Poor Whip-Poor-Will

Here then, a tale
as told by a Grannie
to Grandson, giving her hell.

As this story goes,
it’s really quite old
and rose from the dust
of New Mexico….

This much I know,
when politics fail
it fails for just most folks, greatly.

Failure qua failure
is failure the more,
no matter how failure seems stately.

Adverbial usage
in poems are impure
(or is it, I wonder, a matter for grammar.)

Try as you might
to make it all write,
you’ll satisfy none, while some pick a fight
(well, a few; maybe you; but, otherwise none.)

In a moment or two
an argument’s through;
no one will care if you win or else lose.

“They say” there are two things
each one must do
in this life of strife, struggle and rue;

but I say, Oh no!
it’s not really so,
one thing, only, one and not two:

No one can know
why a Mockingbird cries;
but everyone knows, everything dies.

This much I know
of poor Whip-Poor-Will:
He wails in tall tales, where darkness prevails.

At first end of light,
and darkness then falls,
this! then, enthralls the poor Whip-Poor-Will.
and this was the tale
the grandmother told,
in lieu of her whipping
her poor Whip-Poor-Will.

©2016, Marvin Welborn
19 April 2016

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