“Just of Scientific Mind: The Chicken Coop Revisited.”
by Steven G. Reynolds
Gramma Eff was not deaf,
not dumb, nor was she blind.
She was not daft this Gramma Eff,
just of scientific mind.
She wore knee boots,
a long white coat,
goggles, special gloves,
and entered in,
a study of,
chickens, and their loves.
“Chickens, and their loves?” you ask,
incredulously, with one raised brow,
as if of what she studied hence
made a mockery of you now.
Gramma kept her chickens clean
and altho you might think it mean
she washed their feet, their beak, their bod
--the neighbors thought it very odd.
That no one out should enter in
Gramma’s little chicken pen
For Gramma too, removed her clothes
her boots, her coat, her goggles--those
gloves, that Gramma always wore
whenever she opened that very door
of all her chicken coops there we’ve learned
strangers there, their presence spurned
Gramma found these chickens smart,
they liked color, music, art.
Gramma learned their innate needs
went far beyond mere chicken feed.
Gramma and her chickens, thus
studied Latin, Picasso, chicken lust.
While roosters with their reddened combs
strutted about, saliciously roamed.
“It’s deeper than that.” these chickens knew
their lives had secret meaning
There was more to life than pecking grit,
poetry--was their leaning.
Sunlight streams past five silent beaks.
as Gramma reads them poems by Keats,
Closed red eyes and rhythmic breasts,
quiet now pervades their rest. Shhhh.
A drawn out 'cluck' is hardly heard
from this dark room from these dark birds
The hens all chant after mash sedation
during their chicken coop meditation.
Tell all the world, think not the least,
your Gramma Eff could talk to beasts.
From any point north, south, east, or west
Gramma Eff was the first ‘eggstentialist’.
by Steven G. Reynolds
Gramma Eff was not deaf,
not dumb, nor was she blind.
She was not daft this Gramma Eff,
just of scientific mind.
She wore knee boots,
a long white coat,
goggles, special gloves,
and entered in,
a study of,
chickens, and their loves.
“Chickens, and their loves?” you ask,
incredulously, with one raised brow,
as if of what she studied hence
made a mockery of you now.
Gramma kept her chickens clean
and altho you might think it mean
she washed their feet, their beak, their bod
--the neighbors thought it very odd.
That no one out should enter in
Gramma’s little chicken pen
For Gramma too, removed her clothes
her boots, her coat, her goggles--those
gloves, that Gramma always wore
whenever she opened that very door
of all her chicken coops there we’ve learned
strangers there, their presence spurned
Gramma found these chickens smart,
they liked color, music, art.
Gramma learned their innate needs
went far beyond mere chicken feed.
Gramma and her chickens, thus
studied Latin, Picasso, chicken lust.
While roosters with their reddened combs
strutted about, saliciously roamed.
“It’s deeper than that.” these chickens knew
their lives had secret meaning
There was more to life than pecking grit,
poetry--was their leaning.
Sunlight streams past five silent beaks.
as Gramma reads them poems by Keats,
Closed red eyes and rhythmic breasts,
quiet now pervades their rest. Shhhh.
A drawn out 'cluck' is hardly heard
from this dark room from these dark birds
The hens all chant after mash sedation
during their chicken coop meditation.
Tell all the world, think not the least,
your Gramma Eff could talk to beasts.
From any point north, south, east, or west
Gramma Eff was the first ‘eggstentialist’.
Comments
If they're not available, and if it wouldn't offend your Grandma or her memory, maybe we could get John Carsten to read it, wearing a wig of your choosing and holding a rubber chicken. I've got the rubber chicken.