2014 #142

the paragraph was new
to the neighborhood
whose hundreds of corners
blasted hourly hundreds
of incredible stories,

around four hundred
of one and two of the other;
anyway, there were days
as the start as the caps
arose from the fields

who were rolling green blades
for villager bowls
and even old grumps drunk
in bowler garb staggering from pub
to church with layovers

in hell, their dinner jackets
really smoking for they picked up
the burning burrs and burning burrs
bring singe same as embers
yet aglow; anyway, the lights

were coloring the tents behind
the punctured basement
wall, and had no idea
the new stars had already brought
the red-ribbon presents


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in poem, poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s