Read Poem: ADRIFT, by C.P. Hickey

Sometimes my branch sticks out more,
it gets lonely.
Although, I’m first to touch the sun,
I’m also first to feel the wind and rain.
People, passing by, take turns swatting at me.
Drops of water settle on my upturned leaves,
I study the many reflections.
Until the air changes,
and my bloom falls away.
My core remains unchanged,
just more bare.
I’ve traveled a bit more outward,
while trying to reach the sun.
The others are following my lead,
but, remain conservative.
I know that I will be first to feel the cold settle in deep,
and the first to gather loosely falling snowflakes.

Read Poetry: SLIPPERY MEAL, by C.P. Hickey

 Like Tolkien’s Sméagol and Deagol,
Fighting for a ring,
I know two regal beagles,
That consume poop willingly.

Canines inclined,
With impassioned zeal,
Palates refined,
They never yield.

Gains, pains, and yellow stains.
My, how those pups do yearn.
Digging out fecal remains,
Yields the law of diminishing returns.

To some, unspeakable things.
There’s no way to dull it.
Saliva and Polly-O Pooh Strings,
Gliding down the gullet.

Wagging tails for slippery meals.
Who am I to judge?
What makes a puppy right as rain,
For chugging colon sludge?

I’ve tried to intervene at times,
Met only with low growls.
Dependent dog dispensary,
A store of empty bowels.

It takes a special vessel,
A superb specimen of daring.
A nugget to be wrestled.
There is no need for sharing.
Slip, slip, sliding.
No deposits on the lawn.
There’s no use in hiding,
The shit eating grins upon their maws.

Ponder, what would inspire one
To recount this commonplace?
The punch line comes at hot lunch end,
When they try to lick my face.

When all leashed up for walks and such,
We make our way outside.
Among flowerbeds and blades of grass,
These pooches squat astride.

If nature calls, they spin and yelp.
The dogs can hardly wait.
When gravity gives a little help,
Each will make a claim.

An angry eye.
An aperture.
Advent surprise.
Of this I’m sure.

The arrival of some sustenance,
From each small creatures bum.
Forgive my writhing countenance,
You know where it’s from.

Make no mistake,
There is no shame, as vile as it seems.
Turds find no earth,
But end in jaws of waiting devotees.

They can’t deny,
A fresh supply of corn-fed loaded nibble.
It seems to me it’s much preferred to,
Homogenized dog kibble.

In all my days,
I never spied such desperate lunchtime dining.
I relent, who am I,
To keep them from their mining?

In spite of me, they side with flies,
When choosing supple suppers.
Bon Appétit! Some slippery meals,
For eager beagle puppers.



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