The Complaints Of Ducks , by Andrew Rymill Subscribe to rss feed for Andrew Rymill
Posted: 2018-11-26 20:26:38 UTC
the city
filled in
the small
in the middle
of my tiny

all the ducks
came to
my door
and complained
i am
i agree
in the meekest
of language.

that they
have been

it is
my duty
they tell
me as a poet
to open
the door
of my
small poem
and let
them swim
in my bathtub.

i agree
it is tough
to be unhomed
there should
be plenty of room
in my weensy poem
for such
a small flock
of fluffy ducks.

the periods
are silent
they must know

the ducks
fill up my
as they quack
double sestina
to the pond
that has been
filled by those
unfeeling humans!

it is
hard to work
in such cacophony
such repetitive
quacking repetition
like floating wood
float to the surface
of my eye-ear
in spades.

often i type
my meager haikus
on my typewriter
with missing
chrome keys:

typewriter chrome keys flutter cure
clear water within pond flows pure
ducks like ink letters rise into line.

says my
“that is an englyn milwr
not a haiku”

you sparrow
i tried again:

typewriter keys clatter
rises like letters in moonlight
ducks swim on round poem.

Then the tiny bell
as my typewriter
comes to the margins
and quacking subsides.

The ducks come
to my study
and complain
that my typing
is quite distracting
to their

The periods
can only chuckle
like crickets.

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