Ode to the Pig: His Tail by Walter R. Brooks
My tail is not impressive
but it’s elegant and neat.
In length it’s not excessive-
I can’t curl it round my feet-
But it’s awfully expressive
and its weight is not excessive,
and I don’t think it’s conceit,
or foolishly possessive
If I state with some agreessive-
ness that that it’s the final master touch
That makes a pig complete.
BTW: Completely unrelated to the poem, Happy Birthday Mother. I’d say how old you are, but I’d prefer to make it through the year with all my limbs still attached.
A wee little worm by James Whitcomb Riley
A wee little worm in a hickory-nut
sang, happy as he could be,
“O’ I live in the heart of the whole round world,
and it all belongs to me!”
So, the day this gets posted is my birthday. Yay. Anyways, figured this would be a good poem for today. It is one of the more powerful ones I found in that collection I copied, and I keep coming back to it every so often to reread it.
Continue reading “Flint”
One of my favorite erasure poems I have done, using text from Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. I really feel like I should do more erasure poems eventually, but doing them properly is quite a bit of work, and I can hardly get myself writing new material, let alone going through the selection process for an erasure.
Continue reading “Scarlet Ice”
Auguries of Innocence by William Blake
To see a World in a grain of sand,
And a Heaven in a wild flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour
The Wolf Cry by Lew Sarett
The Artic moon hangs overhead;
The wide white silence lies below.
A starveling pine stands lone and gaunt,
Black-penciled on the snow.
Weird as the moan of sobbing winds,
A lone long call floats up from the trail;
And the naked soul of the frozen North
Trembles in that wail.
The Sad Pawner by Chris McDaniel
I turn the sign over once again, telling the world
that the shop is open once more,
that their trash can be exchanged for wonders galore.
I grab the old carpet and leave it unfurled
to entice newcomers with its exotic flair.
I polish lamps and baubles in slight disrepair,
Waiting for the tinny jingle of the bell,
To announce sellers with gold and shell.
I settle into my old rickety rocking chair,
Prepared for another day of disappointment,
While I wait and fight off despair.
This job is the only possible ointment,
The only hope at recovering a lost treasure
And finding life still has pleasure.
Once more the sign turns
And my heart still yearns,
For a tiny lost ring,
More precious than a spool of crystal string.