A year's worth of poems, every week for 52 weeks, spanning 2023 and 2024, plus the years following, from August 2024 to August 2025, 2025 to 2026 (provided I live that long, of course).
Thank you, Charles's Cornucopia 🦃. I've contested the Charlie Chaplin thing a couple of times, won once, if I remember correctly. But it's the kind of thing I try when bored and have nothing better to do - just doesn't seem to have happened lately.
Old crow survivor
always comes out top,
both passenger and driver
when searching for his crop.
“Carrion’s my bag,” he says
“and that can mean whate’er
I find or steal or possess
it doesn’t really matter.
“What counts is I am fed,
the easier the better,
and so to rest my head
when sun becomes a setter.”
And so with many a caw,
he shouts triumphantly -
“Go feed behind your door,
and I’ll master what I see.”
Line count: 16
Rhymed abab
For Promptly Poetry Challenge 6, Week 13
Prompt: Write a poem about a bird! Any bird, any color, your choice!
Note: This not all I have to say about crows but it’s all he cares about. Some day I may write more on my perspective.
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