These Feburary Poems

The wild horses are biting at the chop.
I am trying to break them, to make them poems
rather than berserk, maddening ramblings
waiting for January to end, for February to begin.

Gregorian dates reign supreme, but I
would rather be a Mayan, with an extra week in me
and these angry poems could die in those days,
I would not have to try to tame the ferocity away.

Thomas would balk at their patriarchal c**k swinging,
These hound dog poems are howling at the horses
all in competition for the pen, the paper, or the screen.
January poems are starting to wane, February's are at the gate.