Poetry cuddlefish's crappie poetry

like the name suggests, this is where i archive my poetry.

The Farmer's Fortune

A crow
Sits in the mud
With kernels clutched in beak
Tilting her head back, swallowing
them whole.

If A Star Fell From The Sky

If a star fell from the sky,
hurtling towards the Earth,
all the eight planets
would be vaporized

along with humanity and
everything I've known.

So if a star fell every time
I thought of you, then
I wouldn't be able
to think much longer.

Precious Words

A sentence is a necklace.

Our words are the beads,
which give the piece meaning,
and grammar is the string
that holds it together.

There is always a pattern,
a method to how we speak,
and if disrupted, its true
meaning will be distorted.

Such is the nature of grammar.

We are jewelers, following
the many others before us,
painstakingly etching words
into the air every moment we speak.

Our job seems simple, though
the task isn't so; how many,
after all, can claim to cut diamonds
with their own tongue?

I'd daresay not very many.

And though I speak of
work and rationality,
of order and personality,
I sometimes wonder

what it'd be like
to put one together
and pluck it apart.

Nice poems!

I see your crappie poems, and I raise the stakes with a shitter one!

Flowiest Dogs

Eyes are blank, but they constantly track
As a hunter would glare at a targets back
With speed it moves, strikes to latch
With the simplest instinct, "catch"
It flew high before arcing past low
Caught with precision, this one was slow
The next one was easy to spot
Colourful, but fast like a gunshot
Soaring at head height approaching on the gust
It jumped caught and landed all in one thrust
Twice more in succession, none would escape
Moving purposefully to ensure each marks fate
The wind picked up and brought a whole new spin
But still determined it competed to win
Much more tricky now but already caught a batch
But with quick steps it's easily plucked with a snatch

This little poem is easy to analyse,
But before you do don't scrutinise
Those blank stoned eyes are mine Ay
The targets, marks and alluded to prey
Was every boomerang thrown and caught that day
The "dogging" act is the irony
That I walk dogs but but they look at me tiredly
I throw the ball to them but they soon get bored
As I stand throwing shit to myself enthralled
I walk them enough feed them and stuff
But this time out the yard for them is also for me
And I guess I like playing fetch to you see
But on said day I didn't walk to retrieve
The dogs sat under a tree wanting to leave
For them our walks our a temporary reprieve
As when I bring boomerangs they start to grieve
Selfish mutts really demanding my attention
I take them everyday I should mention
It's only just recently I've rekindled the joy
Of a hobby I had as a boy
Throwing any wooden, plastic, or foam toy
And seeing it return made my passion burn
I honestly think I shall boomerang,
Until the day Im dead and I hang

Your poems aren't bad at all