"sprogg" poems
A Sunday and she will not eat
cabbage brew
or the plethora of stale mush
stuffed within
her trusty rusty biscuit tin
even tea stained
and netted dishcloths wane
like fossil flies
on toffee streamers that were baptized
with gravey drips
of the Irish stew from her whitewashed crypt
and papal’s sprogg
plays housies with the dog
we keep shtum .
When threadbare ears are in the room
cull the conversation cull
Go Moe less scale, leather hull
until our hallowed family makes
familiar curiosity and lemon cakes
she’s broke down so give her a push
Maybe ninety two.
It’s Monday and she will not eat.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
Such temple is my skin
Blood fills me within
As a sprogg faintly bargaining
The rushing steel is to me akin
Suddenly I see
In the corner of these eyes of mine
Things I once believed
Considered now but a crime
The drops drip down
Warming the rain that falls
Compared to a mare with no mount
Free, imense, and whole
Such temple is my skin
Blood fills me within
As a sprogg happily bargaining
The rash steel is to me akin
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC