Howdy - put this in your craw!
Tell your ma. Tell your pa.
Yes sir, you have my word -
verily, I'll pull my sword.
I'm the poet swordsman of Arkansas.
The bartender mixed metaphors
smiling her sweet simile
Allegory she would not settle for
serving up a passion-filled sonnet to me
In the throes of rhymes without reason
couplets stuck in my craw, mercifully died
She offered me a drink apropos to the season
~ plied me with iambic tetrameter ‘til I ‘bout cried
the birds make sounds I cannot imitate
I have tried, but alas, my mouth is not a beak
I have decided to trill, peep and whistle, I need one of those
chee chee chee we we ooh ooh ooh
whee whee whee craw craw craw
And yet, no matter how much I try,
I do not sound exactly like they do
There are no adequate words in the English language
I listen, and learn, and try again and again
But without a beak, I am an inadequate imitator
'Ridiculous'
Is In The Craw
Of The:
Behold!
The Ridicular!
Empty,
Wasted,
Un-Enlightened
Layers Of
Fabricated
Settle-Ment.
-Gray Squirrel
06-30-2025
Writen by owen hamalala
2021 ,18:51
Feding hope
Like the saw blade cutting through
The darkness to shade more light
U crash my soul without a care
Broken but never bothered to care
We care
My heart races like the rat race
Trying to pick up the broken pieces
Down we fall like the fallen angle
Like demons we raise from the ashes
Faithless and hopeless is what we have became
we seek justices in the world of the unjust
Perfection is what we seek but profound
Greed n lying is our perfection
Profound profile
Like a rush on my skin u creep
And craw your way to my heart
This world is full of noise,enough to burst,
your mind and destroy well being lust,
noise from traffic on ground and air,
from telly,s ,radios and everywhere.
Gies a break we aa bellow,
makin mair noise for fellow,
humans who walk the same path,
work it oot dae the math,
as oor cousins wid sey across the watter,
haud oan a meenit ah heed yer call,
whits wrang wi noise does it really matter.
Aye it does my fairweether freends,
caises pain in yins lugs and heid,
those wi issues hate this aa the time,
produces anxiousness and depressed need.
Get tae the wids trendies cry,
wildlife an trees wull help ye fly,
even in the daurkest realms of root,
tae mony bodies causing mair noise.
Jumpin in secluded pools delighted shouts,
or faaing fae the heevens oan broken sheets,
flapping ,twirling adrenalin urging,
Bikes hurtling alaang secret paths,
get oot the wey comes the noisy cry,
Lets shoot the craw and leave this place,
seek oot the spots tae find yer solace.
Ascending within; to feel my happiness climB
Setting out solo; internal ecstasy can providE
Carving contentment by relearning to crawL
Enjoying this wonderful spiritual crescendO
Noticing on the way; all little things contaiN
Dualities in me but don't require explaininG
Intrinsic kaleidoscopes; always up the antI
Needless is it to enforce emotional refraiN
Grasp the view feeling truest in belonginG
"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers…"
Every time I hear a kid recite this twisted rhyme,
I'm 'minded how 'gainst Mother Nature it's a crime.
What that peck of peppers was no one can tell,
Perhaps banana, jalapeño, cherry, bell.
But whate'er they were, it's plain, at least to me,
That such a peck as that came off no bush nor tree.
For years this simple nursery flaw
Has scraped, and scoured, and rubbed me raw,
And in my very craw the thing's been sticking.
So to bring the problem up to date,
And to try and set the record straight,
I've checked with Vlasik, Clausen, Kraft,
And all agree the notion's daft
That peppers can be pickled prior to picking.
Author's note: Of course, there could have been a typo in the original manuscript, and Peter actually "packed a peck of pickled peppers", or maybe Peter, himself, was partially "pickled" when he picked 'em.
Entered in Tom Woody's Nursery Rhyme Wackiness Poetry Contest on July 16, 2024.
Love is hardly ever spelt
the way it is written between the lips,
or how it shape its form upon a curling tongue as:
LUVE.
U see, you need the ‘you’ within it.
Luv sounds like ‘glove’,
for a hand must fit the glove,
and a glove fit the hand.
The R after the E must remain invisible
until the U becomes it.
‘UV’ is more than enough,
the V will fade away in time.
