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Poultry Prompt?

I had a stupid
clock that clucked,
cuckoo didn’t work for
f*ck
it clicked
the minutes
long–
and struck
the hour when it wanted. . .
it could be
quarter past or more,
5 o clock?
it clucked just 4,
and mounted square
above the door
I ran late as it taunted
–time and me
oh, chickadee,
clicked, and clacked, and rattled
pecking hands
that finally–
chucked it,
and skedaddled.

 
 
 
cuckoo

adjective/KOO-koo

 

Definition:

1: of, or relating to, the cuckoo bird

2: deficient in the sense of intelligence–silly

3: more compelling word prompt for Easter–Jesus, happy egg day, bunnies. 🙂

That Geo

he got the California

kicked outta him,

and moved to the land

with no teeth.

slurping snow cones

(which were always in season)

and glorifying bushy brows

–deeds to ghost towns,

and recycled rumination,

his views were limitless–

on a monthly basis—

limitless

–bounded only by Netflix

line-up.

Plus Remote


Easy Boys

watered terrace with rain

. . .

a comforting pattern

that raised ice-cubes

in night’s cool black blanket

–where sorrow stood sentinel,

& memory kept

breathing books.

 

 

By the Foot


Collecting

checkers,

I arrange them on a grid

–avoiding the final row

like Camus–

The plan’s to progress

to backgammon

counters,
 
 

–for which a suitcase is in order–

and once complete,

Chess is next move

–interlocking pieces shaping L’s–

eschewing base

of glass.

Extra Rib


Tired of PBJ’s

I wanted a different

kind of lunch

–a meal I made myself—

and having

plenty

of nut butter left

–and just scraps of other fare, and

Hubbard wherewithal—

the change was more difficult

than anticipated

–hard to palate,

but harder to stomach—

I chucked nuts

for chicken–

chicken

for

cheese–

cheese

for seed—

&

8

–comfort food I grew to prefer.

 

 

 

Oughta’ Correct

No gardener,

I clipped hedges

sparsely

–shaping waffles. . .

 
 

No chef,

those waffles

resembled nothing so much as

fences. . .

 
 

No guard

~or foil~

all 3 spoiled.

(while I looked on contemplatively)

. . .

yo-yoing

the Poet trees


If my poetry

were a tree,

it would be a

Gemel,

–wikipedia for trunks entwined—

a natural graft

of

olive

olive

olive

yew

(an all of you, 2—explaining both sides)

with branches that supplicate

without replication,

leaves that drop without going,

and fruit that pleases as it poisons,

the limbs which tips I occupy

–would be solid olive—

extending to the heavens.

 
 

 
 

 
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/branch/

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