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Poem Parade

Verlie Burroughs is a west coast writer from Vancouver Island.

poem-parade

Limerick Gent

There once was a writer who went
around with a poetry Gent.
Together they would play, with
words all bloody day,
knowing it won't pay the rent.

Salmon

So, I had to fillet it,
It was cleaned, and froze last summer

thawed in the fridge.

The knife wasn't great.
serrated steak knife,
but I digress
The salmon filleted easily,
and what remained I fed to the Crows.
The one 'king' crow stood
on the backbone,
warding off any who
dared get close.
Although a few did
join in when he wasn't looking.
I watched
from
a window
when it
was over
the bones
were
picked clean.


Creeks II

Down the dim green hills,
tall budding alder trees trace
lines of pearly pink.

Now

A bitter cold morning
ice on the car
had to slow down
look around
I wasn't going far
Just across the street
with the sun
rising on the trees
looking up at that
moving closer
I saw a big shape
way up, shining like
a big lump
of gold on a branch
in the sunlight.
Suddenly crows flew over and around
the big golden what?
I ran inside the house
got the opera glasses
And the what? transformed
into a baby eagle perched
stiffly with wings
slightly unfurled
just lightly forming a
golden halo around
his shoulders and chest.
The crows continued
to harass but he stayed
still and calm.
I got on the phone.
Called conservation, called bird rescue.
Just watch, I was told.
So I did.
Watched for awhile
studied this majestic bird,
greeting the sun
slowly lifting stiff wings
as they warmed.
Of course I ran inside to find
the birdbook
and missed
him
fly
away.
This was my day
today.

Once Upon A Time

A portrait of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth hung in every classroom.
Frogs croaked at night in the creeks.
Easthope engines played murmuring tunes over the tides at sunrise.
Door to door rumors spread over coffee.
Children lined up all day.
Movie was in the hall, bag o'chips and a pop
Nights with the radio glued to the pillow
Signal received in scratchy non-stop noise with
a song fading in and out from somewhere
else.

Letter to a Census Clerk

When I am in the past
and you receive me,
living in these words
don't be amused.
It was my purpose all along
that you perceive me
as a poet, first, and last
when all is gone.

When we are in the past
who will care?
A census clerk will know
that I was living
here.
Single household
female
writer?
"Hmm", she says.

A hundred years later
when she opens up
my file to find this
note, she'll know.
I wrote.


Napowrimo 2018 Http://Www.napowrimo.net/

A 30 day poetry challenge! Poetry night and day! No time to rehearse, or tweak the verse. What could possibly go wrong?

© 2018 Verlie Burroughs

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