Partisanship
Is a towering ship
Complete with a hoisted flag,
Not a flying, dying rag
Her height chasing Heaven,
Her crew certain that she is a haven;
The Civil Service only
To not on her embark,
To keep acting the Lonely
And it keep avoiding like a starving shark…
For civil servants could hundreds of things spoil
And as Partisans, free elections foil;
By this vessel robbed of Impartiality
And by it drained of Neutrality!
Partisanship
Is further a contemptible illness:
A crazy political worship
Of one with your own very weakness;
On the presiding seat
To sometimes ignite a worse heat!
And I reckon, Partisanship
Is a determined focusing flea:
To oppressors signaling their invisible hanging tree
And therefore every breakfast should include a nervous tea!
A conquering army
Easily making barmy,
When detect it couldn’t the Rebelling Enemy
And had to reschedule a victory’s celebration with St. Remy;
Now and then stomaching invisible bullets
Faultlessly dropping their men like pullets.
Categories:
pullets, devotion, emotions, political, power,
Form: Rhyme
Yepper-doddle, today I’ll use my own noddle.
My prized antique frame sustained a despised bust.
Wanting to show my man the tough dough in my crust,
I found strong glue and told that goo I was nonplussed.
Next, I grabbed frame, soda and sat on my sofa.
Three tries – no prize, so with both eyes quite wide,
I called the glue a boob lube, dumb as a square loop,
and threatened to incise its worthless insides.
I rose, fetched pose and a calming balm libation,
then returned to pestering with less sweltering.
Glue applied, both sides, I made my hands a vice
and, well fries n’ flies, I squeezed degrees of might.
Bullet sweat, my muscles clinched like a barrette,
I pressed longer than tourists eating pullets.
Then when gingerly, tenderly letting go –
glue thoroughly, tauntingly offended me -
son of a bee, ugly as his glue-mom-harlot,
refused to seam my antique frame back to its gleam.
Past bummed, I stood to sweetly summon my husband,
but my feet stuck to carpet, mucked as a tar pit.
CayCay Jennings
October 16, 2018
Categories:
pullets, husband, silly, wife,
Form: Rhyme
Who would feed the cubs?
Those that shall one day be scrubs,
The land that hurts but weaken,
The life of the poverty stricken,
Who would shelter the pullets?
With tongues spinning spits of fear down their gullets,
Quils that gather and habour,
Drink from no gourd of splendor,
Who would hunt for the fledglings?
Bearing cozz of the days proding,
Skies that hold their pride,
Not that it complements nor wide,
Who would guide the fingerlings?
Innocent youngers of the waters hovering,
Scales trading afore in line,
A battle when awe,too handsome to decline,
Who would care for the billies?
Ears that heed not voice that harries,
She who sounds the tone,
A rift with the throat,altered by a stone.
By the rivers that gather,
The manner of happenings,
I am hurt when weaken,
But by my tent,when I sit,
Beneath the towering heat,
Of which shall continue to repeat,
And like my fragile-skinned allies,
I am hearthy from within.
Categories:
pullets, africa,
Form: Blank verse
We had three large houses for chickens
Where we lived on the small farm
We got them when they were baby chicks
Kept them inside out of harm
We had a big bunch of chickens
Seemed like a thousand or more
They just reached the age of pullets
But there was trouble in store
Up in the panhandle of Texas
It could get mighty cold
It’s a must to keep the chickens warm
So temperature was controlled
If fact, there was an alarm system
Went off if it got too cold
It was night when the big storm blew in
Now let my story unfold
Found Chickens all stacked in the corners
They were all dead, no doubt
They huddled up, to try and keep warm
And froze from a power out
Just another tough time on the farm
Lost both the pigs and chickens
Good thing Dad had the business downtown
Or we would have had slim pickins
Categories:
pullets, childhood,
Form: Quatrain