation.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 9:33 AM UTC
/Seven start the running
at the shot of a gun
one faulted behind
six continue to run
six kept the running
till another starts to stall
tripping over shoelace
two clambered to a fall
four kept the running
four running strong
come the first hurdle
three running on
three kept the running
till a cramp came along
two kept the running
two going strong
just one look behind
cost one the finish line
one kept the running
past the cheer and cries
one kept the running
only one won the prize
Mar 17, 2022
Mar 17, 2022 at 8:51 AM UTC