Brainless head.
Five-member mob.
Core sample for a lead mine.
The last word’s epitaph.
Stump.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Bridge to Nowhere
- Natural Faculties
- (Re-)Claiming the Body
- Ceiling snakes
- Train Song
- Surgery of the Absurd
- Notes toward a taxonomy of sadness
- Weeding
- Blanket
- Forecast
- Curriculum Vitae
- Lullaby
- Fist
- On Reading The Separate Rose by Pablo Neruda
- Gibbous
- Song of the Millipede
- Autumn haibun
- Bread & Water
- Jersey Shore
- Initiation
- October dusk
- Goodnight moon
- Antidote
- The Starlings
- To the Child I Never Had
- Ambitions
- Learn Harmonica Today
- Two-line haiku
- Sleeper Cell
- Unchurched
- Turnips
- Homiletics
- Magic Carpet
- When the Wind is Southerly
- Connection
- Ground Beetle
- Étude for the World’s Smallest Violin
Boy that’s good! A poem like a fist, about a fist. And now it’s stuck like a burr in my mind. Dave, you are one clever, clever man! Well done my friend.
I was going to comment on the fist-like structure of the poem, but I see I have been beaten to it already. Indeed, well done.
Thanks, Clive and Maria! Praise from you two makes me think I might’ve gotten it right, though for the longest time yesterday I was convinced that these were only the bare bones of a poem.
No, hardly bare bones. This was fully fleshed out, albeit in short-hand.
Great piece of writing, Dave.
“Short-hand”! Thanks for the chuckle.