Years ago my friend pointed out a man who had built his house on a swamp out in the country. I figured he wanted to live that way because he wanted privacy. I love privacy also but I would rather live in the middle of a woods than a swamp.
A man, who was a private man.
He desired solitude.
He desired peace.
He searched for solitude.
He searched for peace.
He could not find solitude and
peace in town.
He could not find solitude and
peace out in the country.
It was too close to barking.
It was too close to cockadoodling.
So he searched far.
He searched for many miles.
Out beyond a woods in a
murky swamp.
He found what he was searching for
He stopped and listened for a
moment.
Here was the solitude he
longed for.
Here was the peace he craved.
Of course there was solitude.
Of course there was peace.
Who in their healthy mind would
come to a swamp?
What creature would want to live
in sickly slime?
So he spoke to himself,
"This is where I can rest."
"This is where I can humdrum."
"I will build a house."
"So peace can pervade my brain."
"Privacy can be king."
"I will sit on my porch, inviting only
the mosquitoes to my kingdom."
"I will sit on my wicker chair,
strumming the summer breeze
with my bare toes."
"I will toast my face in front of the
fire in winter."
"I will fog up my windows with
cocoa breath."
"In the spring I will sniffle the
perfume of swamp slime."
"I will attempt to see how many
pretty hues of green are
contained in muck."
"No incessant barking can bother
my nerves."
"No loud mouthed rooster can
jangle my snoring."
"No yapping neighbors."
"No squiggly children."
"No jacked up boom boxes."
"No clacking of plowed fields."
"I will be the only one in my
solitary domain."
He sank his house into the
slurpy swamp.
His house grew stilts and stood tall
over the pea soup.
He reveled in his private nook.
He gloried in his swamp kingdom.
His heart and mind were deceived
because the swamp would not
tolerate incursion.
That is why a swamp grows.
Because it wants to be alone.
The swamp bubbled and
awaited its triumph.
It would humiliate the private man.
It would squish him out with disdain.
If the private man wanted solitude
and peace.
He should have searched in a
garbage dump, a sewer, or a cave.
Nature would brutalize the private
man.
Nature with its sudden blows.
The swamp brooded calmly awaiting
a calamitous day.
The rains came and dumped down.
A sheet of water covered the
private man's home.
The swamp sucked up the stilts.
It sucked up the porch steps.
The private man heard an awful
slurp.
A slurp that would not let up.
The swamp slurped up into
the rest of the house.
It sucked in the private man's
legs.
It slurped over his chest and
up his head.
It slurped him up in a final
gulp.
Although the swamp was
antisocial.
Although the swamp was cruel.
The swamp was not evil.
It spit the private man out.
Spit him out in a slime covered
missile.
He landed in a chicken house.
A rooster sounded off in his
ear.
His frustration mounted in a
deranged cry.
He walloped the rooster and
bit off its comb.
He lost his wits and went to
live in the woods as a hideous
creature.
He comes out at night and
eats chicken toes.
He visits pastures in the
morning and pulls cows'
tails.
So if you hear a chicken squawk
at night.
Or a cow moo with pain in the
morning.
Know that it is the private man.
All his hopes and dreams were
dashed.
Poetry by Amy Buchanan
Read 660 times
Written on 2006-09-15 at 05:35
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The Man Who Built His House on A Swamp
A man, who was a private man.
He desired solitude.
He desired peace.
He searched for solitude.
He searched for peace.
He could not find solitude and
peace in town.
He could not find solitude and
peace out in the country.
It was too close to barking.
It was too close to cockadoodling.
So he searched far.
He searched for many miles.
Out beyond a woods in a
murky swamp.
He found what he was searching for
He stopped and listened for a
moment.
Here was the solitude he
longed for.
Here was the peace he craved.
Of course there was solitude.
Of course there was peace.
Who in their healthy mind would
come to a swamp?
What creature would want to live
in sickly slime?
So he spoke to himself,
"This is where I can rest."
"This is where I can humdrum."
"I will build a house."
"So peace can pervade my brain."
"Privacy can be king."
"I will sit on my porch, inviting only
the mosquitoes to my kingdom."
"I will sit on my wicker chair,
strumming the summer breeze
with my bare toes."
"I will toast my face in front of the
fire in winter."
"I will fog up my windows with
cocoa breath."
"In the spring I will sniffle the
perfume of swamp slime."
"I will attempt to see how many
pretty hues of green are
contained in muck."
"No incessant barking can bother
my nerves."
"No loud mouthed rooster can
jangle my snoring."
"No yapping neighbors."
"No squiggly children."
"No jacked up boom boxes."
"No clacking of plowed fields."
"I will be the only one in my
solitary domain."
He sank his house into the
slurpy swamp.
His house grew stilts and stood tall
over the pea soup.
He reveled in his private nook.
He gloried in his swamp kingdom.
His heart and mind were deceived
because the swamp would not
tolerate incursion.
That is why a swamp grows.
Because it wants to be alone.
The swamp bubbled and
awaited its triumph.
It would humiliate the private man.
It would squish him out with disdain.
If the private man wanted solitude
and peace.
He should have searched in a
garbage dump, a sewer, or a cave.
Nature would brutalize the private
man.
Nature with its sudden blows.
The swamp brooded calmly awaiting
a calamitous day.
The rains came and dumped down.
A sheet of water covered the
private man's home.
The swamp sucked up the stilts.
It sucked up the porch steps.
The private man heard an awful
slurp.
A slurp that would not let up.
The swamp slurped up into
the rest of the house.
It sucked in the private man's
legs.
It slurped over his chest and
up his head.
It slurped him up in a final
gulp.
Although the swamp was
antisocial.
Although the swamp was cruel.
The swamp was not evil.
It spit the private man out.
Spit him out in a slime covered
missile.
He landed in a chicken house.
A rooster sounded off in his
ear.
His frustration mounted in a
deranged cry.
He walloped the rooster and
bit off its comb.
He lost his wits and went to
live in the woods as a hideous
creature.
He comes out at night and
eats chicken toes.
He visits pastures in the
morning and pulls cows'
tails.
So if you hear a chicken squawk
at night.
Or a cow moo with pain in the
morning.
Know that it is the private man.
All his hopes and dreams were
dashed.
Poetry by Amy Buchanan
Read 660 times
Written on 2006-09-15 at 05:35
Tags Searching
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