"cluck" poems
If you gotta dream, show me
Reveal it to the world
And own it
If you gotta passion,
Disown your inaction
And make a habit of climbing the steep hill of your goals,
Or else dissatisfaction will echo in your soul
Go after your dreams fearlessly,
You've got all the potential you need,
Just find the why for the motivation you lack,
Conjure the reasons why you've laid low and cut yourself slack,
Well, you can't hide behind excuses no more,
Because you're a dazzling star and you're too bright to hide behind confining bars
You think you're a nobody?
Too scared to show your true colors?
Hey, you better get out there on that red carpet and like a peacock flaunt all your magnificent beauty,
And not even for a moment doubt yourself
Or listen to the chickens cluck **** about you on the sidelines
You've got a dream
Stop hiding it under your bed
And make it into your reality
You ain't think life got magic,
But it's full of meaning
Once you awaken from your brain dead anxiety
Because you worry too much of what people think of you
Your heart will come alive, beating with all the colors of the rainbow and the music you love will revive you,
I speak from experience,
Stop letting your fears hold you back,
Because they are just lies
No one is gonna believe in your dream as much as you do,
Not until you accomplish what you dream of, when you get there then they'll believe you
What else have you got to live for
But your dream!
It's your purpose
And it's your responsibility
To make your dream a reality
Not until then will you be able to see
The magic that both surrounds us and lives inside of you and me.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 4:44 AM UTC
Tick tock, Tick tock, Tock Tock ticking
Clocks cluck, catching curious cries
Several seconds slide, slowly sticking
Eclectic evil ever eager to eat out eyes
Tock tock, tick tick Tock
danger dances down, depicting doom
Hands hold hearts heavily in hock
aren't all able to articulately assume?
Clock is currently counting costs
justifying jumps and juggling jacks
tabulating time that is tossed
lightening liberal lust and loving lax
tick tick tick, tick tick tick
destination is a detonation despised
tock tock tock, tock tock tock
sheep sleep soundly shrouded, so surprised
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
aerial ladder truck, amok, amuck, awestruck, bad luck, black buck, black duck, bruck, buc, buck, by luck, canuck, chuck, cluck, cold duck, collet chuck, cruck, dabbling duck, delivery truck, diving duck, donald duck, druck, duc, duck, duk, dumbstruck, dump truck, dumptruck, fire truck, fish duck, fishbach, fluck, fslic, garbage truck, garden truck, get stuck, give **** gluck, good luck, grucche, guck, hand truck, hockey puck, huck, hucke, icing the puck, ill luck, kachuck, kluck, kruck, kruk, kuc, kuck, kuk, ladder truck, lake duck, lame duck, laundry truck, luck, lucke, luk, mandarin duck, megabuck, moonstruck, mruk, muck, musk duck, naugatuck, nuque, panel truck, pickup truck, pluck, potluck, puck, queer duck, raybuck, roebuck, ruck, ruddy duck, schmuck, schtik, schuch, schuck, sculk, sea duck, shmuck, shuck, sitting duck, smuck, snuck, sound truck, starbuck, starstruck, struck, stuck, stucke, suc, **** suk, summer duck, thunderstruck, trailer truck, truck, tuck, tuque, unstuck, vhsic, wild duck, wnuk, wood duck, woodchuck, wruck, young buck,chuck-a-luck, yuck, yuk, zuck, zuk
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
3.3k
If cows go moo chickens cluck, therefore if the farmer has eaten chicken eggs, he will cluck,
and if he had a steak dinner, he will clmook...
and yield eggs filled with milk from his ****
This is why eggs are solely a breakfast food,
while steak is a dinner because mixing the two in one meal only makes the effects worse,
turning a Farmer over time into a milk filled egg.
Note only farmers are affected like this,
since it takes very high levels of exposure to beef and eggs in their raw un-processed forms,
which we don't buy at grocery stores for the above reasons...
First the mutagen's proprieties of the two mixed together must be neutralized.
By filling any crates in which beef are shipped with powdered eggs
and crates of eggs with beef made from a special breed of cow that has been genetically bred to lay eggs,
the hooves and horns go to make that strange astronaut ice cream that you see in gift shops.
Each "netrie-cow cost over 10,000,000 yen each (and you can only pay in yen)
but without them entire crops of beef eggs can be lost.
Oh i forgot... these were pure bred eggs and beef that need to be treated...
