This poem was originally entered into the Subject contest in the Personal Poetry forum.
We have this bag of beads;
They're glass and green and red.
My muse she spills them on her head
Like a giant pouch of Burpee seeds.
My muse is two not three,
And she'll tell you how it is:
"These beads are mine" she'll say, "not his."
And so I'll fain to leave her be.
This a poem that I submitted for the "Picture Poetry Contest".
Here' the image:
Here's the poem:
Rust reduces iron and steel
to a fine brown or red dust.
Water is the villain here.
Fe loves O so much
that he robs her twice over from H.
And the villain is quartered by a
Potent, acrid, & grimy --
the thing smelt like gasoline
like a hippie worry bead
probably torn & soft as tissue
paper even by then
his hands, which could not help
but paw the letter in his
Who knows what it said?
I sure don't. The ink was rubbed off when I
But I could still smell his workman's