While working in my flower bed,
a bird flew and buzzed my head.
I very quickly started to flail
thinking it must have been a quail.
I dove in a motion of herky jerky,
wondering if it was a wild turkey.
I looked at my cat with whiskers he was licken',
my thought it may have been a chicken.
I did not see not even a smidgen.
could it have been a very young pigeon?
Perhaps with any kind of goofy luck,
it could have been a Mallard Duck.
As it went by a feather came loose,
i noticed it didn't come from a goose.
It flew as fast as a speeding bullet,
no way could it have been a small pullet.
I stood up and removed my glove,
thinking it must have been a dove.
When I looked up it flew as an arrow.
To my dismay it was only a sparrow.
When handed a stuffed pullet
looks like a stunned mullet
should I turn surly
in high dudgeon
please don't bludgeon
this old curmudgeon
and not to be outdone
altho' I am an only son
blame my parents
by all means
as I'm the result
of their poor genes
which run the gamut
of the spectrum
but I don't care one bit
not a jot nor give a sh*t
more politely put
I really couldn't render
a rodent's rectum
Why did the chicken cross Abbey Road?
Because it was there,
but which came first?
Obviously, not the egg,
as it has no legs.
The first chicken to cross the road,
feeling peckish,
not one to throw in the towel,
when told, 'Walk, don't run a fowl,'
and, faster than a speeding pullet,
or so it is said,
was one giant leap for poultry,
one small step
for a Rhode Island Red.
But, by the look on the freckled face
of the old speckled hen,
arriving alive on the other side,
her tranquility was not expanded,
when she heard the words announced,
'The Eagle has landed!'
Tu Pac Shakur was a June Sixteen
And I, a June Fifteen;
Also, a full year my younger
But on our Third Planet didn’t linger
John F. Kennedy,
A bashed head, no remedy,
A May Twenty-Nine,
Like Tu Pac not a cat with lives up to nine.
Gemini Greats seem destined for the bullet,
Wherefore my fervent wish is that I remain a pullet
My everlasting consolation, our mercuric intelligence
The stupendous achieving with the poorest diligence.
Always The Ever Clever
To cobwebbed wisdom flinging 'A Never';
Of a soul crazily restless
With tasks striving even while listless:
Dying Laureate Yeats still pushing his poetic pen,
Perhaps thinking of another impossible ten!
Geminis are special people:
Both the seemingly simple
And the liable to cause a ripple...
Good bye to the late T. B. Joshua,
Whose healing of T. B. were sure.
Dust wraps him from his head to toe;
What more? - He's to bite the bullet,
For he's been busted by his foe;
Dust wraps him from his head to toe
And rusts his heart. Is that his flaw?
He clacks like a little pullet.
Dust wraps him from his head to toe;
What more? - He's to bite the bullet.
Chosen title: Bite the bullet
Nov. 1, 2020
Pick-A-Title, Vol 24 - Triolet - Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Edward Ebeh
Gregori, the tough-chik
Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin,
the most randy monk there's ever been,
declared chastity to be a sin
and to his persuasion he did win
of the fair sex fat and thin,
high and low, rich and poor,
on pinnacles or on the floor,
but he went a stretch too far
on entering the palace of the Czar.
He used mystic powers to impress
empress Alexandra, no less.
To no poison would he tumble
or even yield a tummy rumble.
To do him in took many a bullet.
My, that monk sure was no pullet.
SPRING-HEELED JACK
Spring-Heeled Jack was a very odd chap,
And a very odd chap was he.
His eyes glowed like a pyre,
He wore batman’s attire.
He was frightful not least
Because from the mouth of this beast
Spewed forth a tongue of blue fire.
Spring-Heeled Jack had a very strange knack,
And a very strange knack had he.
By way of a spoof
He jumped roof to roof,
And a ten-foot wall
Presented no trouble at all
To this Jack of the cloven hoof.
Spring-heeled Jack had a very tough mac,
And a very tough mac had he.
The soldiers might fire
But unscathed he’d retire.
He sure was no pullet,
Distaining each bullet,
And mocking the military’s ire.
