https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/ Wed, 15 Apr 2026 22:04:53 +0000 MyBB https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27240.html Fri, 13 Mar 2026 21:39:52 +0000 Quixilated]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27240.html a paper bed, a paper gown

My wife and I raise meat rabbits.
Someone on a TV show
said, “Bunnies. They just want to die.”
It’s true.

We haven’t gotten to the meat
part yet.

13 live births, 2 still,
1 eaten by its mother
(they do it when they’re poorly),
then 1 could not nurse,
2 dead in the night,
3 when they were weaned.

Each body gets a shroud 
of paper towel,
and I think how death
can tell a story.

How at 27 I worked
a summer in hospice
and heard a man cry,
I’m dying as if warning
the living to get out 
of his way.

Or how my friend died
at 13 in a house fire,
shielding her little sister’s
bones.

Or how last Tuesday 
the MRI sang for me
again, one half
of a waulking song, a
call-and-response,
clouds painted on
the ceiling for the 
claustrophobics,
calling up the weeping
range of the sky.

There is no response.
The rabbits are both
living and dying with eyes 
like coal. I wrap them
in paper and nothing
will come undone.


-----------------------------------------
Original thread can be found here.]]> a paper bed, a paper gown

My wife and I raise meat rabbits.
Someone on a TV show
said, “Bunnies. They just want to die.”
It’s true.

We haven’t gotten to the meat
part yet.

13 live births, 2 still,
1 eaten by its mother
(they do it when they’re poorly),
then 1 could not nurse,
2 dead in the night,
3 when they were weaned.

Each body gets a shroud 
of paper towel,
and I think how death
can tell a story.

How at 27 I worked
a summer in hospice
and heard a man cry,
I’m dying as if warning
the living to get out 
of his way.

Or how my friend died
at 13 in a house fire,
shielding her little sister’s
bones.

Or how last Tuesday 
the MRI sang for me
again, one half
of a waulking song, a
call-and-response,
clouds painted on
the ceiling for the 
claustrophobics,
calling up the weeping
range of the sky.

There is no response.
The rabbits are both
living and dying with eyes 
like coal. I wrap them
in paper and nothing
will come undone.


-----------------------------------------
Original thread can be found here.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-25683.html Sat, 08 Jun 2024 02:30:39 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-25683.html Departures

Today
    my skin
    accepts
    the pollen
      alone amongst
       smells of returning
         home  stickily humid
         spunk of grass            
         greedy and green and damp and furled
         everything
     I've been given

 On the other side
of the planet
those frail leaf-lace things 
everything
    I've given you
the transformed browns and violets
so out of place
in airport terminals
with ceilings like palaces
somehow emptier
than sky

Original can be found here]]> Departures

Today
    my skin
    accepts
    the pollen
      alone amongst
       smells of returning
         home  stickily humid
         spunk of grass            
         greedy and green and damp and furled
         everything
     I've been given

 On the other side
of the planet
those frail leaf-lace things 
everything
    I've given you
the transformed browns and violets
so out of place
in airport terminals
with ceilings like palaces
somehow emptier
than sky

Original can be found here]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-25477.html Wed, 14 Feb 2024 13:53:52 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-25477.html Dust

No sense to be made
of this little flower
the color of impending death
importunes
every breath is guess work
arrives no where at all

light warped evenings
take the air at odds and ends
train horns punctuate.
To morning
it’s all beginnings, then day explodes
into identical fragments.

No beginning, middle or end
will satisfy this miller.
He grinds everything to dust.


Original to be found here]]> Dust

No sense to be made
of this little flower
the color of impending death
importunes
every breath is guess work
arrives no where at all

light warped evenings
take the air at odds and ends
train horns punctuate.
To morning
it’s all beginnings, then day explodes
into identical fragments.

No beginning, middle or end
will satisfy this miller.
He grinds everything to dust.


