Friday Poem
© 6 Jan 2012 Luther Tychonievich
Licensed under Creative Commons: CC BY-NC-ND 3.0
other posts

Friday Poem

Nonsense about scarecrows and air flows.


Untitled Poem

A darker wind has fallen through the flue that guards the air
  It shutters, it stumbles, it sighs,
As the pale breeze is calling for a jacket and two pair
  (“‍One straight-hemmed, one roll-cuffed, this size‍”).

In the valley of the living stands a scarecrow, freshly dead.
  Its tailor is serving the breeze.
To the darker wind it’s giving a clean place to rest its head
  And blankets to cover its knees.

Dead scarecrows all are racists, fooling breezes, aiding winds;
  The breezes are wealthy, you see?
And they’re also “‍moral Marxists‍”, robbing if it meets their ends,
  I hope that they never cross me.

Looking for comments…

Loading user comment form…