Poem Hunter
MW (14 July 1973 / Berent)


Pilgrims row to their menace
It is a dark oyster but still they
are drawn in-albeit suffering voice
is not right as they let it happen
Donned feathers they have for
a lucky charm

Maybe the dark oyster will not
grab them if the itchy sensation
loosens oysters' grip they throught
but the oysters spit out a liquid
that melts all white matter like
these pilgrim's feathers

In a flurry, the pilgrims brought
a few feathers to the museum
for safe-keeping like an archaic
rarity- but a flattering remnant
shielded the pilgrims from disgrace
White peacock's feathers,

American Indian's feathers
Chicken's feathers, eagles' feathers
turkey's feathers- all feathers became-
befitted various shapes of pilgrims
who kicked off the contest of feathers
the rally for the best bid on unity?

The misjudged staged a show on
television- how far does human eye
sight the future- but the winner can
fall back into the past. misgivings
made some feathered walkers immune

to touch, brand friendship with freshly cut
onion peels for future use but not
with old high grown cemetery gates
which hide in their gap the rustle of grave
digging trees and the passionate shriek
of an oysters' hunter garbed in pigrim's red cloak

ye waylay on the stars, ambush the moon
and steal the sun, peregri you walk-
no north or south ye do know
no wind rose entrenches you in a path
but what pills i trade in for missing an
annoyance. Sleep? not for sale

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