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Badger Poetry

Alan Zimbabwe
John Dillinger
Others
Clarence Peabody
Summer Fauve
Nick Green

A monk met my turtle by the Billy-goat's gate,
And he said "My dear Turtle, 'tis a twist of cruel fate
That the world wide which you wander, where 'ere you wish to roam,
Across Oceans, over deserts, yet you never leave your home.
It saddens me with sanctimonious serenades of grieve,
No matter where you totter, you can never ever leave
Your Hotel shell all empty for the fairies or a mouse,
Your home is where your heart lies, and henceforth is ne'er a house,
Perhaps that's why your gait is slow, and you so often late,
I say this not to cause offense, but merely cognigate,
Why the world in all it's wisdom has so wound you to your shell?"
The Turtle winked, aloud he thinked "Who can truly tell?"
"But then again, My dwelling is always close at hand,
On beaches most familiar, and in other foreign lands,
It's not so bad to have your parlour tucked away close by,
When you swim the seven Oceans, and count the stars that fly
To fizzle in the waters as they end their fiery path.
We make wishes as they whistle to my dark depths for a bath,
And when their damp and drowned out, I simply pull my head
Into my backpack bed sit, and snuggle up in bed,
As warm as golden beaches, where buried eggs can wait
For the tide of time to tug them from their sleepy, shell bound state.
Towards the salty waters, steaming in the sun,
As they make tracks, upon their backs, their house also come...
Thus way was I born, and so it's all I truly know,
That where my short legs shuffle, my shell will also go."

Then he fixed the morose monk with a stern and salty eye,
And said "You have asked your questions, and received my true reply,
Now in turn I have some questions I should like to pose at you,
It would aid my small confusion if your answers could be true,
Tell me why you live up yonder with a hundred lonely men,
Rising with the sun's rays to begin each day again,
In the same way that so many yesterdays have flowed?
Yet the furthest that you wander is the end of this here road...
To sit and watch the clouds crawl by in a most familiar fashion,
While denying all your other dreams, and burying your passion,
In psalms and songs so long gone, in words of years ago,
And the love of a good Woman, you shall never, ever know.
Tell me why your god decreed it so, that you must stay so pure?
If all your kind did practice this, your numbers would be fewer...
And to my small amphibious mind, no God should wish it so,
If he's so wise and wonderful, then why's he never show
Compassion for those fashioned in his alleged shape?
But no! It's Fire and Brimstone from this ghostly hairless ape,
Who built you so that children should blossom from your love,
Then he sends you to these far high walls, secluded far above,
Far, far from all temptation, but never far enough,
To wash away these wishes, there is no sort of stuff,
To cleanse the minds of Holy men from what your Lord put there,
And if he truly rules it so, then he cannot truly care.

The Monk sat sad and silent as the Turtle's words sunk in,
And he stroked his shaven baldy bit, and tugged upon his chin,
His eyes were wild and worried, his heart a heavy weight,
And the Turtle watched him ponder, as the sun sank low in state.
Then he rose upon his four short legs, and bade him a good night,
And tottered down the cliff path to the water's edge in sight.
To swim down to some comfy place, with room for a small shell,
And sleep away the wild night in some salty sunken dell,
When Dawn came softly knocking, he strolled back to the gate,
Where the Billy-goat was chewing, and sat on down to wait
An answer from his friend the Monk, regarding Holy pain...
And he waited, and he waited, but he never came again.