Eighth Poem Of The Zookopolis

[Zook_e_Pi]

Of Eddies And Whirlpools, Spins And Gyres

Either the Universe is way too big
or my head way too small
to box it all;
in any case, I am unfit
to hold uncertainty, even a bit;
so before the dawn's early chanticleer
binds its lungs to my ears,
I resolve to wipe the answer clear
and expose the niggling, nagging, percussing quiz
for what it is
and why it won't be for long.
With that, I don the deerstalker cap
put stuff in the pipe and drop in the lap
of the rocking chair, my thinking pit.

The morning quickly approaching by,
the puffs arisen to the stuccoed sky;
and alongside - contained by screen - a grate inside
carrying aspen logs once fit to be lit to a bright orange handsome,
reel in flames to leprechaun kicks and marathon dancing.

To contemplate
like the great philosophers of past
on matters of scale from minnow to whale,
from the splintered pick to the tall wooden mast
- of eddies, whirlpools, spins and gyres,
grandmaster ponderings beside a midnight fire -
from a Universe too big
to a head too small to box it all ... alas ...
requires a good night's rest.
So off to the cot to fall like lumber
- to suckle on the tits of the nymphs of slumber -
I gittup and git.

Abandoned and off the wind throttle,
a lone tobacco pipe idles
quietly between beer bottles,
some empty, some filled,
one undecided and holding still.


Uncle Zook
CopyDoodledoo@Jan.21.2014

[Adam Bomm]

I like it...