I don't consider myself a poet. But when I do pen a few verses, it's almost always after having gotten inspiration from another [prose] author, or after having heard an oral recounting. Immediately below is a short prose piece sent to me by an acquaintance. It inspired me so much I rendered his same prose piece in verse.

It doesn't matter who you are or how many dumps you've taken that morning, because when you go into the woods, whether for hunting or hiking, you will have to SHIT. I don't mean the little turds with the cute farts, or sitting on a log all day trying to push something out; I mean SHIT. If you are lucky you get your pants down in time -- 'cause when it's time, you SHIT.

Clean you out? Man, does it clean you out! And fast?! Wow! No wasted time when you take a shit in the woods. And stink? Man, does it stink! You can hear deer and bear running away miles across a valley.

So what is this telling you? If you are planning a trip into the woods, remember the toilet paper. And don't worry if you can't do a number two before you go -- 'cause no matter what, you will SHIT.

What follows is my untitled poem.

Through the fields
into the copse
skid-marked my drawers
and near a great birch I stopped.
And there, verily, I dropped to squat,
and dump last night's pasta
that I was sure this morning's evacuation had got.

For knoweth I that nature and the wood
will cause a precipitous slide
of the most ardent of hiker's or hunter's
rotting insides;
and Beareth and Mooseth
along with other hiker and hunter will scurry
to retreat to furthest hill or dale
from such odium
in a hurry.

---

The next poem, Come to Call, was inspired by a story reluctantly related to me by the most unlikely-looking of former Marine DI's -- a thin, quiet, unassuming, bespectacled electronic technician. He told of how Marines in stiflingly hot Camp Lejeune would leave the laundromat to wait outside, only to come back to find that they had had company in the form of "The Mad Shitter." Suffice to say, since we never heard of a Marine being killed by his peers for pooping on their laundry, The Mad Shitter was never apprehended.

A quick visit to YouTube will tell you that nocturnal visits to laundromats to defecate are not new under Ecclesiastes' sun. I'm hoping, however, that setting such visits to verse, are. [Note that my poem is set in autumn for an eerie effect. Doing so demonstrates that good old fashion lying -- even in verse -- won't compromise verisimilitude.]

Come to Call

Moon peeks behind black gossamer lace
Sergeant's khakis are folded neatly in place
No one peeks in laundry rooms alight
No one sees him have to take flight.

From their late vigil, autumn's last sentries' retire
Inside, oscillations, gyrations fuse into a mechanized choir
No one takes heed of a casual, mistaken lid lifter
No one takes heed -- until they're left gifted
with the intestinal fruits of this surreptitious loner
rinse cycle, orphaned laundry's left him a boner.

Yes, The Mad Shitter's come to call this fall night.
Torpedo'd your linen; only your hair is left white.