"hoots" poems
It's within the grown out roots
where the Garden Owl still hoots
Sings the melancholy song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong.
It's within the thatching of the dwelling
And a failed attempt at fortune telling.
Beyond the garden of the bugs
Beyond the magpies and the slugs
A moon was folded into quarters
Grind it with pestle and mortar
Strip it down to crater powder
Feel it till the song sounds louder
The Garden Owl sings his song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong
And under the brown thatched roof
The girl detests her blue eyed youth
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
On a comfortable breezy evening,
my mum converses with her sister via Skype
exchanging quirky tales
They broach the subject of her lemon tree.
"It's the most peculiar case;
it was growing so divinely
until, suddenly, it stopped."
Silence. Then the punchline:
"Reminded me of your daughter."
They exchange hoots of laughter
Meanwhile, I sit in the corner
arms folded, eyebrows knitted
unamused
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
You see me as the bacteria
And yourself as the antibiotic
I see you across the cafeteria
Acting psychotic
Because of what I find ******
You treat me like I'm toxic
But you're seen as normal
So I hide beneath the coral
To avoid your aggression
That will teach me a lesson
About correctly guessing
Where your fists will go next
You tell me I want it like ***
This is your way to flex
To show you have an edge
You single out the marginalized
There's no way you'll hedge
When you have harm in your eyes
And then use charm as a disguise
To make me cry over spilt milk
Because I am not of your ilk
For I am as soft as silk
Like the sheets I want to roll in with you
Instead you shoved my face into poo
As my ***** grew
I think of killing myself
With my gun
When I think of filling myself
With your ***
While pretending I'm your son
And swallowing you like gum
Those are my ideas of fun
Yours is to tell me to run
From your intensely penetrating fists
That make me regret my penetrating wish
As you brandish the weapon
From the movie Inception
That launches you into my dreams
Giving my thoughts a singular theme
As my mouth continually screams
I was born on the wrong team
You wanted to exhibit your power
In this seemingly arbitrary hour
So you broke my nose
To show off for your hoes
An off the cuff
Attempt to be tough
But I found it deeply affecting
When I could feel your hatred injecting
Making me wonder if I'd ever be free
After I saw the only ending I could see
You move to strike me again
This time I have my mac 10
That I brought to school
For a one sided duel
You changed the trajectory of my life
By changing the trajectory of my bullets
You taught me about strife
You taught me how power is the coolest
You taught me to move on to your friends
Their lives I must remember to end
This is the message I'm choosing to send
When they sat back and watched the hate
Like it was 1938
I lost my sympathy
After being treated differently
And gained a ruthless anger
That turned me into a stranger
So I let the automatic gun spray
Faster than they could pray
For their hoots and hollers
I shoot their collars
Creating shade in the halls
That I make when they fall
The feeling goes to my *****
I become strangely intoxicated
By the death of those who hated
So I go back to your dead body
And do what you felt was so naughty
And now there is no one even around for you to tell
That I ****** your corpse while you watched from Hell
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 12:18 AM UTC
I am a cereal killer
Devouring Life is a thriller
Snap, crackle, and pop
I make the flakes drop
Stalking salubrious crunch
Murdered for breakfast and lunch
My appetite for Trix is voracious
For my Lucky Charms, I am gracious
Mud & Bugs haunt my soul
Desecrating Grape-Nuts whole
Yea, I'm Nut n' Honey and Cocoa Hoots
Krispy Kritter Krave Fruit Loops
I'm a cereal killer
Yet a community pillar
Can't comprehend why it's a crime
Unrepentant, I'll massacre cereal every time
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
the urban ecosystem
breeds the urban beast;
the two-legged feral brute
they board their clockwork motorcages
the young ones in predatious packs
the old, too weathered to care
animal autonomy
born from sweatshop routines
i imagine myself
as a metropolitan jane goodall
observing and assimilating
taking note of the cacophony of
hoots and and hollers
the city-born mating calls
the high-topped courtship dances
******* civility born from enslaved mindsets
a young, dark-skinned boy
let's rhyme flow freeformed
to the rhythm of a young girls dancing feet
stomps and claps excite the celebration
of abandoned social etiquette
and of my foreign presence
i resemble some exotic missing link
a mix of this, that and the other
my skin, a rare quilt
and this draws more attention
than a gold-dusted african queen
i place myself in the back
peering through the windows of this transit jungle
feeling my heart skip beats
boom...boom...shhhh...