Original to be found here]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-25041.html Fri, 02 Jun 2023 22:33:35 +0000 Quixilated]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-25041.html April Takes a Walk 

An old man walks with a shuffle,
his feet stirring the red-gold rustle
 
of dried leaves.  A low winter sun
casts a shadow, broad and long,
 
almost tickling his grand-daughter
up ahead.  She occasionally looks
 
back to see if he is still there,
but mostly she walks along, unaware 
 
of his smile.  Poking around with a stick
she finds a crocus newly broken through
 
the moist ground.  A purple tongue
getting its first taste of spring.


————
The original thread can be found here.]]> April Takes a Walk 

An old man walks with a shuffle,
his feet stirring the red-gold rustle
 
of dried leaves.  A low winter sun
casts a shadow, broad and long,
 
almost tickling his grand-daughter
up ahead.  She occasionally looks
 
back to see if he is still there,
but mostly she walks along, unaware 
 
of his smile.  Poking around with a stick
she finds a crocus newly broken through
 
the moist ground.  A purple tongue
getting its first taste of spring.


————
The original thread can be found here.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-24998.html Tue, 09 May 2023 02:38:31 +0000 Quixilated]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-24998.html Memento

I was with him when he found it
discarded among cedar and limestone,
the skull of an 8-point buck that he plated
with chips from a shattered mirror.

A record of my son’s painstaking labor -
breaking the mirror, selecting the chips,
affixing them, patient and compelled.

I look into the skull’s mirrors,
meditate on the chaos of my visage
reflected in a kaleidoscope of loss.

In this curiosity of bone and silvered glass,
did he see an indifferent universe 
where his future would be denied?

It’s a universe we share. He is father to my grief
and I am father to his memory - this skull
a jagged memento of shadow and light.



——————————
The original can be found here .]]> Memento

I was with him when he found it
discarded among cedar and limestone,
the skull of an 8-point buck that he plated
with chips from a shattered mirror.

A record of my son’s painstaking labor -
breaking the mirror, selecting the chips,
affixing them, patient and compelled.

I look into the skull’s mirrors,
meditate on the chaos of my visage
reflected in a kaleidoscope of loss.

In this curiosity of bone and silvered glass,
did he see an indifferent universe 
where his future would be denied?

It’s a universe we share. He is father to my grief
and I am father to his memory - this skull
a jagged memento of shadow and light.



——————————
The original can be found here .]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-24825.html Sun, 01 Jan 2023 15:45:09 +0000 CRNDLSM]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-24825.html Homo Naledi

Accidental creatures 
crawling deep into caves
to return their dead 
by flickering firelight
to the original dark.

Brains the size of oranges
they chitter and claw
feasting on antelope.
Predators cannot follow,
cock ears and listen,

smell smoke and drift on.
Fresco of time’s children
watching their shadows
play on the cave walls

their prehensile laughter
does not forget the dead.
They wait for no God,
no Savior, only sunrise.


*Original thread can be found here]]> Homo Naledi

Accidental creatures 
crawling deep into caves
to return their dead 
by flickering firelight
to the original dark.

Brains the size of oranges
they chitter and claw
feasting on antelope.
Predators cannot follow,
cock ears and listen,

smell smoke and drift on.
Fresco of time’s children
watching their shadows
play on the cave walls

their prehensile laughter
does not forget the dead.
They wait for no God,
no Savior, only sunrise.


*Original thread can be found here]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-23761.html Sun, 05 Sep 2021 22:52:13 +0000 Quixilated]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-23761.html Rayuela

I was going through your books,
the ones I didn’t keep,
to trade them into a strange world
that never knew you.
I came to Rayuela;
it looked as if it had been left out in the rain,
or fallen into a toilet,
swollen, warped, stained,
I started to toss it into a garbage can
but instead thumbed  through it
to find hundreds of pressed flowers
hiding every 50 pages or so.
They are all the same flower,
now almost transparent white
more like bizarre squashed insects
but I recognized them from the photos,
the pictures composed of dried flowers
that you made in Spain:  a seahorse,
a goldfish, two lovers.

