Tuesday, September 6, 2016

September 6: Bigfoot Poems, Billy Collins, "Flames"

Billy Collins makes me laugh.  There aren't too many poets that I can say that about.  But I get a little tired of poets without a sense of humor.  Not all poems have to be about bus crashes and terminal diseases.

I'm working on some poems that are about Bigfoot.  When I tell that to people, they give me strange looks, as if I've just stated that I think I was born on the planet Pluto (yes, Pluto is still a planet).  But, I'm going to keep writing these poems.  They make me happy.

They make Saint Marty happy.  And shouldn't poetry make you happy?


by:  Billy Collins

Smokey the Bear heads
into the autumn woods
with a red can of gasoline
and a box of wooden matches.

His ranger's hat is cocked
at a disturbing angle.

His brown fur gleams
under the high sun
as his paws, the size
of catcher's mitts,
crackle into the distance.

He is sick of dispensing
warnings to the careless,
the half-wit camper,
the dumbbell hiker.

He is going to show them
how a professional does it.

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