The Circular Wind
By Mark Edgemon

From all-creatures.org
SPIRITUAL AND INSPIRATIONAL
POETRY ARCHIVE

| Home Page | Poetry Table of Contents | Archive | Compassionate Internet Church |

The Circular Wind
By Mark Edgemon

(In tribute to the incredible Dr. Seuss)

He blew a great wind, from his mouth to his snout
And never looked around to see who was about.
He spake of philosophy and other things like that,
Mr. Pompus Eedee-ott never ceased his talking; drat!
 
He never paid attention to the pain he caused,
For he never cared to see past his numerous flaws.
With each humdinger of an idea he would flow
Never ending dribble, that would drip down to his toes.
 
He was well known for his continuous verbalization
Everywhere he went, he was an unwanted sensation.
No one even ever dared to ask him a question,
Fear of his answers, stirred great trepidation.
 
Mr. Eedee-ott felt every thought required an utterance,
Which probed into people's brains, causing a shutterance.
He felt himself a genius, gifted; with every communication,
Though people asked him to stop, with great exclamation.
 
"Your words are laced with acid and fire", a dissenter once stated,
"That burns our ears and minds; even out nerves are grated".
Pompus smiled, believing his masterful words were hitting home,
'Yes, I'm a genius', he thought. Ask anyone, wherever you roam.
 
And that was what mattered to him, that he would be seen as great.
His pride motivating his verbiage and commanding his fate.
And so it came suddenly, a bigger wind than he blew in one day
And touched down in a singular spot; at least, that's what they say.
 
The tornado was horrifying, yet selective; only consuming his house,
Not even disturbing his neighbor's leaves or a passerby mouse.
It took his TV and his fireplace, his oven, sink and ornamental dish.
It left nothing, nothing I say; even removing Fred, his tiniest goldfish.
 
Those who knew him were astonished at his strange and terrible fate.
Of the mighty wind that silenced his wind, which he chose not to abate.
But the legend grew, of the fool-hearted talker, who spoke without wait,
Mr. Pompus Eedee-ott, who was well known, but never great!
 
The End

Go on to next poem by Mark Edgemon: The Clumsy Bomb Maker
Return to: The Works of Mark Edgemon