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.