Stopping by the Pasture on a Snowy Evening
Whose cows these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To boff his Bessie in the snow.
My little horse must think me queer
To see me stop and call her dear,
And watches while I furtive make
My path approaching from the rear.
So happy to relieve the ache,
The craving only bovines slake,
I drop into a crumpled heap
Mid easy wind and downy flake.
The woods were lovely, dark and deep.
But I've a rendezvous to keep,
And miles to go before the sheep,
And miles to go before the sheep.
© Henry Hurst
Driving by the Office Park on a Bomby Evening
Whose war this is I think I know.
He isn't in the army, though.
He will not likely volunteer
to quit his job as CEO.
He's got a lucrative career
marketing military gear
that's mostly obsolete, yet brings
his business billions every year.
He golfs with presidents and kings,
greasing palms and pulling strings.
Bin Laden's free, we're deep in debt,
but those are unimportant things.
We haven't found those weapons yet
and terrorists still pose a threat
but he's got revenues to net,
but he's got revenues to net.
© Angie O'Graham
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Stopping by the Parking Lot on a Snowy Evening
Whose Jag this is I think I know;
his condo's in the next street, though.
He'd rather park in our cleared lot
than dig his car out of the snow.
The flat conversion that he bought
has no garage — no, it does not!
The richly lacquered red sedan
endures the wet and cold and hot.
Trustees and owners tried to ban
the actions of this selfish man.
One cannot just put fools in jails—
but he has costly Michelins.
Beneath his Palm Beach tan he pales,
but I've no pity for his wails,
and pounds and pounds of roofing nails,
and pounds and pounds of roofing nails.
© Mitchell Geller
Stealing Thy Words on a Slow Evening
Whose words these are I think I know.
His poems are on the Internet though.
He will not see me browsing here
to have my words sound like a pro.
My little mouse must think it queer
to be clicked with no thought near
between the words and fraudulent take
this dubious evening of the year.
I give his rubber cord a shake
to ask if there are more to make.
The only other sound’s the sweep
of cut and paste and dowdy fake.
My words aren’t lovely, dark or deep,
but I have publishing stats to reap.
And poems to write before I sleep.
And poems to write before I sleep.
© Paul Dickey
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