The 'L' must lick the roof of the mouth perfectly
or it is useless.
If you curse love
it will seep back into your being
riding a high tide:
a clean tide,
or a dirty tide – no matter,
both will make your lungs pound
in a dry craw.
All of this tidal ebb and flow
is luv pulling you back in,
for you cannot survive being
this fish out of water,
gulping for that very thing
you have yet to recognize.
It is quite correct to say ‘luv’
as if you were also saying ‘God’
both ‘luv’ and ‘god’ are not two words
but are, in truth, one meaning;
the words are only short-cuts,
a symbolic quick-hand,
for that One U to utter itself.
Beyond a shadow of a doubt,
There’s much to be outraged about.
But what gets my craw,
The final, last straw:
Chaco Tacos have been phased out.
The brazen wind flows through the naked trees,
where multitudes of scrawny fingers attached
to stout limbs conduct the aria.
the trill of the dawn
awakes the sedulity…
a wee tad foisty
With each sunrise a regimental instinct, as the craw of
the crow delivers the day, when as the lone Bugler
at his post, reveille resounds upon a torrent stream.
the chill of winter
initiates spiral breath…
fruit rots on the ground
The tempest from the Southern Ocean evokes nakedness
within this place, destroyer of all that was verdant, yet an
act of kindness, to ready life for spring to live once again.
through the morning mist
air is turning icy blue…
the tide rushes in
© Harry J Horsman 2022
Tossing and turning in Whitman’s grass,
Breathing every fervent loving sensate,
My deliberate doubts, you may bypass,
To obey the certainty of Christian dictates.
To some, my probes attack settled law,
My queries are grounds for execution.
I don’t mind those symbols wedged in your craw.
I just seek truths instead of words well spun.
Truth travels in a continuous passage,
Skipping along in temporary stays.
Its spice, I briefly taste like sausage,
I recall the tactile surges from hand plays.
Truth is the process of honesty,
It lacks fixation with fixed positions.
The honest house supplies the best prophecy,
The honest road brings wondrous conditions.
In my days remaining, I shall sing of myself,
No better or worse than anyone dwelling here,
Some believing in numbers have called me BELF.
But life never neatly resolves with answers so sure.
Resplendent quest, glorious uncertainty of rapture,
You are my radiant God, my unknowable religion.
Absent your pursuit, I live without color or texture.
With your passionate affection, I’m fully alive, in motion.
Watching Blackbirds
Again, I find myself watching the blackbirds
They come as a cloud that sits upon the ground
Each respecting his wingman’s space
As they pass overhead, they sound like a sudden spring shower
That comes, then goes, finding a place in the field
They move like water running across the way
Pulled by gravity to a lower venue
As they glean the area of worms, bugs and seeds
The rear faction takes to the air
Gliding to the lead for better feeding
This becomes a ritual that is repeated several times
Until the plate is empty, or the craw is filled
They rise in waves that join to make a twisted rope
Smoke from a generous campfire
Rolling, Roiling, tumbling and loping
They politely pass, waving goodbye
With each movement of their wings
And softly I can hear them sing
HAVE SEEN
I have seen mentors become tormenters
I have seen Shepherds lead there flocks
To the gates of hell like Berizebu
I have seen Fathers turn against their daughters
Beyond forested mountains and valleys
I have seen pretenders shade blood
Of their fellow human like lions on their prey
I have seen the right path swallow the passers by as the fish swallows it's bait
l have seen people live like paupers on their
Own land
I have seen equality kick the bucket on the
land that used to be joyous
l have seen famished men craw for survival on the city streets.
On the other side of the river banks,
I have seen animals treat their fellow as human
I have seen the glory of the mighty upon his land
I have seen the scenic beauty of the land where birds sing and dance for the humourous fresh feeds
TROPHY DEREK
Death Of A Sweet Gum
Miracle Man
3/14/2022
Leaves cascading as if indiscriminately lost,
casualties of nature and multiple nights frost.
Once a coat of many colors on our Sweet Gum Tree,
they’ve quickly become just more yard debris.
Leaving exposed, a tree with prickly brown balls,
that will winter as ugly until the last one falls.
This yearly problem no more sticks in my craw,
my light bulb moment was my Stihl chain saw.
Varoom, varoom, varoom.
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