Now this book is a relic of your passage,
the touch of your fingers
preserved one hundred times over:

I’m thinking a cedar box,
sealed with copper nails,
added to my reliquary of pens found 
when we cleaned out your car,
and the sun-faded Topo Chico bottle found in your garden.
Then I will build a shrine
out of limestone and cedar
in the oak grove that we cleared together.
Finally I will have a place to pray
and a spirit worth praying to.


* Original thread can be found here.]]> Rayuela

I was going through your books,
the ones I didn’t keep,
to trade them into a strange world
that never knew you.
I came to Rayuela;
it looked as if it had been left out in the rain,
or fallen into a toilet,
swollen, warped, stained,
I started to toss it into a garbage can
but instead thumbed  through it
to find hundreds of pressed flowers
hiding every 50 pages or so.
They are all the same flower,
now almost transparent white
more like bizarre squashed insects
but I recognized them from the photos,
the pictures composed of dried flowers
that you made in Spain:  a seahorse,
a goldfish, two lovers.

Now this book is a relic of your passage,
the touch of your fingers
preserved one hundred times over:

I’m thinking a cedar box,
sealed with copper nails,
added to my reliquary of pens found 
when we cleaned out your car,
and the sun-faded Topo Chico bottle found in your garden.
Then I will build a shrine
out of limestone and cedar
in the oak grove that we cleared together.
Finally I will have a place to pray
and a spirit worth praying to.


* Original thread can be found here.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21981.html Fri, 14 Dec 2018 03:02:58 +0000 billy]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21981.html       Uncertain Love in a Time of Perpetual War


Fiercely fighting, and fiercely dying,
another day another hassle, mostly caused-
brought about by me. Why?

Do I not have the same windows
and see the same world?
Was the snow so much colder for the nazis
and so made them so much more mad?
Well they had their day in history,
when is my reprieve from cold and hunger?

Cold and hunger for something other than
noxious sunlight and food;
I have plenty of that, even the poor are fat in America.
When will my door open on something?—
When someone comes to me and knocks, it's me that feels unwelcome.

But I have my dreams and my memories,
and a stack of hopes taller and wider than me;
maybe if I don't lose them or my house doesn't burn down,
if they're not already fading like the smell of my favorite book
which was the only thing that let me remember my grandma's voice
and the best of times with my old best friend,
I can carry that bliss to the door I cherish
and knock without feeling like a boor.

---

by rowens

the thread for this poem can be found here
hope you all enjoy it as much as i do.]]>       Uncertain Love in a Time of Perpetual War


Fiercely fighting, and fiercely dying,
another day another hassle, mostly caused-
brought about by me. Why?

Do I not have the same windows
and see the same world?
Was the snow so much colder for the nazis
and so made them so much more mad?
Well they had their day in history,
when is my reprieve from cold and hunger?

Cold and hunger for something other than
noxious sunlight and food;
I have plenty of that, even the poor are fat in America.
When will my door open on something?—
When someone comes to me and knocks, it's me that feels unwelcome.

But I have my dreams and my memories,
and a stack of hopes taller and wider than me;
maybe if I don't lose them or my house doesn't burn down,
if they're not already fading like the smell of my favorite book
which was the only thing that let me remember my grandma's voice
and the best of times with my old best friend,
I can carry that bliss to the door I cherish
and knock without feeling like a boor.

---

by rowens

the thread for this poem can be found here
hope you all enjoy it as much as i do.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21885.html Sun, 21 Oct 2018 23:07:31 +0000 billy]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21885.html One Star in Sight by Rowens


October is my favorite month,
and so the most difficult month,
washed away on gallons of thought,
my nightmares come to be friends
and my dreams are sweet and breathed
into me on the air of autumn.

The old middle school and dark backroads
and underground towns I seem to find myself in.
These are not symbols but real.
I see evidence in the rock quarry
and the stone tunnels under tiny bridges.
I see them in my family and in my friends.

