Poetry Here (Mostly)

Posts tagged ‘writing’

Pigeon Poetry

Hmm, if Poe had written a smidgen
on an extraordinary pigeon,
and described its tapping on his pane
with intent to drive that man insane,
would his poem still be so well known
if a pigeon had stopped by Poe’s home?

There’s praise enough for the white-winged dove,
thought holy and a symbol of love.
What about pigeon kin in cities,
flocking to their downtown committees?
With gray pant legs cuffed above pink feet,
birds look lowly and far from elite.

Urban pigeons are working class slobs,
just getting the most out of their jobs.
When they flirt, bobbing heads and cooing,
on sidewalks where they do their wooing,
fast food bosoms plump with carbo fat,
quite alluring to a passing cat.

Together, pigeons fly and then preen,
occupied while traffic light is green.
Unblinking and alert for the red,
when their whooshing wings swoop down for bread.
What if Hitchcock wanted “The Birds” scenes
portrayed by pigeons, fearsome and mean?

They act romantic in St. Mark’s Square
where they play Venetian love birds there.
Pigeons oblige for photo taking,
like movie stars they get rich faking,
fed by tourists who branch arms like trees
and act enamoured by bird feces.

“Rats with wings,” Woody Allen remarked,
he must have seen them in Central Park.
I’ve said all I can and wish to say,
cannot pigeon hole them another way,
for crazy I might possibly go
like that ravened Edgar Allen Poe.

Preparing Poetry

Bees, please, you must fly out of my bonnet,
I’ve relied too much on your honeycomb.
A sugary sonnet, I don’t want it,
but can’t break habit til temptation’s gone.

Bees, too often I’ve let your syrup slip
sticky slippers on my poetic feet,
cloy-clad, they do not walk, they only sit;
swarm away bees and sting me when we meet.

Bees now flown elsewhere to do their buzzing,
poems unsweetened taste bland, without spice.
Perhaps, hot chillies so my words start cussing,
Asian, Cajun verbs enhance plain white rice.

Took off my bonnet, put on a chef’s hat,
cooked sonnet spaghetti, sauce this and that.


What a mixed up mess I have brought 
on my traveling train of thought! 

Can I find any useful thing 
in the crammed suitcases I bring? 

There is no reason for the need 
of dried-up poems gone to seed; 

Lines that tried to fly with “feather” 
but fell flat when rhymed with “leather”; 

Labored paragraphs I carried, 
so unlikely they’ll get married. 

Phrases incomplete when single, 
doubt this trip drives them to mingle; 

Subject matter I should throw out 
since no one reads what it’s about; 

Sickening sweet Valentine verse 
fattens my mind and maybe worse; 

The train chugs down its mindful track, 
loaded with bags I can’t send back.

The Need for a Quality Yarn

Words crochet
in stitches played
one line above
the other.

Twining not
much more than strings
and some knotted
random things.

No pattern
hums me along,
my brain’s lantern
lights no song.

I haven’t got
no tapestry
I’d call art.

On I go,
rough edge, I know,
wants basting.

Of what use
this crinkled scarf
but to blow loose
on mind’s wharf?

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