Happiness, you swooped like a buzzard,
snitched her keg of skin and bones
and pinched between a laughing beak,
a dead rag doll. A hook, a heist,
and in a swipe, soaring upwards
to perch on the branch of a tree.
Ripped and shaken like a giggle
She is moved
to a chuckle, a chortle,
a crow.
Your curled beak cup digs deep
and she is captured
meat.
You are observed
feeding, filching a cop
of meaningless,
beaming – or that is her,
exhilarated;
she marvels as you cheat her
of misery
because surely you feel nothing;
functioning.
.
Comments
littleditty | October 8, 2008 - 15:47
old poem, cant translate it into Bombaise, so its here in English
queen beatle | October 8, 2008 - 15:51
Great! I especially liked the bit "ripped and shaken like a giggle". I can't tell whether it's a happy or dark poem.
luigi_pagano | October 8, 2008 - 17:10
They say that the old ones are the best, wee ditty.
Good poem full of imaginative lines and peppered with good alliterations - hook, heist, chuckle, chortle, crow etc. (I will let others find the rest).
Did I tell you I liked it? I did.
Luigi x
littleditty | October 8, 2008 - 18:36
thanks both - found this, hm.
"Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth. We are happy when we are growing."
-- William Butler Yeats