Tag: napowrimo 2007

There was a young golfer from Troon
Who wanted to play on the moon
To his horror he found
When he started his round
That he kept hooking his drives.

~~~~~

I was kind of tired yesterday. So this is late and silly.

The blackbird on the rooftop sings
ancient songs of sex and death.
The woman in the garden thinks
the blackbird on the rooftop sings
a a joyful welcome to the Spring.
But with each lascivious breath
the blackbird on the rooftop sings
ancient songs of sex and death.

Half-deaf in a silent street,
bereft of bass;
as he inhales, his cigarette
lights up his face.

A fox slips through a broken fence
and hurries on.

Two tramps in an empty warehouse
roast a stolen swan.

A man peers past his sleeping wife
to check the time.

Snails cross-hatch a patio
in trails of slime.

Poems are like birds:
dinosaurs with airy bones.

Or like potatoes:
sunlight turned to stodge.

The treetops echo with the throaty hoot
of woodpigeons, nuthatch whistles
and the resonating thrum
of woodpeckers. All colours glow:
the orange of the blackbird’s bill,
the new green leaves,
milky wood anemones and golden celandines;
through the dapples stray
the first few butterflies.

Soon the swallows
will wake from hibernation
and squirm free from the mud;
from every pond
in ones and twos, then flocks,
like huge blue mayflies
pulling themselves free
of surface tension
and basking to dry their feathers in the sun
before a first flickering flight of spring
to gorge on midges.

~~~~~

I quite like the idea here, but the language is a bit earthbound at the moment. hohum.

Augustus Bagley, snaggletoothed and fat,
pants his way along the shingled beach
wishing he brought his hat;
the salty sweat, like bleach

burns in his eyes
but all he thinks of is the sting
between his thighs
where fabric scrapes on skin.

(There was supposed to be more of this poem, which would have made it a rather different thing. But time caught up with me and rhymes didn’t.)