We hid in the pig sty the other side of the path
That edges a cess-pool crossed by a little
Wooden bridge where the run-off from the cow
Shed passes just beneath, ahead the gate
To farm front door accross the well kept grass
I was not yet six.
I know because we left the farm
When I had reached that age.
The sty, breeze block built with rusting roof
Was where we met in secret, my older brother
And I, with two girls from Guston Elms,
A little down the lane. Felicity was the older one,
Though I can't now remember the other
Sister's name. One day we dropped
Our pants to squat and watch,
To see who could do a poo.
Though we pushed and strained and egged
Each other on, not one of us could do one.
Older, it might have been a bit obscene.
But we were only curious kids
Just starting to explore (not really even friends)
And we were well before that coming age
When fig leaves need to cover shame.
Such a beautiful mind, lone blossom in a sty
one to many times taunting the tempest's ledge
now the muse wears a crown of his ashes
caulked memories to fill the holes of our lives
Your fireflies have brightened the crags of time
while all the pretenders pretended to listen
but now its painfully clear that they didn't
now your final wish is a cryptic gift to the sky
Our stark walls now decorated with your spirit
with dream catcher and the keeper of stars
garnished in the pigment of famished petroglyphs
your soul making paths to the center of our heart
Your life was brief but much deeper than a sad lesson
I believe you're very much deserving of heaven
One would be flabbergasted by
All the stink that is in the sty
The pigs sure don’t care
The smell in the air
It’s a paradise for a fly
Russell Sivey
Citron yellow-
prussian blue
brings day and night
into view.
Two sides of a coin
- a shadowless wheat field
- a brush-stroked sky
Eye-impressions do not lie
WHEATFIELDS with Cypresses /STARRY night- Van Gogh
There was once a young man from New York.
Who had often pigged out on roast pork.
'Til a pig said, "I yam
Such a proud hunk of ham.
I refuse to end up on his fork."
11/20/14
da da dum da da dum da da dum
da da dum da da dum da da dum
da da dum da da dum
da da dum da da dum
da da dum da da dum da da dum
syllables 9, 9, 6, 6, 9
This is a new limerick written for contest
following required meter and with aabba rhyme
Hope this is what you want.
if you feed it, then
it will continue to grow --
litter on the ground.