Beef eggs are a new advancement of science,
they are normal eggs in every sense but that they moo when you shake them if they have gone bad,
and taste slightly like beef and need no special treatment.
The chicks which hatch from beef eggs grow to be feathered cows which mate with everything in sight,
and usually are killed before they have the chance to grow,
but many a farmer has decided the risk of raising chowkins worth their original flavor and taste,
but many employ steel pant plates to prevent accidents
(since for some reason chowkins Can produce offspring in humen males as well as their own kind...)
The process killing the farmer,
and producing a creature which speaks in only an impenetrable deep southern accent and Farmer slang,
loves milk and grass,
and unable to perform any function in society,
but crops grown by such creatures are noticeably better in taste.
Clmook!
Clmook!
Clmook!
Go get your lifetime supply of cheese?
Please?
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
Those sleepless summer nights
Sweat pouring from every crack
In thinly layered sunburnt skins
It was all panties-on-the-floor
Blood-on-the-sheets
And *******
Living out highschool fantasies
Like the cool kids
Life before 22 was all a dream
Of midsummer swelter and
Salt water
In the mind of the dog
Chained up in the universe's yard
Tethered to the ether world
Racing rabbits through space
While I was turned into an ***
Staring at the mirror
And my expressionless face
*This must be how cancer feels
Growing increasingly smaller
In a world where cabinets
And aspirations grow increasingly taller
She met the devil
For coffee on diagnosis day
But the deal they made didn't take
Her hair fell out
And her body atrophied anyway
She found herself
Floating far far away
Her blood coagulating like
A broken thermometer
Of mercury*
Salvador Dali painted this fall
The house of salvatore
Minds gone to roost under warm eaves
Staring fireplaces
Hungry couches and singing windows
It's all ******* drooping like clocks
And derailing thoughts
The local biddies
Cluck their tongues
At the absurdity of infinity
And the girl in Ace Hardware
Buying shoepolish to hide her tan lines
Yawns, as her boyfriend feels her up
*Meanwhile I collapse
Like a house of cards with a flick of the wrist
Thinking about life's mathematical beauty*
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
Speculation proved
contagious,
misinterpretation
crept silently on patchwork soles
(odds n' sods messily stitched,
tittle tattle did no favours)
like a flu it spread,
hushed curiosities rested
outside ol' Hutch baker's door,
where even a freshly oven'd
batch might strain an ear
or five to net nearby tongue trading,
seeds straining on their brows.
Even those Mother hens
had a cluck or two left in them,
rumours about the
'Dust mite Martyr'
as she was dubbed,
“Does she have no shame,
sitting pretty in Matrimony's dress?”
one heaving checkered breast commented
titling her beak
to gain a better look -
At that shriveller slumped,
an examiner of the cobbles
with such a religious stare
her lids traced stones
within the darkness,
a traveller -
wanderer not to be trusted,
especially not
with bloodied lilies tangled
within her gleaming mop.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
East Hall Coop purrs, caged
in tough chicken wire. Third story Beta beaks cluck from their nest, threatening crickets nestled
in the humid grass finding shelter
from rowdy farmhands marching
the birds to slaughter. Cattail stems, moonshine bottles, even colored gloves straight from the box lie in the grass.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Luke was such a dreadful fidget
He couldn't sit still for a minute
He'd toss and turn all lesson long
Like a caterpillar crawling on a cattle prong
He'd flick his rulers, click his pens
Cluck and fuss like a headless hen.
His tutor, a tall and sombre man
Was struggling with his teaching plan
He'd taken three days to prepare
But Luke was more than he could bare.
"Right! That's it! I've had enough!
If you don't stop I'll call your mum.
Unless you're really in fact quite ill
I'd advise you to stop it. Oh do keep still!
I'm just about to lose my mind, oh Luke
You're being quite unkind!"
But Luke was on a sugar high
"I can't stop!" He said, "I don't know why!"
And with that he jumped up, began to dance
He leaped and swung and swooped and pranced
Till all the neighbours gathered round
To gaze and gawk at this unsightly sound...
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
JANE, Jane,
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again;
Comb your cockscomb-ragged hair,
Jane, Jane, come down the stair.
Each dull blunt wooden stalactite
Of rain creaks, hardened by the light,
Sounding like an overtone
From some lonely world unknown.
But the creaking empty light
Will never harden into sight,
Will never penetrate your brain
With overtones like the blunt rain.
The light would show (if it could harden)
Eternities of kitchen garden,
Cockscomb flowers that none will pluck,
And wooden flowers that 'gin to cluck.
