Penneys from heaven

Poetry has never been my forte and with rare exceptions it has seldom been something I enjoyed reading, either. Little wonder then, that my few forays into verse have been somewhat less than successful. But still, the past is the past I've been reminded of a poem I wrote in March of 1985. Click on if you wish to read it!

Edit, 16 May 2010:

A friend who was in the writing class for which I wrote the following poem has reminded me of its actual provenance. To whit, it was both an attempt at satire and a sort of test of the critical skills of that class, to see whether they would deal seriously with what I knew was in fact a terrible poem.

So, it is with some relief that I can honestly say that I was trying to write terrible poetry, hooray! (One of these days I'll see about digging up the poems I wrote which weren't meant to be bad.

THE HAWK AND THE ROBIN, or: the art of war considered as a three-part novel, with apendix
a poem, by Geoffrey Dow

Steve Penney, the 'next Dryden' who wasn't.
Steve Penney, the "next Dryden" who wasn't.

In a world of ice,
You toil alone,
Ahead of your flock,
You circle, you wait.

Penneys from Heaven

Peering and searching,
Through a world so deathelessly[sic] still,
Like a hawlk, just waiting,
To swoop down for the kill.

Penneys from Heaven

'Till there! you spy your chance,
And you rush for the gate,
When, out of nowhere,
A Robyn appears, not your mate.

Penneys from Heaven

As the byrd, a bigger one still,
Breaks into you[sic] stride,
And you fall like a stone
As he knocks you off-side

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