The once was a writer with a bucket,
Who threw his drafts in it, because they “suck it.”
One day a thief came by
And with his bucket she did hie.
Now she has a bestseller. O’ the luck of it.
Tag Archives: August
“The Glade”
The Glade
Yes, the irony /
Is clear to me /
How you define being brave. /
If it can be done /
With your gun, /
Then my life can’t be saved. /
But wear a mask /
A simple task /
And you holy rant and rave. /
Over your dead body, /
And this said hotly, /
You to the world vouchsafe. /
Your creed is clear. /
It is death you hold dear, /
A charging bull in the glade. /
For another’s life /
No sacrifice /
Can ever or today be made. /
Compassion has died, /
Empathy hied, /
But with your gun you’re brave. /
You’re cold, dead hands /
Stretch across this land, /
But there is nothing to save. /
That shot in your arm /
You feared would cause you harm, /
Has no hope for you today. /
You’re the Bull Without the Mask /
And your soul’s task /
Is to drive life forever from the glade.
080121
Filed under 2021, guns, poem, Poetry by David E. Booker, rhyming poetry
Haiku to you Thursday: “Morning Glory”
Morning glory
Morning glory, what’s /
your story as August leaves? /
Frost whispers your name.
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