i must've left my rhythm in my other heritage
because i can't catch the ancient flow
but my neck leads my head in bobs
my brain rattles with old soul memories
and i see these young folks on the train
held back by centuries of black struggle
but forever rejoicing in african pulse
forever embodying our ancestoral pride
and i think, how peculiar
on the outside looking in like a fishbowl
exiled from my own brown-skinned tribe
with my oppression fitted like a glove
my blackness a mere disguise
my blackness camouflage
my blackness
not quite
black
enough
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
The night approaches swiftly, like a tiger on the prowl,
As the night moves forward you can hear the hoots of Great Horned Owl.
The hours pass by and the clock keeps on ticking,
And here I lay on the couch just thinking.
In my time of relaxation I pondered and I thought,
Is the path that I’m on a wise one or not?
Hour after hour I begin to feel sleepy.
So I rush to my bed, relaxed, until I feel something beneath me.
In a rage the room turns pitch black, with flashes of red and yellow.
And in a panic I jump off my bed and run like a crazed fellow.
The door slams shut and my panic becomes deeper,
Until I hear the voice of a mysterious twisted creature.
“He says be wise with decisions that are made with haste,
You would never want a fortunate opportunity to go to waste.
Never feel forced to be on time with what you choose,
Because it will not be the respect of others, in which you lose.
Indecisiveness is wisdom, which with time will bloom,
So from here on out do not spend your days in gloom.
If these words are not followed, a different life you shall live.
A life in which you are selfish and refuse to charitably give.
One that is chronological and filled with bland affairs,
A life that is careless and lacking in truths or dares.
In the blink of an eye light pours in from spontaneous lightening,
And in a matter of seconds this all feels more frightening.
I turn to open the door, but the door will not open,
Scared for my life, I scream “This isn't the path I have chosen.”
As I lift my head up and turn around, the monster in no longer there,
At last my room is filled with light, it was all just an insightful nightmare.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Owl slept in the tree’s hollow
but the silly Grasshopper
on the branch outside
made incessant noise
‘Kind Sir,’ said Owl,
‘would you stop singing
and allow me to sleep?
I’m nocturnal
and sleep by day
and so I need some quiet now.’
Grasshopper
looked proud
and rubbed its hind femurs
against its fore-wings
and it said:
‘Ah, Sir Owl -
Eminent Naturalists have come
to record me make my most melodious songs
and they kept away, if you must know,
from your uncouth hooting!
So I will continue singing
and you may live in envy if you like.’
‘Oh it is most true,’
said Owl.
‘You sing most wonderfully
and I but screech.
But come in and I have
a potion
that the Goddess of Song
has just given me
that will soften my hooting
and bring your song to perfection.
You already sing like a sensation,
O Highly Sought-After Grasshopper –
you’ll be even more appreciated after….’
And straight Grasshopper
with a magnificent leap
jumped to Owl’s home;
and straight Owl ate the singing insect
and indeed Grasshopper
was even more appreciated after….
And it is whispered in the forests
Owl’s hooting improved
due to a certain potion
Owl had acquired
from the Goddess of Song
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
Crushed Crayons
Strewn pastel shades
Origami boats
Report Cards
Algebra
Geometry
Detentions
D+
D+
Hoots
Shrieking
Mocking
*****************************
MAMA – YOU CRYING ?
No-just a little chalk dust…
MAMA – WHERE IS DADDY ?
Close your eyes
Place your hand
On your heart
There’s Daddy …
MAMA – YOU CRYING ?
No- just a little star dust …
MAMA – WHATS THAT ….?
Twinkle..
