Pack or Herd

It matters not where you belong,

the purpose is the same.

A young wolf comes across a fawn.

Sensing easy meat, she leaps.

In her grasp the fawn, he bleats,

Seeking rescue from the herd.

From three directions they converge

In response to the cries they heard.

They fall upon that young she wolf

With heads and hooves and mighty ire.

Now she’s no fool, this young huntress,

She knows it’s now time to retire.

Drops her prize and flees for home

With the herd in close pursuit,

Battering at her as she runs.

What damage they would deal is moot

For to her leader she quickly comes.

His stands his ground as she runs by

With the herd still close behind.

Growling deeply, he bares his fangs.

Halting, the old Buck meets his eye.

He snorts and stamps, their gazes locked,

A tableau frozen, endless as time.

And in that stare, a message passed:

You care for yours, I’ll care for mine.

Poetry Geek

While driving home this morning I came upon the scene of a vehicle accident. A young woman was sitting on the curb typing frantically into her iPhone, hastily composing an SMS, or email, or post, or twit, or whatever. My thought upon witnessing this was, “If it were me, I’d be composing a poem.”  This is what leapt to mind:


Upon broken screen 

composing poetry seems

one fine way to celebrate

continuing existence!


I guess the time has come to accept and respect my latent poetry geek!