Belly Hearth
Under your cockney
whistle & flute,
tucked in the nook of
your daisy roots,
a little leg-
stretcher, rye, corn juice.
A 27 #2
This breath smells pickled,
kosher. You should
give it a what-for,
give it the old
wet panscratch. Mine
my fillings for gold.
The Hill
Richard Buckner churns,
you weep. Zig-zagged
down the flood plain. De-
toured. Red-wings flag
each perching point,
and wind sings each bag.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Little poems. Big britches.
Please do submit:
Submissions accepted constantly and poems published on a whim/at random. Send them in any ol' format to:
27s4evah [at] gmail [dot] com
Complaints and praise can also be directed thusly.
27s4evah [at] gmail [dot] com
Complaints and praise can also be directed thusly.
27:
The Twentyseven is a syllabic form invented by Andy Trebing, who runs this page and counts with his fingers.
4
5
4
5
…totalling 27, see?
They may or may not rhyme, but if they do, the scheme should be
A
B
C
B
D
B.
Really, if you just read some of them (over there. <---) it'll be self-evident.
Some poetry:
Posts
3 comments:
I tend to say this a lot about certain combinations of words, but the first of these poems is fun for the mouth. What delectable, yummy sounds!
Hello. I came over from Holly's site. I highly trust her opinion, so I thought I'd take a look. This is beautiful. Wonderful poems. Thank you for sharing this form.
i like the word paly. :)
Post a Comment