Spring-Heeled Jack had a very sad lack,
And a very sad lack had he.
With a talent like his
He could have been king of show biz
And regarding high jumps
Jack would have been trumps.
What a deplorable waste of his whizz!
Spring-Heeled Jack had a very long whack,
And a very long whack had he.
Despite many a try
No catcher came nigh,
So through Victoria’s long age
It was Jack who held stage.
Though now, it appears, he’s more shy.
CONSIDER THE EGG
The eggs of chickens are very small,
But their use is quite versatile
Compared to the eggs of emus...
Let's think about that for a while.
Can be boiled, scrambled or fried,
Tasty omelettes, or even poached.
They are used in cakes for baking,
Or combined with bacon and toast.
Breakfast's choice is often eggs,
A very good start to the day.
Used in salads and sandwiches
Eggs can be enjoyed any way.
All custard tarts must contain eggs,
Which causes the custard to set,
This isn't done with emu eggs
As chicken ones are the best bet.
Rich in vitamins and protein
In nutrition they're very high,
Not the cause of cholesterol,
Your diet should give them a try.
The egg shell is oval in shape
It has colours of white or brown.
The hen may use a nesting box,
For eggs to safely be laid down.
The chicken's a worthy contender,
Though her eggs are smaller in size,
They're cheap to buy by the dozen
She deserves a Pullet Surprise.
Copyright © Vivien Wade May 2017
Uncle Scrooge had lost his wallet
He went mad and chased a pullet
He fell down the glen
Ended in cow pen
Mr.Scrooge had to bite the bullet
Crabo stirred up a hornet's nest
Called up Vespa for music fest
Vespa bit the bullet
Crabo braised a pullet
Faced the music they were so stressed
© Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
18 December 2014
The train, high-balling down the track
Could never keep up with ol' "Bullet"
For we all saw that he had the knack
To sweep Page off her feet - like a pullet!
I'll always remember Granpa Shreeve
at Eaton Road,where he+Gran dwelt,
a wide thick trouser buckled belt
no collar,braces+rolled-up shirt sleeve
He kept hens at the bottom of his patch
his soldier's back now bent to stoop,
collecting eggs from his home-coop,
each day letting them out to root+scratch
Organically grown,fed as range free
a pullet killed as a Christmas treat
each day a fresh egg for dinner or tea
Old-fashioned,a bit of a tartar,
far-off days..Gran was his domestic martyr
If they ask you of me,
Tell them u did not see me,
Though you can see it is me,
But tell them you did not see me.
The former me has faded away,
Now am new as a new born baby,
Tell them am saying bye to vanity,
Carelessness and waywardness.
Tell them i have been claimed by
The lovely unseen,
Tell them he made me matured,
I am no more like a vulture,
So,can no more be tortured.
When i was deadly like a bullet,
He made me calm and peaceful like a pullet,
When i was like carmeleon
He liken me to a champion.
Let ears hear different of me,
Let eyes see different of me,
Let the nose perceive different of me,
Even as a sweet fragrance.
The mouth,utter no more courses,
Tell them of me,my newness and me,
Please tell them for me.
I'll always remember Granpa Shreeve
At Eaton Road,where he & Gran dwelt;
A wide thick buckled trouser belt,
No collar,braces & rolledup shirt sleeve.
He kept hens at the bottom of his patch
His old soldier' straight back bent in a stoop,
Collecting eggs from his home-made coop,
Each day letting them out to root & scratch.
Organically grown,fed as range free
A pullet killed as a Christmas treat
Plucking feathers,a now forgotten feat,
Each day,a fresh egg for breakfast or tea.
Old fashioned and a bit of a tartar
His ways made Gran into a domestic martyr.
The pullet has found it's roost
The mighty elephant is endowed with a liar
while my love roams in the wind
looking for were to lay
My lips give in to dryness
like the plant in the harmattan
How long will my heart hang in the sky
Definitely o fall like a shooting star
He who hears my cries
Let him wipe my tears
He who bears my loneliness
let him make me a pillow
not only to lay my manhood
nor for my lips be wetted
But for ripe affection be tapped
by the desire of my heart
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