Peter Pod
Buff Tail
Buff tailHumble
Bumble on the breeze
Harvesting the nectar from the buddleia trees
The cat sleeps soundly underneath
The sparrows sleep within
And your droning
Is the moaning
Of the summer’s deafening din
Small thing
Furry thing
Your legs with pollen-laden
Buzzing in the flailing arms of our old purple maiden
The cat sleeps soundly underneath
The sparrows sleep within
And your droning
Is the moaning
Of the summer’s deafening din.
By Peter Pod
Read me
I inhabit your fractured mind.We suspend disbelief.
Take my hand, let's go!
I'll take you somewhere scary,
where blackened demons lurk.
But you've seen worse.
I’ll lighten the mood,
skimming our stone across the water.
You force a smile;
but we both know, surface tension's weak,
and drowning's just beneath.
I'll take you somewhere scary,
where blackened demons lurk.
But you've seen worse.
I’ll lighten the mood,
skimming our stone across the water.
You force a smile;
but we both know, surface tension's weak,
and drowning's just beneath.
When words fail you, I'll heal you.
When you are lost, I'll throw you a line.
I am a laugh, a dream, a sob, a sigh,
I bob on the winds of incredulity;
I am a poem.
Take my hand, let's go.
Beloved of whistling, whist she
Can't hold a note, and
Dives off key at
Every chance.
First a tune he knows,
Greets them in the sun-drenched kitchen.
How his lips purse,
In delight, his notes come flowing,
Just to be dampened,
Knocked clean out
Laid low by
Monstrous hissing
Nasty screeching
Out of a similar
Position of lips and tongue
Queen of discord strikes
Royal havoc plays.
Some activities are not
To be attempted together
Under the same roof, but still more
Vile noise she emits, now she
Wheezes, now she spits like a constipated steam train.
X marks the spots, where hilarity o’takes
Yelps of laughter lay them low. The expert and the
Zellot. No, no, NO MORE communal whistling.
The prompt for this one was: A poem about a ritual.IF YOU LIKE, make it an abecedarian poem (each line starts with the next letter of the alphabet). This was part of a group that made a poem a day in January 2026, Thanks to David Joey and Caitlin Boulter for the prompts.
When you are lost, I'll throw you a line.
I am a laugh, a dream, a sob, a sigh,
I bob on the winds of incredulity;
I am a poem.
Take my hand, let's go.
By Peter Pod
The Whistling Ritual
A gifted manBeloved of whistling, whist she
Can't hold a note, and
Dives off key at
Every chance.
First a tune he knows,
Greets them in the sun-drenched kitchen.
How his lips purse,
In delight, his notes come flowing,
Just to be dampened,
Knocked clean out
Laid low by
Monstrous hissing
Nasty screeching
Out of a similar
Position of lips and tongue
Queen of discord strikes
Royal havoc plays.
Some activities are not
To be attempted together
Under the same roof, but still more
Vile noise she emits, now she
Wheezes, now she spits like a constipated steam train.
X marks the spots, where hilarity o’takes
Yelps of laughter lay them low. The expert and the
Zellot. No, no, NO MORE communal whistling.
