top of page

Splat - May 4, 2025

  • Gary Hunter
  • May 3
  • 1 min read

the mulberries can’t pick

themselves and the roof

has the perfect pitch and

height to forage in my tree

 

and I keep leaning farther in

one hand holding the tree

the other using my three best

fingers to grasp but for each

one picked, three fall

 

seems a ripe mulberry

drops quicker than a falcon’s

dive for a fat pigeon sunning

itself on a park bench

 

after collecting a fraction of

the berries that have dropped

from weak stems, I see this

method isn’t working

 

and if I reach any farther

I’ll become both falcon and pigeon

 

one plunging to the ground

from poor judgment

 

the other too surprised or stupid

to get out of the way

 
 
 

Recent Posts

See All
Judgements - Dec. 3, 2025

sometimes, I’m the cloud looking around the sky, assessing my own kind   he’s too fat she’s too thin they’re too bossy, that one’s overly shy those are too white, and those not white enough   I dispar

 
 
 
Light's Descent - Nov. 30, 2025

if I could capsulize my life now, it would be late afternoons, a recurring event of time spent staring out the picture window into a quieting backyard, shade chasing the sun’s paintbrush across the wa

 
 
 
Classifieds - Nov. 29, 2025

foreclosed houses, unhoused dogs apartments for rent, souls desperate to rent employment for schemers and dreamers, the mouthless market of buy and sell   a blur of need pinned to a bulletin board eve

 
 
 

Comments


  • facebook

©2020 by Poetry Rock. Proudly created with Wix.com

bottom of page