wings beat
like a loud roar
and a blur of brown
as the grouse darts in
and out of birch
and spruce.
My gun swings up.
I shoot and
miss.
Air and trunk are all I kill.
Eight shots. No prize
to show. I guess
it will be beans
for chow once more.
(I've been reading Dumas' "Three Musketeers." And in the story, Aramis writes a poem using only one syllable words. I thought it would make for a fun exercise. And this is the result.)
1 comment:
It's odd (ironic) how limitations enhance creativity. I would like to try a poem using only Anglo-saxon origin words. Almost all of the most commonly used 100 words in English have that old root origin. They seem elemental and honest. Lincoln's Gettysburg address is all, or nearly all this vocab. A lot of them are one syllable.
Post a Comment