By Damian Robin
In view, he made a start.
Filling up his cart,
He flogged his horse apart
And made a mess-age: “art.”
With few horse hairs of doubt
He fanned his ego out,
Used skills of nearly “nowt,”
Stored bugs in sauerkraut.
He keeps his heart in kind
And only shows the rind:
Dead life redesigned,
In emp’ror’s clothes, new lined.
He’s made his unknown known.
Some say, in deed, he’s grown.
This is part one of the short series “Three Human Types”
. Rondeau The rondeau echoes its refrain in a subtle way, just as rain at times will fall, not in...
Remains No-one saw them tumble empty down the fathoms, somersaulting gently on their way, at random caught and wafted...
Fully-flowered detail! I make a point of it, and many thanks for your appreciation, Margaret B.
"Their Words, My Fault" is a brain-teaser." Guess it depends on who did the actual saying! As for that motorcyclist…
A Big-Bottomed Problem Steatopygian fullness is a trait of certain ladies, And when a guy is dating one—well, damn it,…
Your frequent switch of perspectives helps move the poem forward or upward, Briana. Still. the title is "The Valley," suggesting…
10-year-old author's photos are a bit of a running joke... Which reminds me...
