Poor Whip-Poor-Will

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

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

This much I know,
when politics fail –
it falls upon most folks;
it pales them most greatly.

Failure qua Failure
is Failure the more,
no matter how Failure
is or not 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;
otherwise none.)

In a moment or two
an argument’s through;
no one dare 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 if not,
there are two:

No one can show
why a Mockingbird cries;
yet everyone knows,
that everything dies.

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

At first end of light,
a darkness then falls.
This! then, enthralls
the poor Whip-Poor-Will.

And this was the tale
the grandmother told;
in lieu of a whipping,
she gave him a tale,
in lieu of the spanking
she gave poor Whip-Poor-Will.

©2016, Marvin Welborn
19 April 2016. Revised 13 September 2016.

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