I hear them in the tall pine trees
large crows that look like splats of
black ink on the branches,
gossiping loudly among themselves
There is no need for them to whisper, theirs is a language
I will never understand
I wonder if they speak of murder


d’Verse Poets Pub: Form for All–Ottava Rima
Frank is tending bar and has challenged us to try this abababcc form


it was a stray whisper, did you feel it

did you see it as it passed through the tree

did it touch your cheek, just a little bit

did it curl into your ear like a plea

invade your mind and there it paused to sit

until words tumbled from your lips to me

with them was just a hint of discontent

a sour thought allowed to grow, ferment