In the kitchen you must light
Flames as staring, red and white,
As carrots or as turnips shining
Where the cold dawn light lies whining.
Cockscomb hair on the cold wind
Hangs limp, turns the milk's weak mind . . .
Jane, Jane,
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again!
2.4k
When you think
you're the only rooster
think again.
Rooster in the hen house
wins the hen.
The hen will stay
well behaved.
Until there's a hole
in the fence.
Then the hen will become
free rein again.
As the hen leaves
the roost!
That's when the other roosters
will strike again.
She will fluff up her feathers
to look the part!
Just Don't look away
for there is another
rooster up ahead.
This hen will react to
the new rooster
when it says,
cock-a-doodle-doo
That's when the hen smiles
and sounds off with
a cluck or two.
As the hen sticks her chest out.
Her tail feathers will go up.
The rooster she's with.
She doesn't give a flying
fluck
And the scenario
repeats itself
over and over again.
For this rooster is just
a bird brain.
It's all in his head!
That's what the hen
will say.
You're making it all up again.
So don't walk around to proud
saying,
**** -a-doodle-doo
with this hen.
She's not your hen.
She has to go back to
the roost soon.
She scored her points
with another rooster.
With it's cock-a-doodle-doo
That's all that matters
to this hen.
So, the next time
when the hen is outside
the fence.
She won't be cluckin for you.
It will be for the other rooster
that said cock-a-doodle-doo
in front of you.
For that rooster, does not care
who is with this hen.
As long as It gets
this hen in the end!
Back through the hole
in the fence.
The hen returns to
the roost.
Like so many times before.
To the rooster in the hen house
that
always wins.
Simba
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 11:16 PM UTC
The is my commune.
This is my sanctum.
It's transforming into something solid.
Somehow, the back cracks before it's due.
And I'm left with this twisted image of you.
My oh my.
How you have grown.
This body is something that you have never know.
You'll walk on my shadows and I suppose that I'll tug you along.
Churning masses that never happen.
I don't want you to stay here, but where would you go?
I'm not sure how to respond to this repertoire, this power play of sort.
I do what I do best, I'll turn my back on yours.
I'll fold you up and tie you to a carrier pigeon's leg, let it take you away.
The bag lady will feed you in the city park.
You'll cluck and duck like the rest of them.
Naked on the cold cement sidewalks eating bird food with your tiny little beak.
No one will see you but me.
And I don't care.
I'll jog right past your groveling hands.
You won't remember me, I'll be a dream in some forgotten land.
Go hide your head under your wings.
The dove that is the loudest, isn't always the most lovely when he sings.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
The Frog and The Bee and the Mouse with the House lived together in peace and harmony on the River Louse.
One day the Mouse with the house did declare it was time that he moved out of there.
The Frog and The Bee did not agree and set about convincing the Mouse with the House that he needed to stay on the River Louse.
They sent out invitations to all around to attend tea at half past three.
The tea party was in honour of the Mouse with the house to be held on the banks of the River Louse and hosted by his dear friends The Frog and The Bee.
One by one each creature replied and the guest list rose quickly to Twenty Five.
The Frog and The Bee decided the tea would be civil indeed and The Frog made some scones and The Bee made some honey.
At half past one The Frog and The Bee set up some tables to lay out the tea.
At half past two the tables were laid with the scones from The Frog and The honey The Bee had made.
The scene did look grand, pots of tea and saucers of milk all laid on a tablecloth made of silk.
At half past three the guests started to arrive.
The first of the guests to arrive were The Elf with one ear and The Fly with one eye. The Mouse was delighted to see his friends, the ones who helped get Horse around the river bend.
Next came the Horse and his Master of course to thank the Mouse with the House on the River Louse for his friendship and help on the day that the Horse could not get around the river bend and the Mouse with the House, The Elf with one ear, The Fly with one eye, The Frog and The Bee all pulled together and worked merrily to assist the Horse round the river course.
One by one others did attend, there was a duck who lost his cluck but the Mouse with the House helped him every day until he could at last say "cluck cluck"
Next came a ****** who had forgotten how to weave but the Mouse with the House lay out the sticks until the Beavers memory began to tick and the ****** remembered how to weave.
Then came a beautiful Butterfly with bright red wings. She told the Frog and The Bee that one day the Mouse had found her crying and sighing her wings had faded and she did not look grand a thing of beauty. The Mouse ran back to his House and in his shed found a can that had Paint in Red on the side. He took a brush and painted her wings and now the Butterfly all shiny and bright flapped her wings with all her might.
