Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Monday, July 6, 2015


artwork by Eoin MacLochlainn
You let loose your crows
to pluck the grains from my splintered heart
I stand in the field
cracked and open
Bones escaping skin
Blood colored earth
red clay beneath my collapsed form
A broken scarecrow
Plucked too clean
to even crawl away

I tried to protect what was mine
But your talons were razors
against my flesh
Your beak too acute
Go on and scatter the seeds
of my trust
Your garden will grow to be
such an attractive quilt of lies.

submitted for Sunday Whirl, Wordle 206


Cathy said...

Love the sharpness of the images and the attitude too.


Jae Rose said...

There is a sense of schadenfreude which I adore - also love the mouse photos! Rodents are much maligned...

vivinfrance said...

I have love scarecrows and loathe crows! Your poem tells that story very well, with great use of the wordle words.

Magical Mystical Teacher said...

The image of the plucked scarecrow is both interesting and frightening. Usually one plucks birds, but now that tables are turned!

Whirling with Marge