Barnyard poetry, clucking and klatching,
Pestering the earth to scratch out a rhyme.
Days’ long cackles, crowing in the night,
Eggs warm as cockles, chicks’ll hatch in time.

Barnyard poetry, stanza lonely garden,
Festering verses with too many feet.
How’s-your-mother, and I-beg-your-pardon,
Words are too dear and worms are too sweet.

Schoolroom poultry, how the days lessen,
Westering sun—no one sees where it goes.
Cock versus cock’rel, stuffing or dressing,
But hens tend the verses no one else knows.

Barnyard poetry, what’s that now hatching,
Nestering the straw, and summoning dawn?
The poet’s best scheming never ends right.
Smallish, the dogg'rel, whines what’s this stuff on?

Photo by William Moreland on Unsplash