in The Fort

It's a Good Cloud Day

blue skies, nothing but blue skies...

...& some fluff



flying thingys

peekaboo?

that's way over my head

Rhyming Wednesday, rhymeless, sorry.

Rage Against the Poet

A poem is like an
Anvil dropped from
An impossible cloud-like
Appendage into the
Lap of a devil.

Until the imp recoils
From the touch
Of an angel, the
Anvil will remain hot
Like an ember
Then, in a cloud,
Steam will force
The fiend to clutch
At its red poker orbs
To drop the burning anvil.
Like gnats from a kicked pip
Tiny angels
White and windblown
As a dandelion seed head
Scatter and coalesce
To the anvil, fluff
And pop into smoky blotches,
Sacrificed to cool
The anvil until a
Smattering of the laboring
Diminutives lower the
Smoldering weight onto
The head of some
Love-struck waxing shmuck,
Then conjure from
Reddening lumps
The cherubim packing ice to
Soothe loves hard lesson--
While the poet suffers on,
Torturing the inflicted with his
Rhyming couplets
From hell and back again,
Mistaking Dante for
A sweet strawberry sucker.