A place to read, write and critique poetry of all kinds.
Welcome to the poetry workshop for summer 2009! Please read the instructions in "author guidance", grab a mug of tea or coffee and join us!
Here is a poem I wrote to start us off:
Salutations from the tipy-top top
of the tallest tree on our tiny farm!
Up here I can mimic crow calls or chicken clucks
and nobody cares but the circling
vulture with his ugly red neck
and a puzzled expression in his beady eyes.
My toes wiggle free on bark
and I can tell you why—not my fault!
Eeking oozeful vengeance
the bog did claim my shoes
and my socks received holes
from sticks and rocks and pokey things
and so my feet are naked feet
and dirty too, at that.
And my feet aren’t the only troops in trouble.
The bog and the sun have formed a treaty
and determined to ruin all.
My neck is red as a stop sign
and my face feels like hot coals
without the dream of marshmallows
to inspire my poor burning nose.
And still the battle comes on other fronts.
Bur bushes are contriving plants
and plot evil plans to paint my shirt—
my poor clean shirt—with prickly
painful catching burs. It is rather
brown-grey in patches now instead of blue
and mummy won’t be pleased.
But mummys are never pleased
when children ruin things
and I know that really I shouldn’t.
But sometimes everyone is against me—
field and sky and dirt and twigs.
And brave little me must boldly walk the land
in fun and mud and tangled sticks
until the sun lowers his guard
and my tummy calls me home.
So I’ll come down from my tree now,
down from the very tippy top.
And tomorrow I will find my shoes
and mend my socks and pry the burs all out.
Or maybe mummy will,
because mummys are so very good
at fixing things like that.