TELEPATHY WITH A RABBIT

I was bored.
I looked out.
It was dark.
The window cast a yellow patch onto the grass.

A rabbit sat nibbling
At roots of juicy grass.
He saw me, and stopped.
Our eyes met.

He was frightened, but the grass was good.
I was curious, he was only feet away.
He sat proudly, observing.
And I studied him.

Ever been rabbiting ?
If so you must be slick.
Ever been shot at,
For eating what is yours ?

Ever had a nip of gin, or
Been chased by a fool, a hawk or an owl ?
If so you must be cunning.
They would have caught me.

I played Lord of the Flies once,
We caught one of you.
He got sloshed in his gin.
I felt sick.   But I daren't show it.

Why do you persecute us ?
Instinct.  Or may be
It's because you are
Inferior.

At least we don't replace the grass
By a black waste.
Rip up the countryside, and deposit disease.
And threaten our world with destruction.

Our numbers are controlled.
And not by pills.
You'll devour our world
Because you defy it.

You have protected your weaklings,
And controlled your predators.
You were strong once. 
Now you are weak.
The weakest of us all.

He stiffened, trembled.
Then stole off into the darkness.
A car went by, silently.
I never heard it I
James G. Pryde. IV,

LETTER TO THE EDITOR

The thing that gets us about these so called poets is that their so called poems are . . .
Have you ever wondered where some of these weirdo's get their material from ? - the Bucket as far as we can see - that's where it comes from and that's where it should go (preferably burn it).
Leave the poetry to those who are literally gifted and the rest of you get down to writing something solid and worth reading.
Alan Grey and Michael Wood, VI.

STRANDED

Ignition.
Silence.
I stare into empty space.  Shocked.
Rivulets of sweat are all that move.
Three days of life.
Shall we wait.
Test.  Retest.
Ignition.
Silence.
A national disaster,
Only mother goes home.

Tears.   Regret,
I should have been a carpenter. Claustrophobia is building.
Buttons are pushed.
Computors go berserk.
Destruction follows.
Pointless. But we are broken.
They gave us pills.
But we cannot reason.

We have monuments.
Not Lift-Off.
James G. Pryde, IV.

BOTH SIDES

When times are rough, and ego low
We think of times not long ago.
Where song and laughter filled the air.
And we so young had not a care,
Of places seen and sights adored
So in our hearts sweet memories stored.

But... if in life we can't succeed
By Thought, or word, or even deed.
Then to despair we turn our soul
And knowing we can't reach our goal.
Despair again, for we can tell
That here on earth we've made our hell!
James McMillan, IV.