Last but not least the Mayor arrived with his glorious wife by his side.
Mayor and Mayoress Swan did agree that the Mouse with the House should not leave his friends of The River Louse and they would indeed miss him dearly if he relocated his house.
The Mouse smiled embarrassingly and said "I am sorry he did declare, there's been a mix up, when I said" I must get out of there" it was only to the shops I intended to go but The Frog and The Bee moved too fast or I moved to slow"
The Frog and The Bee and all the guests were all delighted with the news and brought in some music supplied by "Five in a Pen" which of course were all mother Hens and they danced all night until the Moon went in and the Sun came out.
Then the Frog and The Bee said to their friend the Mouse "let's do this again next year, and Mouse can bake cake for the tea, our friends can attend and we'll dance all night to Five in a Pen and we'll eat scones and honey and cake too and we'll do this in honour of all our friends and those who live and work on the River bend"
THE END
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
it's past mid September,
the modest gradations
(and graduations)
of temp and the indirectness
of the ever shifting sun
are not lost on the
the skin of the locals,
nor even the
summer sojourner, who
recalls the past rainy June,
and the "who knew that
winter lasted so long"
on this peculiar planet island land
the calendar dictates
that the obligations of the
living are fully recommenced,
and the avoidance of realities,
cannot be excused, refused,
but they go ignored for just
one more day, and the ever
more spectacular pastel sunsets
tease, "see what you will be missing..."
the skeletons of beach fires
doused by silver beach sand,
are the last to say, we will still
be here, even though you've
hasten to where we have no
counterpart, and though we
will blend back to just being
sand and driftwood,
in time for what we the
inanimate,
loosely call next year,
but not remarked upon
any calendar in any ink
we can read...
forty years some tribe
tented in a desert, before
finding shelter,
we've counted 46, summers,
passed, neighbors, too, the
landscape dotted with newer
arrivals, and we just cluck, like
so many others, at the longing ferry line,
those who walk on the road's wrong side,
the one or two remaining tradespeople,
who still call our abode by our predecessors
last name, wondering when, if we will make
that grade
so much more to say,
what we've witnessed,
what has changed, what,
thank god, hasn't
but the city wants its fair share,
of us, and our taxes true, so come
upon just another last day, and look
back in the review mirror, remembering
the first last day of many years ago...
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 1:44 PM UTC
Pulse.
Pub dub dub on my knees
Cluck cluck cluck on my thighs
Rub a dub dub on my toes
traveling, the curious pulse
I'm not in the mood to sleep
nor in the mood to sin
the heavy mass of imaginative hopes
Popped off the bubble sack
Truthhammer
dug
deep
sharp
gulp
pressure-stricken
a heavy ouch
let me sleep
I won't weep
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
I saw pig wearing white fronts
I looked
Perplexed,
Confused,
Laughter,
Then came out,
*"Never wear white, with an **** like that"*
Trotters to small to wipe,
"Skids bigger than the grand canyon"
Brown with white, I
Gagged,
Heaved,
Smelling,
Like crap, I just looked as it went
Past, I started to follow as it
Trotted along, It stopped turned
"Growling at me"
Woof Woof GGrrrrr...
"Ok its not just me? don't pigs OINK"
I stared open mouthed, fingers in ears
Making sure no wax had altered the sound,
"Did you just bark and growl at me"
"Ok I'm now talking to a barking pig"
It stared for a moment
Me at it , it at me
Then it clucked
Cluck,
Cluck,
Cluck,
Front trotters flapping wildly in the air,
And then quiet
From the white which turned more brown
Now fell an egg not white
You can guess what dropped upon the floor,
Shaped like an egg, but smelt rotten to the core,
Then it walked off on all fours,
"I was puzzled"
"A dog"
"A chicken"
"What more"
"I am forever off eggs"
Never seeing them the way I saw before,
It trotted to a farm,
A farmer I saw before my eyes
Opened mouthed, hands jested towards
The pig, dog, chicken thing,
O you meet harry, he's special you've seen
That's nothing wait and see,
"Harry what do you wish to tell the gentlemen"
"Dear sir"
"Would you mind paying up"
For what I confusingly said??