Twinkle…
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 1:01 AM UTC
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
3.6k
A ***** drills inside my core
It nags, graps, pans, the hands
They knot in spins and twists
My crux left at the river side
Breathing,gasping fast, faster
Body out in the open rawness
Persisting resistance of the force
An outward shield winning
Winged left,right, up, down
Another day, a greater pace
A passive taste, ranting in haste
In bricks ***** all I taste is hate
All walking in dead silence
Heads shouting with dreams
A roll of sweet and sour sate
Echoes of taxes and budgets
How will they evolve us?
Snatching more from pockets
The rockets burst to mock us
Pulling our all to fund them
Nuclear bombs creating tombs
Distribution of lies and wars
Missiles disposing as lyrics
An objectification of reason
Figure brushes on magazines
Incisions of bits and **** hoots
To boost of the hot posed ***
No truth is scaffolded as real
A psychological brainwash
Pollutes and limits indefinately
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
Raccoon tapping on the windowpane
Fuzzy beggar, growing tame
Evenings longer, midnights colder
My love and I
Just a little bit older
Quarter moon above the trees
Wind blows softly, rustling leaves
Would you love me if I lost my hair?
No, my dear
And don't you dare
Dog curling up by the potbelly stove
Whiskers peek from the old mouse hole
Grandma's quilt has a brand new patch
No more cookies
Or I'll get fat
Rocking chair got a squeak again
Sniff the air, smells like rain
Horned owl hoots from out the wood
I believe
All life is good
Before I die I want to know
All the winds and why they blow
All the forests, every stream
Why you smile, babe
When you dream
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Waking breath ghostly frozen, clang of pot-belly stove opening, cedar crackles good morning, sap sizzles, pops, melting. Warmth finds children sleeping, humid air, mouth-breathing. Smell of boy sweat and feet, young women ripely sweet.
Cats purring, stirring, padding quiet down stairs, weave meowing through mom's legs. Dented percolator burbles better days, snap of toast burned haze, molten mush bubbles burst, fade. Birds early on the highway Paradise-seeking, time, flash-burned, fleeting. Cobalt jay mockingly complains, chickadee sings his own name, coyote wails, thin and plain.
Children rise, sleep in their eyes, squabble over bathroom prize, eldest wins, click, locks herself in. Hurry, hurry the bus is coming, ancient driver, annoyed and honking. Brown-bag lunches crinkled running, feet slapping, seats squeaking, lungs hot and bursting. Ride the dawn breaking, hearts aching for more than this, rural bliss.
Stop sign flashes caution, young lovers in the back seat, bodies in motion. Stop, start, sway on down the highway. Engine mimics hot blood lust, accelerated diesel rush, nothing can stop us. You grab my knee - young, carefree. Brakes sigh and hiss, sneak one last kiss. You mouth - meet me later, we'll sneak out, rush to a future we haven't got, ready or not.
The old road at dusk, frog song accompanies us, bike wheels on the asphalt hum, forbidden moonlight run. Feel your heartbeat on my spine, frantic drumming matching mine. Horned owl hoots, forlorn and bleak, a premonition we refuse to heed, reckless with need. In the clearing young love begins, forget-me-knots on burning skin.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
Shasha: If you like then u should’ve put a ring on it.
Emily: A.) not the right song b.) not singing time yet C.) What’s your name?
Shasha:BUT I WANT TO SING !!! And I’m Natasha
Emily: Sorry about that folks I’m Emily. We are the Purple People Peepers
Shasha: Purple is the color peeping is the uhm.... Dollar??
Emily: Well who here knows about the smurfs?
Shasha: Smurfs??
Emily: Yup.
Audience hoots and hollers
Emily:Well sometimes if I embarrass Natasha enough she looks like a smurf.
ShaSha: You weren’t supposed to tell people.
Emily: Sorry.
ShaSha: Emily shush its my turn.
Emily: Well alright.
Shasha: We’re gonna be singing!
Emily: Yeah... What song?
Shasha: We Wish You A Merry Christmas!
Emily: (Gives Shasha a sarcastic look) And A Happy New Year?
Shasha: What song is that?
Emily: (Gives Shasha a confused look) Or, we can sing the song we planned on singing.
Shasha: (Smiling) Okay! (Turns and looks at Emily, very confused) What song is that?
Emily: I Want You Back by
Shasha: Cher Llyod!
