A gaggle of geese
Honking their way to winter homes
Or ending up as down parkas
A murder of crows
Decorating highway light posts
Awaiting inevitable road kill
But the most colorful
And strangest of the avians
A grope of poets
Bald and hirsute
Beautiful and beastly
With flowing rhymes
Staccato blank verse
Searching for poetic justice
To balance humdrum lives
They grope, hope, can't cope
With futility filled futures
They grope, mope, slide slopes
Probing past perfidies
They grope, scope, do dope
Now knowing nothing
Strange birds indeed
And I am one of them
Fouling my own nest
fouling.....with no nest.....this bird is flying.....and ready to burn her wings...Very nice poem Roger
Love
Tinka
Reviewed by C. Gourlay (Reader)
Reviewed on October 7, 2002
You have nailed this to the wall of clarity. Perfect inside and out.
Reviewed by La Belle Rouge (Reader)
Reviewed on October 5, 2002
This was so clever, we are a strange gaggle, think that's the right word, little bunch of Geese!!
Reviewed by Calendula Petal (Reader)
Reviewed on October 5, 2002
when I start fouling my own nest I have instructed my son to shoot me.
I dont search for poems, they pop into my head with the rest of the rubbish I talk each day.
I did enjoy this.
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Tinka
I dont search for poems, they pop into my head with the rest of the rubbish I talk each day.
I did enjoy this.
Really like the way the end feeds the title.
Vicky
of those birds fighting for
a crumb of talent to be as
good as the rest.
Loved this , Roger!