2014 #238

pampas plumes whispered.
Called a soft lazy wind
doing nothing at that moment
except lounging, slung,
like a python, over an oak’s
thick arm that laughs at all the weak

neighbor trees shedding already
(oak laughed, not the oak arm).
Pampas plumes had the wind
hop to it, make them sway
so they could whisper so wrong ears
would never suspect

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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.
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