Emily: No, The Jackson 5.
Shasha: The band?
Emily: (Gives her another sarcastic look) Yes, Natasha, the band. The group, Sweetie, The Jackson 5 is a group.
Shasha: I know, when are we gonna start singing?
Emily: Right now.
Shasha: Great! Who’s singing first?
Emily: I don’t know!!! How about Hermes??Maybe Jesus??
Shasha: \What does that have to do with the song?
Emily: Really? I hadn’t thought about that *sarcasticalIy
’
Shasha: Because you’re not smart like me. (smiles and points at herself proudly)
Emily: Yeah.....thats why.....
Shasha: Tehe
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 10:37 AM UTC
the gray grasses sang sweet songs,
without even a breeze to move them
the coyote howls were marrow yellow,
crimson, as their sour colors sifted
into the night
lightning streaked my charcoal
sky, and I could taste it, a salted butter
that tickled the throat on the way down,
the sonic booms it hatched smelled of baked bread,
and I hungered for more
then a white owl spoke to me,
but I did not hear it call my name
no, not mine--though its hoots formed ice,
chunks which pummeled me, froze me
to the bone
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
Through the fields of stars and through the black forest,
And always West, trailing behind them a glowing disk,
With their frizzy coats and gnarling smiles; the heroes try to **** them with meteors.
Scattered shards of stone-fire bits, and the ashen paw prints evading it,
…and the horse shines upon Lykaon’s grave.
Howling are the wolves of Phanes, their number growling with the rains.
And matching windy howling screams, with hoots and hollers inbetween…
The great horns point at the wolven den, from which Fenrir’s gaze sees all man’s sin.
And the flames of Cerberus lick the hori-zon;
…as he descends into Hell’s cave,
And the Drakon hungry for lycanthropes, he hunts the plains of Hades;
But the cunning beasts avoid him while calling out to the moon, over their master’s grave.
Calling out over Lykaon’s grave,
Cyclopean-cotton collects, a smoking pillar covering guide. Obscuring the light and now they are vexed, as the Lykos struck down, they have died.
And their flesh is what the Drakon does crave, as they are devoured on the stones of Lykaon’s grave,
…at that place known as Lykaon’s grave,
Struck down with asters
and gobbled-up,
over Lykaon’s grave.
Wyrd-wolven stars at night
…over Lykaon’s grave,
A werewolf at,
The entrance,
To the cave,
And that King,
…who stands before Lykaon’s grave.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
were you a 50's
godchild in the city,
wing-tipped feet
running the streets
all week, ketchin hell...
then you gots that check
come friday
and needed a taste of heaven...
you and the dog pound
swung mid-town
to broadway & 47th
after 9,
and joined the line spilling
from the royal roost round 48th...
by 10, the joint was jammed
with gents well-coifed,
matching honeys, and the sounds
of money being made:
chime of silverware ~ cling,
and the cash register's ~ swish cha-ching,
and the chatter of guests,
servers and bartenders
doing their thing ~ wah da bing
then the lights dimmed
leaving a semi-dark haze
of gray smoke swirling
over the crowd,
and mc symphony sid
grabbed the mike:
*"...welcome to the friday nite jam session
at the metropolitan bopera house
ladies and gentlemen...."*
hysterical hoots and applause
followed
as the circular spotlight paused
center stage,
unveiling:
~ the miles davis nonet ~
featuring,
max on drums,
john on keys,
gerry and lee on sax
and a genius
on trumpet
'twas the birth of cool
and soon the rhapsody
of modern jazz
waxed hypnotic,
casting a spell
over god's children
when budo chased lady bird
down allen's alley,
spittin'...
riffin'....
boppin'...,
poppin'.....
superfluidity
like acid through
varicosed veins
the earth stood still
it seemed
for 4 thrilling hours
as heaven rained a rifftide
onto the lucky crowd...
and dewey's sublime trumpet
exorcised the devil
from the week that was...
~ P (Pablo)
(7/24/2013)
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp
Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse
Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating
In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright
Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
Dear, Diary
***** this, all the girls already know
I'm a sappy loot
That's okay, every tree has it's roots
And every owl has its hoots
If not, something's wrong, son.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
Sometimes,
I imagine I'm some
mourning starlet
who sings Lana Del Rey
at the club
every Saturday night.