There is a light between the sun and moon
that is not a reflection but is;
like the self beyond the mirror and accepted
knowledge. The love (that brings her back)
like Greek gods and local folklore
and proven urban legends on streetlit highways.
Bright melancholy of doubt and acceptance.

A certainty beyond faith.
The fields are dark now but
yellow, and I can feel them.
The breeze blows gently in voices
the humming silence in the distance makes frightening,
frightening in the still silence of all present moments
day or night, but especially night
in October, where she, or something, anything,
could be there, listening.

---

I've read this poem more than a few times and each time i'm amazed at how well some of our poets write. for me this is one of rowens best poems and well deserving of the spotlight.
the poem and thread can be found here]]> One Star in Sight by Rowens


October is my favorite month,
and so the most difficult month,
washed away on gallons of thought,
my nightmares come to be friends
and my dreams are sweet and breathed
into me on the air of autumn.

The old middle school and dark backroads
and underground towns I seem to find myself in.
These are not symbols but real.
I see evidence in the rock quarry
and the stone tunnels under tiny bridges.
I see them in my family and in my friends.

There is a light between the sun and moon
that is not a reflection but is;
like the self beyond the mirror and accepted
knowledge. The love (that brings her back)
like Greek gods and local folklore
and proven urban legends on streetlit highways.
Bright melancholy of doubt and acceptance.

A certainty beyond faith.
The fields are dark now but
yellow, and I can feel them.
The breeze blows gently in voices
the humming silence in the distance makes frightening,
frightening in the still silence of all present moments
day or night, but especially night
in October, where she, or something, anything,
could be there, listening.

---

I've read this poem more than a few times and each time i'm amazed at how well some of our poets write. for me this is one of rowens best poems and well deserving of the spotlight.
the poem and thread can be found here]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21866.html Wed, 17 Oct 2018 03:13:11 +0000 billy]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21866.html
How I Miss You

The metaphors get mangled
into cliche
and all that flooding and fire
wouldn't touch you anyway.

So no, it won't be some sad poem
that solves you.

It won't be me reducing you
to similes of oxygen
or nicotine
or Dad.

It won't be me endlessly pretending
you could live on paper.

--------------------------------------------
You can find the thread here]]>
How I Miss You

The metaphors get mangled
into cliche
and all that flooding and fire
wouldn't touch you anyway.

So no, it won't be some sad poem
that solves you.

It won't be me reducing you
to similes of oxygen
or nicotine
or Dad.

It won't be me endlessly pretending
you could live on paper.

--------------------------------------------
You can find the thread here]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21438.html Sun, 25 Feb 2018 08:31:02 +0000 Leanne]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21438.html Inheritance


When he was five, young Gerald’s father spanked
him angrily for playing near the edge,
tormenting animals, and most of all
for toying with himself.  Young Gerald learned
what things were right and wrong, and soon forgot
those loving pains and terrors that had taught
him which was which.  At thirty-three his shrink
recovered memories that showed his angst was caused
by rage and anger, violent abuse
his father had inflicted on a son
he hated.  Gerald took it all to heart
and never punished his son Ted except
with smiling time-outs.  No-one could explain
why Ted turned out sadistic and depraved,
thrill-seeking and amoral - unafraid
of playing near the edge.  Old Gerald thought
this vicious streak must be inherited:
Ted’s grandfather, he told himself, was mad.


* Original thread can be found here.]]> Inheritance


When he was five, young Gerald’s father spanked
him angrily for playing near the edge,
tormenting animals, and most of all
for toying with himself.  Young Gerald learned
what things were right and wrong, and soon forgot
those loving pains and terrors that had taught
him which was which.  At thirty-three his shrink
recovered memories that showed his angst was caused
by rage and anger, violent abuse
his father had inflicted on a son
he hated.  Gerald took it all to heart
and never punished his son Ted except
with smiling time-outs.  No-one could explain
why Ted turned out sadistic and depraved,
thrill-seeking and amoral - unafraid
of playing near the edge.  Old Gerald thought
this vicious streak must be inherited:
Ted’s grandfather, he told himself, was mad.


