Pickings Poems - Poems about Pickings

PICKINGS I’m not a dwarf or a giant But the male version of petite I’m the right size and defiant And not so easy to defeat That bitesize word is horrible But you know, I’m a cannibal 'Bite Size Poem no51' Contest...

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When the snout of lush abundance is full and flowing, when all prey and creature-kind spill upon the verdant swards, then it is that I worry night and day, for the stoat, fox and hawk are at work, they scythe in the whelm and nimiety, they hack and harrow. The kits and chuckling’s are many, the light too bright; for then...

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People, prepare for chaos; democracy is struggling. Worldwide ideologies lean far right; dictators, potentates, and tyrants rule unconstrained by any semblance of law. The young don't recall past wars; or what their fathers fought for. Politicians sell fear, packaged as hope, through accusations and false promises till the downtrodden elect their jailers. Like sheep to a hungry wolf; the weak are easy pickings. I've lived in a...

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When the green snout is full rabbits spill on the lawn. I worry night and day, because the stoats and the Red Tails are at work even in whelm and nimiety they hack and harrow. The young kits are many, the sun too bright. Foragers forgo fear, are palpable and open, not just the long-eared nibblers, the hairs on many scutters are laid bare, the sniffers thrive, are prone...

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A blueberry stand in rural Maine Sold pints and cakes and pies But after hours, I discovered Quite a nice surprise. A money box was left beneath A price list; it was filled With coins and bills. We added ours – Such honesty instilled! I thought that such a thing would never Fly where I reside And yet today I saw a sight That couldn’t...

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Went with the kids to the blueberry farm, Everyone ready to pick. Armed with a bucket, we wandered the rows But somehow our luck ran out quick. For nary a berry on nary a bush, Except some real tiny and tart. The kids pulled a few, they went plunk in the pail; We were off to a not-so-great start. The season is...

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A waning moon hangs under an obsidian sky as I walk through a the dark scrub forest past stumps of giants felled long ago. The river‘s low few salmon in the pools and none flounder on the gravel banks. Eagles and ravens are not to be seen though the signs say bears have been sighted. Once this river sustained an autumn feast but now pickings are...

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Common groundsel of grass and purslane- a winter's diet ,much the same...

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