Thursday, January 14, 2010

As a Fowl Hath

Fiction' view¤t=

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by Sharlyn @ Dancin' on Rainbows
Waltz on over for more great fiction, or add a link to your own.

As a Fowl Hath
By Beth LaBuff

Subjects in a kingdom with
A vastly different culture,
Were a flock of finely feathered fowl,
Ruled by a vulture.

The vulture had a press conference,
Announced some shocking facts,
Their infrastructure needed fixed,
He’d have to raise their tax.

To start with a committee had
To analyze decay.
It seemed that bumps and potholes
Plagued their landing strip runway.

The vulture used conscription
To draft a common loon,
His job— to raise tax revenue—
Find ways to do it soon.

Taxes charged— “as each fowl hath”
And based on what they wore.
Some birds would pay a little
While others would pay more.

Each fowl, taxed on its colors,
Whether tone or whether hue,
More colors— higher taxes
To compile new revenue.

A census was mandated
To count colors on each bird.
Single-file before the loon,
Much grousing could be heard.

Rich peacock, wealthy humming bird—
Or so the loon assumed,
And placed on them a premium tax
For iridescent plumes.

A shy goose in her gray down coat,
From fright, started to swoon.
She left a pile of feathers
As she molted near the loon.

Canary yellow, chartreuse, teal,
Cardinal red, and heather,
Sapphire, crow black, indigo—
To tally colored feathers.

The new tax program—a success,
The loon assumed free rein,
Became a little crazy and
Imposed more tax campaigns.

A mandate stated every fowl
Must pass a wing inspection,
Then openly display a tag
On their hindquarter section.

For every flight-plan filed,
A flight-plan tax was due,
Was payable at take-off
By every fowl who flew.

The robins, charged a wing and leg,
And sought to take up arms,
Because of sky-high property
Tax on their earthworm farms.

The mallard sought a tax shelter,
A duck blind— his escape,
Was forced to buy a duck stamp
And attached it with duck tape.

A warbler tax on twitterers,
A clean tax on birdbaths,
The loon became creative
With his loony tax-brained math.

Not content to tax the living
With their levies, so absurd,
The loon and vulture looked for ways
To tax the dodo bird.

Disenfranchised in their kingdom,
Fowl citizens— distraught.
The cuckoo vocalized the words
That other birds now thought.

Epilogue
Colors! Numbers! Visa verse!
They left the loon insane,
Contributed to his demise,
He’d overtaxed his brain.

His eulogy delivered by
The vulture’s raucous spiel,
Who seized the opportunity,
Not one to waste a meal!


***
© Beth LaBuff -- December 2009
written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge
Topic: It's a colorful world


***
Inspiration: 2 Corinthians 8:12
For if there be first a willing mind,
it is accepted
according to that a man hath,
and not according to that he hath not.
KJV

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Barred Plymouth Rock Band

Fiction' Friday,button,karlene? view¤t=

Fiction Friday is hosted today
by Sara @ Fiction Fusion
Skate on over for more great inspirational fiction.

Barred Plymouth Rock Band
By Beth LaBuff

Abutting an abandoned barn,
A crib devoid of corn,
With weathervane and cupola,
The rooftop, sagged and worn.

The corncrib was repurposed
By fowl society,
A chicken troupe, Barred Plymouth Rocks,
The white variety.

This granary was their concert hall
With only room to stand,
For nightly concerts were sold out for
For this uncommon band.

Bandleader of this feathered group,
This five-fowl poultry show,
A southern bird of Creole stock
Was dubbed Ole Chick’ Gumbo.

Ole Gumbo plucked the banjo strings,
On French horn — Cordon Bleu,
With Kiev on percussion,
And Lo Mein played kazoo.

The fifth fowl, in a washtub,
He floundered on dry land.
Sans feathers, Chicken from the Sea
His job—tuna the band.

White feathers ruffled as they crooned,
Laud for their chicken breed.
They danced till eggs were scrambled.
They sang for chicken feed.

Cordon Bleu stuck in his craw
His spare chapstick supply.
It came in handy, between songs,
When chicken-lips got dry.

And Kiev on percussion,
Brushed cymbals with his tail,
And when he had a solo,
Made chicken drumsticks flail.

Gumbo kept the songs up-beat,
His banjo on his knee.
He picked with pomp and circumstance,
His notes were extra crispy.

Misfortune struck one chicken,
A pox upon Lo Mein,
No longer able to kazoo,
He could not entertain.

The band was sympathetic,
In order to console,
They gave Lo Mein a paperback
“Beef Stew for Chicken’s Soul.”

Auditions held, to fill his spot,
A hog stood in their midst.
A rumor breathed to chicken ears,
“The pig’s a chauvinist.”

The pig squealed, “I am white meat, too,
And for this group well-suited.”
The hearsay disregarded,
The porcine was recruited.

Their chicken-band, Barred Plymouth Rocks
Would now sum-total three,
And pig, another white meat,
And one Chicken from the Sea.

***
© Beth LaBuff—November 2009
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
Topic: White

***
Inspiration: Proverbs 17:22
A merry heart doeth good like a medicine… KJV