The Lost Sea of Sighs

The Lost Sea of Sighs is an epic animal fable.  200 pages of anapestic tetrameter...with pigs. 

 It is now done and looking for a home.  This is a portion of the first canto:


oggart the piglet from Thutterpox Thicket

unstuck his snout from a snag in his singlet,

blinked back the fat from his peach and blue eyes,

and started off late for the Lost Sea of Sighs.


He shut up his hut on the edge of the Rut

that runs through the Thutterpox, deep, like a cut,

walked through his garden of lamb’s quarter leaves,

chain-latched the gate, and looked back at the eaves


of the house where he’d huddled in furs by the fire

in winter when puddles of cool air rise higher,

where summer had found him a few pounds less heavy

from harvesting mushroom fruit down by the levee,


where spring and where fall, where most every season

had shaped him and taught him an earth-rooted reason

that even this moment was telling him, “No,

you shouldn’t be leaving.”  But he knew he must go. 


His bundle was bangling down from his switch

as he turned down the road to stop in on the witch

who lived just down the way, back a piece from the trail

in a tree on the border of Scream Skeeter Vale. 


The cypress closed in, all around, like thick veins.

He felt his heart gallop, pulled back on the reins.

The skeeters smelled blood and they struck up a wail

as a cloud engulfed Hoggart from snout tip to tail.