* Original thread can be found here.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21437.html Sun, 25 Feb 2018 08:25:05 +0000 Leanne]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21437.html 1977
 
The streetlights have only just come on
and Father’s summoning whistle 
stabs into the park.
 
I could kiss you quickly
(before it gets dark)
and have an excuse 
to turn and run.


* Original thread can be found here.]]> 1977
 
The streetlights have only just come on
and Father’s summoning whistle 
stabs into the park.
 
I could kiss you quickly
(before it gets dark)
and have an excuse 
to turn and run.


* Original thread can be found here.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21435.html Sun, 25 Feb 2018 00:53:21 +0000 Leanne]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21435.html Skeleton On The Sea Floor

It just appeared there one day, fused to the seabed 
as one clinically depressed merges with their mattress
or decomposes into couch cushions. Weight fell
like a thick blanket over their face as they slept, 
convincing the mind to keep dreaming and the lungs to surrender. 
It just appeared there one day, like a woman 
of thirty-five suddenly seeing her feet wearing sensible heels, 
sitting behind a desk with a picture of a husband and two kids, 
unable to breathe. 


* Original thread can be found here]]> Skeleton On The Sea Floor

It just appeared there one day, fused to the seabed 
as one clinically depressed merges with their mattress
or decomposes into couch cushions. Weight fell
like a thick blanket over their face as they slept, 
convincing the mind to keep dreaming and the lungs to surrender. 
It just appeared there one day, like a woman 
of thirty-five suddenly seeing her feet wearing sensible heels, 
sitting behind a desk with a picture of a husband and two kids, 
unable to breathe. 


* Original thread can be found here]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21434.html Sun, 25 Feb 2018 00:47:43 +0000 Leanne]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-21434.html The cherry trees

In heavy rain
underneath dripping branches
we dispersed you,
watched you,
watered down swirling into eddies,
sinking underground.

You'd burst bright into life
all pink and white,
our summers waiting
for your first smile.

I'd like to think it was the sunlight
filtered through the white blossom,
that found the corner of your mouth
and snatched away your breath,
but they never really told us.

In the quiet of our home
lemon walls were waiting,
the farm yard mobile above your cot
clicked on,
a single chime that made me
close the door.

I pour myself some tea
and look to the garden,
the trees now are fully grown,
and still they lay down
their blankets,
giving up each short life
to help keep you warm,
as they do every year.



* Original thread can be found here]]> The cherry trees

In heavy rain
underneath dripping branches
we dispersed you,
watched you,
watered down swirling into eddies,
sinking underground.

You'd burst bright into life
all pink and white,
our summers waiting
for your first smile.

I'd like to think it was the sunlight
filtered through the white blossom,
that found the corner of your mouth
and snatched away your breath,
but they never really told us.

In the quiet of our home
lemon walls were waiting,
the farm yard mobile above your cot
clicked on,
a single chime that made me
close the door.

I pour myself some tea
and look to the garden,
the trees now are fully grown,
and still they lay down
their blankets,
giving up each short life
to help keep you warm,
as they do every year.



* Original thread can be found here]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-20435.html Wed, 31 May 2017 20:46:31 +0000 Todd]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-20435.html I can feel my age
like a nervous adolescent undoing a bra.

Do I kiss her neck,
turn off the lights,
or take off my pants?

I want to think my choice matters.

Then it's over:
a mess, an apology,
and I'm red faced.
I feel with a vague certainty
that our bodies have limitations.

I'm scared,
I know this will happen again;
actually, part of me
yearns
for an even worse ending.

~~

Original Thread found here]]> I can feel my age
like a nervous adolescent undoing a bra.

Do I kiss her neck,
turn off the lights,
or take off my pants?

I want to think my choice matters.

Then it's over:
a mess, an apology,
and I'm red faced.
I feel with a vague certainty
that our bodies have limitations.

I'm scared,
I know this will happen again;
actually, part of me
yearns
for an even worse ending.

~~

Original Thread found here]]>