A honeyed halo of stage light
tangles itself about
the curled labyrinth
of my hair,
sparkles gold against
my tearing irises.
My mouth parts
and the war cries begin.
In the moments that
the melody offers
my voice repose,
I pound shots to the beat
of the drummer's ramblings.
The crowd applauds
my tipsiness,
their hoots of praise
shaking at the depths
of my eardrums
like an intoxicated tambourine.
My neuroticism
fascinates these people,
I think.
Not in an
exploitive,
let's-glamourize-depression
kind of way,
but in an
it is a truth universally acknowledged
kind of way--in a
******* cuz I've been there too"
kind of way.
See,
within my little,
concocted fantasy
of stage light
and music
and *****
the people don't judge me
the way they do
on the outside.
Here,
I am not
melodramatic or
overly sensitive or
disposable.
Here,
my war cries sound
a little less
like death and
a little more
like poetry.
Here,
they love me
in spite of the sadness.
Here,
we share a song--
here,
they sing with me.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 11:24 PM UTC
Between Five and Seventy Five By Phyllis T, Halle November 9, 2009
At night, we would whisper, brother and I, that we simply could’t wait
For the coming days to fast fly by; til that breath holding, happy morning
When, while we were sleeping, a little fat man in fur trimmed coat and boots,
Would sneak into our house and leave gifts so grand; then we’d rise with hoots!
Oh! The time would fly by!
and he did!
and we did!
It was grand!
At night, now, I think to myself, that the days are still whizzing past
but no jolly morning is coming on fast
When the house will be filled with family and laughing and song
So, I think I must have done something forbidden, cruel or very, very wrong
For my life did fly by!
And memory taunts
And loneliness haunts
Yet it all was grand!
For life is a series of anticipations ! I always taught my children, " Anticipate nothing! It is the only way you won’t ever be disappointed! "
Yet anticipate we must. It is something that flows in and out of our days and nights.
When the day arrives that nothing is worth anticipating, then life has lost all meaning and becomes a black hole, ******* all light and joy from breath and thought.
~.~
So, now, no red suited fur warmed chubby fellow with cherry cheeks and hard working reindeer will ever come again, to delight this child’s heart that still beats (though sometimes, reluctantly.) Now, reason strongly teaches me: This Time! Yes, This Time! you can indeed anticipate and no disappointment will drown your hope and joy! This Time!
This time! You will not awaken on a bright morn, where there are harsh words and quarreling, nor sad, nor chilling feelings, nor to seek comfort from the cold, hard, stiff legged, staring doll that lay under the sparse little tree. This time! The promises of that bright morning will prove warm and true and my earthly mind will no longer struggle with 'whys' and 'what ifs' and 'help me, Lords.'
For the promises of standing before my Maker, my Savior, will make all that was confusing and difficult, come clear and easy before my soul.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
Night was ruled
by deceit, every moment,
deepening shadows moved
with poisionous intentions,
knives of sharp lights
they hid behind their back.
An authoritarian owl,
angrily kept threatening its opponents,
by repeatedly stabbing
the silence of the night,
with his shocking hoots.
When the cadaverous moon
slyly came out of cloud thickets,
trotting foxes hiding
behind gravestones,
made intermittent eerie howls,
lacerating the dark muteness.
A mighty night bird,
off and on, drew its shadow,
across the moon's surface,
but never felt satisfied
The barking dogs
all at once stopped,
and created panic.
Like death knell,
wind made noises,
on the foliage of trees.
A dejected lover,
wrote a melancholy note,
spilling out sad thoughts,
in the faint light
of a dying oil lamp.
An adulterous woman,
impatiently waited
near her half opened window,
looking out for
her midnight paramour,
who never keeps time as promised.