*"I'm the worlds only ventriloquist"
"Porker"
"Now you have experienced the show"
"Now pay up"
"I may be a porker, but I not stupid"
"The talking is extra"
What,
Why,
What,
Is all that spilled from my mouth
I handed over notes,
£10
£20
£30
Mouth still open, as I walked
Before I knew it at the hotel I strolled
In to my room, friends standing around
"What you get up too"
"You'd think I was telling porkers"
"Want a bacon sandwich"
I look at them opened mouthed
"Really"
They say I was as white as a ghost
"No"
I replied,
"I'm a vegan"
Since when they asked??
"Since about thirty six minutes ago"
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
Across town, there’s no across. It’s just the town.
The dogs being fed by master, master toys,
Makes dogs bend, cower, quiver, then shoots dog
Out of the bow. Dog gnaws air through gritted fangs,
Finalizes his stupidity, gives up on his own self-confidence,
And lets it roar with a hand up his ***
The pigeons coo, cluck, **** fly,
Coo, cluck, **** fly,
Coo, cluck, **** fly.
Foxes run around the yard chasing tails,
Motives based in circles,
Saving slowing down and puking for death
as they Yap like pups.
Master watches from a high gallery
of Windexed windows so clean,
That you can see master’s muscles tightening as master laughs.
happiness and darkness.
Cars, trains, automobiles,
Flying machines, high ideas, fulfillment,
Continuation, carbon and all things irrelevant,
Master loves you.
In town, Pop tells the kids he’s on his way,
Mama shatters into a million brilliant pieces,
And Grandad’s sigh comes out his mouth with the care of a habit.
The kids are corralled into the basement to play,
mess with each others genitals, and put on azalea dresses
And heavy suits with black ties.
With all the venom of moths
They let their little mouths flutter in the dark,
as Mama and Poppa hurl everything they can.
Master gets drunk on equilibrium,
High on acid, perks, dipped bud,
Brushes teeth with alcohol
And spits out his/her teeth in the morning.
Way after the dogs were put to bed to tuck their tails in their legs,
The foxes following suit, the pigeons in the middle of the mess, somewhere.
Mom, Pop, Kids, Grandad, finished talking in low voices around 11:16 pm.
As they shredded the charade, ashamed at all its pieces,
Their mouths watered; I have no hope.
Across town, it’s not a town,
It’s a random house.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
Silent, eagles hunt.
Chickens cluck, and strut their stuff.
Which are you, my friend?
~JNc
9-'15
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
She used her sway
Like a dangling watch
Swinging on a chain:
She stopped my eyes,
I was mesmorized,
Entranced,
In a post hypnotic haze.
If she snapped her fingers
I'd cluck,
I'd bark,
Do whatever she'd ask,
But she kept on swinging
And left me panting
In post traumatic stress.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Sad. and it comes
tomorrow. again, grey the streaks
of work
shredding the stone
of the pavement, dissolving
with the idea.
of singular endeavor. herds, the
herds
of suffering intelligences
bunched,
and out of
hearing. though the day
come to us,
in waves
sun, air, the beat of the clock
though I stare at the radical world,
wishing it would stand still.
tell me,
and i gain at the telling of the lie and the waking against the heavy breathing of new light, dawn
shattering the naïve cluck of feeling.
what is tomorrow
that it cannot come today?
-Leroi Jones
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
Ahhh McChicken, oh so sweet,
probably filled with beaks and feet
I want you in my tummy now
cause you're a chicken and not a cow
I love that you are just a buck
and that you used to cluck cluck cluck
I mean I think you did before you died
I'm not sure what you are 'cept fried
but ahhh McChicken you're my baby
I love that you're chicken (maybe)
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
*He holds the day like duck feather.
Good or bad weather
Silver dimes or rusted nails
Through them all he quietly sails.
On the way small flowers he plucks
In thrill’s quiver sings joyous cluck
When rough tides break him he reveals not crack
Doesn’t complain when the clouds are black.
If his wings feel weary he stops the swim
A shore he finds to rest in dream
For the duck feather each day is a gain
To swim in the pond, his piece of haven.*
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
knuckles ache
peel back the page:
Aurelius, Seneca, Epictetus
cluck the tongue
boys outside throw jabs
over a cracked
cricket bat
a father frets over
investments and client work,
simple things.
I read on
wondering how so many words
committed to tranquility
could be attributed to so many men
when women
trained stoics since the womb
would pen epics -
if only they were not plucking stones from rice.
Jun 11, 2020
Jun 11, 2020 at 10:17 AM UTC