Quail

I don’t know if you’ve heard the BLURT
of a skittering, flittering, twiddling QUAIL,
amongst the sifting shifting SHAPE
of its quail flock. Well, the sound my mind it kind of STUNG.

Insignificant

My
BIRTH, some decades ago, unheralded, dismissed,
EVADEd history books, almanacs and the like, brought no
GUILT to anyone, no disaster, or distress, no
QUOTH the priest, ‘This child is destined for great things.’

No recycling

AS KEW was to some the garden of perfection
BOOZE was my place of circumspection; me, the
PAYEE of drink’s full garbage collection, refuse none could
REUSE.

The Cadet

CADET may mature to general,
RIPEN through life to lead, to vanquish, now eating
BREAD, drinking water, while burgeoning a
CREED in brain that will later marshal every farm and river for battle.

APRON strings? Coddling? Might they stymie this path? Would
UNDER-loving produce the martial spirit through unfulfilled desire? Or love
ALIKE confer the needed element, a belief in fighting’s duty? Is the warrior
FRUIT of nurture? Or fruit of what else?

BLASTs in battles, wounds, flesh exposed and
SKULLs laid bare in daylight may be his tutors, may school to
VAUNT defiance, to fire steadily, to not be a
LIEGE of death, even as death blossoms all around. Or: will he be a

FLYER? Win experience at altitude, shot at no less, yet on
CHIME, with bucking controls, press a button, release bombs, and fight back to base?
VALID paths of warriors now outstrip bronze age Hector or Achilles. Yet, the shimmery
LUMEN of glory still entices. Death still eats its tithe before time.

Note: my first four day effort (I’ve had a few threes). Trying for coherence across 16 random words imposes its own fascinations.