Feathered philosopher

Image credit: Tristan Ferne

Philosophising woodpigeon
poses existential questions
each and every morning, without … fail:

Who do-you think you-are?
Who do-you think you-are?
Who do-you think you-are? Who?

My very sense of selfhood’s
undercut repeatedly,
I really doubt I ever … knew.

Before I make my own quietus
feathered Plato shifts next door,
interrogates our neighbours … who

will too, in their turn, have
identities belittled by
his nauseating bill and … coo:

Who do-you think you-are?
Who do-you think you-are?
Who do-you think you-are? Who?

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Alpha waves

WordPress Free Photo Library image

A is for Archetypes,
they dwell in our thoughts,
B is for Brains
hosting memes of all sorts.
C is for Cats which
we watch on our screens,
D is for Dreams where
all’s not what it seems.

Drone

Credit: WordPress Free Photo Library

My cat Florrie was flattened by a lorry.
My old pa was run over by a car.

My mate Mike met quietus with a bike.
My pal Ron fought a red pantechnicon.

Poor old Sue claimed that nothing ever stopped her — until, one day, she took on a helicopter.

Now I’m all alone …

Do I really hear a drone?

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Inspired by this post from Colin McQueen

Crit

Armed with the fabled fine-toothed comb, thinking verse should work well as a prose poem, I offer this crit as a well-meaning skit if it’s sure to convince all and hit home: write all serious verse out in long form if you want to weather the shit storm which goad online trolls; make them score only own-goals by asserting that stanza’s the norm.