The night stood still,
spreading its serpent hood,
listening to million secret sounds
watching everything,
without batting an eyelid.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
Many houses have been cleaned on ***** window routes
Terraced rows and bungelows and other glass recruits
Customers of differant types some casual, some suits
Pleasent ones and lovely ones, some of them fun hoots
One window shined, revealed behind someones bathroom door
An awful sight giving us a fright, more than we bargained for
We went to clean it was abscene, that horrible thing we saw
Showing his snake was it a mistake, or was he just a *****
Every time we went to clean situations would get worse
We didn't want to catch a glimps, of his ****** immerse
A naked burden it bacame, why was he so perverse
***** windows should remain to conceal that bathroom curse
The anxiousness we both felt, how low he always sank
Unwanted sightings of body flesh and yanking on his plank
Disgusting ways of a deprived mind, so very dark and dank
***** windows are one thing, but not when you ******* ****
We did not want to ascend, with each ladder run to climb
knowing what awaited us we didn't want to see his slime
That bathroom window was regular, he did it every time
His kind of antics should be re-classed as a life of grime
We're not interested in plonker pulling a real discusting stunt
Nakedness we don't want to see, or a nasty shiveled front
Your ***** windows are to much so we will both be blunt
Keep your wanking to yourself and **** off your ***** ****
We don't care how many times, or how much you try
There is no necessitation to see your small **** eye
Confess your sins and tell your wife and don't you effing lie
That you've been bathroom wanking and flashing your cream pie
We told him we're not cleaning, when he dosent wear a stitch
And because he had to ******* **** and treat us like his *****
We're not your pleasure ****** when you've got that certain itch
Your ***** windows we wont clean when your mind is in a ditch
It's time us girls said goodbye you've made us ******* cross
Window cleaners we may be but your not our wanking boss
So now we're gone and you know why, my friend it's adios
And all because you had to flash and have a bathroom toss
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
Overgrown grass
On the path
Hidden by a sharp bend
Dank and dark
Grass underfoot
Well trodden and trampled
By countless shoes
A journey cut short and retreated
Mysterious hoots
They begin to beckon
Strained ears
Listening for a welcome
Clumps of foliage
Waving a greeting
Tickling the thorny thickets
Eager for a meeting
*Dare I step forward?
Dare I choose this path?
Dare I make this choice?
What will become of me*?
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
I dreamed last night
of a battle field of frogs
much like opposing human soldiers
we have seen
in their violent play:
there was a general leading
his battalion to war
riding a bloated frog-soldier;
and the frogs used reed
to pound and beat their enemies;
and some used green shoots as rifles
and many a frog, I can assure you,
they did croak in the battlefield…
What does this dream
of the war of frogs presage
for us mice and rats in the city?
I have yet to ask the owl
that hoots nightly in the hollow
of the tree in the park
but my instinct tells me
there'll be a great human battle
and we'll have plenty to eat
for generations to come
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 5:22 PM UTC
The chill of winter bites into the skin
And the valley sleeps in muffled din
In the freezing blustery winter night
The shivering trees stay huddled and tight
Stars have lined up in the sky
With cotton clouds swiftly sailing by
The moon light seeping through the veil
Makes the foliage glisten in the dale
Sharp noises sounding eerie
Leave the valley a place so scary
These sounds parley in a tongue unknown
Of gory tales, to none ever known
Did some cannibal tribe once congregate
In this nether territory to live segregate
What midnight revels had they held
No one knows and history remains cold
Now, here amid thickets and thorny shrubs
Where darkness, like a Fiend proudly struts
And in leaf fringed corners and crevices wide
Serpents coil with poisonous fangs in hide
Look, the sly fox walking stealthily away
After feeding greedily on his hapless prey,
Through the ravine and down the furrow
How he sneaks into his covert burrow
The glassy brook that mirrored the skies
Now in dark, under a thick blanket lies
But the water rushing through pebbles and rocks
With sonorous music, the nightly calm breaks
Among the branches of towering trees
Birds have perched and roost in peace
Little birdies with downy feathers
Cuddle under their mothers splayed wings
From far off woods comes a shrieking howl
As frightening as the hoots of a night owl
Wind, rushing through needle pines
Sounds like a child when he, in pain whines
Now the valley sleeps in muffled din
Until the Sun for his daily ritual parades in
In day light this valley would be up and awake
And life for sure will a renewed turn take
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC