Feeding Time

Sly Fox stays
Hidden in Shadow
His eyes peer out through
Night’s veil
The only sound,
Wise Owl hooting
softly from his perch

Sly Fox makes no noise as
he slinks through Night
A flash of bright catches his eye and
he is paralyzed.
White Rabbit moves timid,
Nervous to be out,
Drawing foes to his

It is a quick dance
Not a sound as
Sly Fox makes red of White Rabbit
His fierce eyes look up at you,
Notice you watching

You think he is
tricky in the way he moves but
He is only eager
to survive


J. Bodwell, USA

Garbage Poem

I want to write but

all I write is


And who wants to read that?

That’d be like

digging in the trash

to find

rotten leftovers

and expecting anyone to

eat it.

It’s not a 5-star meal.


The words start as

thoughts in my head

and end up like

garbage on the page.

Stinking of second-rate talent.

Smelling like weak attempt.

Oozing desperation.


I cling to the notion that

I should be doing


Grasping at my titles:




Hoping I can be creative in

any way.

Hoping I can still make this


So, tell me,

Who wants to read my

Garbage poem?

It may be my best yet.


J. Bodwell, USA

Blank Page

You are the constant ache in the

back of my


I see you in my


You live behind my eyelids,

Wait for them to close,

Make your move.


You eat away


A leech



I cannot defeat you ’til I

Fill your endless White with my



Strangle you with letters,

My commitment

Your death sentence.


J. Bodwell, USA