Monday, December 19, 2011

Pencil, Fly and Worm Poems

L. Paul Fobert Jr.

Story of a Pencil

In the beginning the giants said,
“They will do many things
in the hands of others.”
What this meant, Number Two knew not.
It only knew they would be great.

Handled delicately and
placed with care
next to numerous others,
Two welcomed the new beginning
life was bringing forth.

The wait was long.
Too long.
Sealed in with replicas, Two waited.
Waited for a new day.
For a new tomorrow.

Fresh air washed over them.
Freedom from the bonds of
surrounding brethren was short lived.
Another giant encased Two in darkness
before a painful earthquake shook it’s very core.

Feeling less substantial than before
and held upside down, this new giant
moved Two back and forth
before speaking out loud,
“‘Whistling Bells Toll Insanity.’ A poem.”

Preserved next to duplicates
felt nothing to the annoyance of
flipping back and forth
from gray precedence to pink bottom.
What great work was Two doing?

The giant, at length, read Two’s great achievement.
“A bell and a whistle going off,
marking the starting point. Of what?
In lieu of everything
in the beginning and the end.”

L. Paul Fobert Jr.

Diary of a Fly

Feces, sputum, open sores.
Moist decaying organic matter.

Summertime is here again.
My time for play.

Behind me are the larval and pupa days.
Warm places mean room to breed.

Fluttering wings buzzing through the air.
A lively and energetic sound.

A colorful blur swifting through my breeze.
What is it I wonder?

L. Paul Fobert Jr.

Diary of a Worm

Anal, tubular, slimy and gross.
The earthworm.

I fertilize biologically, chemically, and physically.
My home is an area as moist as my flesh.

Functioning while dry.
That’s for my enemies.

Humans, kids in general, pull at me, cut me in half.
Creating a doppelganger. Myth or not it still hurts.

All five hearts beat fast.
The little monsters come to play.

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