I was invited to a night of Vogon poetry by friends Michael and Julia, and exceedingly pleased by the invitation.
I could use that, I thought. I could use some really terrible poetry.
Another of my friends, Sharon, was having a rough time with her real estate business. It involved her 90 plus year old mother and so many lawyers that she’d taken to nicknaming them. Sharon has always had a thing with chickens, featuring them prominently in her artwork. So, I conceived a plan to fill her house with the trials of chickens in modern life, in the form of poetry.
The brave souls of Michael and Julia’s Vogon Poetry party contributed many haikus, and my class of Viable Paradise XVII added additional haikus and limericks. Devin Singer and I illustrated them all, and yesterday hid them in appropriate places in Sharon’s house. When she comes home from her latest business trip, she will have a surprise.
And now, for your reading and viewing pleasure, the poetry of chickens:
Quick, buy a warm coat online!
No credit for clucks.
Who was beautiful and a snob.
He applied one day
In a coop to lay
But found laying hens was not the job!
the immediate eggperience
has passed sell-by date.
They call me Chicken Little.
I say, “CLIMATE CHANGE.”
Its battery is dying
Sound like hungry chicks
Chickenheads all around me
with one cock to share
Be slow and show respect.
For my chicks and I
May be strolling by
As we hunt and peck.
Silence falls when night draws near
I will rub your feet
But no hole for any Fox
News in the Henhouse
When humans slaughter my kin
Except ThanksgivingNinjas do not cluck
Ninjas do not pluck feathers
While leaping rooftops.
I’m too fat to fly
but I flap my wings daily
watch for the wizard
(or Dorothy)
Wouda shoula could do
Ah, what a cock do.
I feel the loneliness of my coop
and look upon yours
Nothing but spam about getting
my pecker enlarged.
Chicken wire on all sides
I’d kill for an omelette
Line up to pay for your sins,
Human McNuggets.
brains not respeckful of the
known hierarchy
Who’s there?
Chicken.
Chicken who?
Chicken you forgot to wash your hands and flush the toilet.
Who was very hard up for a buck
For a nickel a word
The destitute bird
Sold her fiction but not with much luck.Chickens flying high
Over the fence to freedom
In the yard, crickets.
doesn’t get the eggs laid,
just makes lonely hens
To keep some urban hens
But hipsters prowl
For fresher fowl
And now it’s geese in pens.
stressed pace. Life’s pecking order
No time to cross road.
I dance in circles headless
Then into the pot
The chicken crosses the road:
Beep-Bam! SIRI was wrong.
Put on the heavy apron.
Maybe you think life is chicken soup, served
In blue willow-pattern bowls.
I have put on my boots and opened
The kitchen door and stepped out
Into the sunshine. I have crossed the lawn,
I have entered
The hen house.
Howling at the Sun 