I wrote this in 1991 when I was about 17. I have resisted any temptation to "improve" it. It’s a short poetic story recounting a real event in my life where I realized that I’m just not a killer.

A cinquain about birds.

During the winter season here in the North Country I feed the birds. It seems a kind gesture and I enjoy their company. In the process I have also learned a bit about the nature of my feathered and furry friends who visit my dooryard daily and like in all species of living things, there are a few bullies in the mix. Read more…

Even those who have the best relationships will be tested by actions.

Our new clock is a cuckoo clock that is like a cuckoo bird. Every hour on the hour it thrills me with its sounds.

A description of aging, looking back on one’s life in contemplation. The old man "sitting at his windowsill" is also a symbol of contemplation and reflection of the character. There is also a definite and deliberate connection to nature, as there is reference to autumn.

I need to start writing again, I need it to help me get round the poison that entangles my thoughts.

A poem about a bird sitting on a wire and what its life might be like. basically I just used as many words as I could think of that rhyme with wire.

A haiku.

Kid story.