No Antidote

DRUID with all his lore, in moment’s distraction tastes
CRUELty of creation’s estate. Fangs sink into arm,
SWELL begins in instant, time stopping on an edge. He watches
SNAKE wriggle away. Sometimes, creation’s dispensary holds poison only, no antidote upon its shelves.

Diaspora

DRUID, the last one, mutters
CRUEL invective against the newcomers, whose numbers and power
SWELL like the seas, pushing them out like
SNAKEs slithering, seeking warmth.

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This is the rare non Quordle poem post. I have been gradually transferring my Quordle poems from Twitter to here (my “back-catalog”; I’ve only 53 days left that have not been transferred, spanning from when I started in April last year till now). This also means we will have documented the full set of Quordle… Continue reading Tag your favorites

Make it Cool

GLEAM of idea strikes inventors brain.
BLUNT critiques have brought near surrender,
SNIDE jests have robbed his joy. Yet
RETRY he will. Finally make the Segway cool.

Temptation

GLEAM in the eye like the glint off a gun barrel,
BLUNT and subtle as that gun’s blast.
SNIDE comments to self are halfhearted restraints as worthless as
RETRYing a torn parachute.

Chase…

‘Is this a CHAFE MOVIE,’ asked the lisper?
‘Hang on, I’ll ANNEX it online and
TRACK the information down.’
‘Don’t worry,
I found it on my phone. It is a CHAFE MOVIE.’