ınk a new line that drips upon a page;
poetry plays a point that letters spell.
when feet are running meter's rhyme and rage
the poet writes of love that's worth the tell.
a statement made of stanzas rings a bell
in ears that crave the rhythm of a verse
rehears'd in dulcet tones that maybe yell
at times when feeling love is but a curse.
volta Velveeta cheese an early hearse
and bathroom book of verses by anon.
musical fruits smell better smelling worse:
ıf music be the food of loveplay on.
     in octaves, sevenths, sixths, fifths, fourths, and thirds,
     poesy footsy plays with gaming words.

"Pigeon droppings cited in bridge collapse"
                             —Toronto Star

Behold the ***** birds that felled a bridge
Of concrete, iron, and steel routinely made,
Dropping by dropping, pigeon after pige-
on adding contributions grossly laid.
An engineering feat commercial grade,
The bridge could not withstand the pigeon poo,
And, from the scourge of filth, the bridge decayed,
And fell as all decaying things will doo.
(When not creating mayhem, pigeons coo
And congregate and caper in the park,
Returning to their nests—tu-whit tu-whoo—
Before the owl can hunt them in the dark.)  
And so we see the danger we permit
When pigeons are allowed to give a ****.

Soft flakes are held aloft while drifting down
to keep those splendid structures quite intact;
Then up from pavement–piling on firm ground–
they halt all urban bustle in its tracks;
Strong plows have tried their best to push snow back,
but once this weather starts I’ve lost control;
It’s time to settle in, hear branches crack
and with my quilts and ***** I'll fight the cold.
How odd that every day has such a hold,
hurling the musts and shoulds with all its might,
until those tiny flakes conspire to scold
nice days for their mad toil and grant respite:
Sometimes it takes the ice and slush outside
to truly feel the warmth from which I hide.