Brooke Forbes

I wanna do beat poetry,

to the sound of an Emu,

the rhythmic dook dook dook,

a sign of comfort and discomfort alike,

a resounding message through the throat of a dinosaur,

directing me,

let’s face it,

off his territory. 

I wanna write poetry that

flicks and flutters like a Splendid Fairyren,

capturing souls through the eternal blue,

a vision, a movement, a moment,

landing softly on red dirt,

almost artificial,

soft and vibrant,

belonging, in one moment

but yet standing in so much contrasting colour. 

I wanna compose poetry that

soars like a Black Kite,

surveying the lands,

dipping into the earthy red

ever so quickly,

fluttering,

then diving,

before landing on a dead tree branch,

a solemn silhouette,

a watchful eye, 

a desert local preoccupied with its next prey. 

I wanna teach beat poetry

to emu chicks,

baby dinosaurs,

simultaneously relics from another time,

yet ever so present.

Their soft chick chick chick creates

rhythms perfect for rhyme, 

their elongated necks and

three-tiered feet comical enough

to carry a verse. 

Alas, 

today,

the birds won’t talk to me,

so I create poetry without their beat,

maybe,

but in ode to their fuzzy, feathered, furied existence.

It’s called bird poetry semantics.