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Best Poems Written by Yvonne Uzzell

Below are the all-time best Yvonne Uzzell poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Wally Weasel Loves To Paint

Wally Weasel Loves to Paint

Wally Weasel loves to paint, and paints himself a lot.
Some paint goes on the canvas, but most of it does not.
Poor Wally, when he’s finished, is a sight that you must see.
He’s a living breathing rainbow from his head down to his knee.

Wally gets excited when he takes his brush in hand.
If you’re smart, you’ll go across the room and there is where you’ll stand.
His brush goes this way, then goes that way, nothing can escape
The splatters.  If you stand nearby, you’ll need a plastic cape.

There are eighty-seven pictures, every one is of himself,
There’s a special place he puts them all upon a special shelf.
He likes the color orange, and must buy it by the ton.
His house looks like a tangerine in every room but one.

And in that room you’ll never guess what color’s to be seen.
His tiny little studio is painted bright lime green!
His painting smock’s magenta and has polka dots of red.
Also, there’s a blue beret upon his little head.

Now let us go, let Wally paint.  His work has just begun.
Maybe he will show it to us when the picture’s done.

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Wally's Trip To the Mall

Wally’s going to the mall today to buy some things he needs,
like toothpaste, soap, and bubble bath, and packs of flower seeds.
The first thing in the store he sees - the big long escalator.
He says, “I’ll not ride on that thing with teeth like alligators.”

Pushed from behind, he’s on the thing and holding on so hard.
He thinks his little weasel nails have left the railing scarred.
“Oh, wait a minute.  I was wrong.  I think this ride is fun!”
He thinks when he gets off this time, he’ll ride another one.

The mall was crowded to the seams
It’s just the place of Wally’s dreams
He’s never seen so many stores
With clothes and toys and books galore.

He bought the things he needs at home.  He even bought a fine-tooth comb.
But passing by the bath supplies, he got perfume sprayed in his eyes.
He’s gonna smell like this all day, and not his usual weasel way.
There’s hope that it will wear off soon, but prob’ly not this afternoon.

Off to the food court.  Time to eat.  He found a place, an empty seat,
and took the menu, ordered lunch, and set his bags down in a bunch.
Just then, he hears a loud, “Yoo-hoo!  Hey, Wally, what are you up to?”
It’s Willy Wolff, his childhood friend, and this is how the day will end.

We’ll leave these friends to catch up on the things the other one has done.
It’s been so long since they have met, they’ll talk ‘til dawn.  You wanna bet?

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Wally Weasel Goes Skiing

Wally Weasel Goes Skiing

Wally still loves painting, but he’s now discovered sports.
He made his reservations at a faraway resort.
He’s never skied but has a book with lessons showing how.
After reading it two times plus one, he thinks he’s ready now.

With wooly scarf around his neck and hat upon his head,
he picks up shiny skis and poles that lay upon the bed.
Heading out to hit the slopes, he stops - ‘cause he’s decided
to wear his wooly socks so that his toes won’t get frost-bited.

He puts his ski poles in the snow and gives a great big push,
but all his effort got him was a wet, snow-covered tush.
Brushing off to go again, he says he will not quit.
This time he flies right down the slope – yes!  All two feet of it.

He did it!  He’s a skier now, and feeling very proud,
but that’s before he hears the laughter coming from the crowd.
It takes a lot of practice, as our little Wally knows, 
and he’ll keep right on trying ‘til his weasel nose is froze.

With bended knees, he leans a little.  This time he will do it.
When he starts to fly downhill, he says, “There’s nothing to it.”
He turns this way, then turns that way, he’s graceful as a breeze.
He’s being very careful to not run into the trees.

With all the other things he’s learned, he now feels life’s complete.
He’s shown the world that weasels, too, can be good athletes.
We’ll visit him another time and hear his tales of glory.
For now, we’ll have to wait.  Another time, another story.

Details | Yvonne Uzzell Poem

Not Taller At All

Not Taller At All

There were birds in the garden. There were birds in the air. 
There were birds on the rooftops. There were birds everywhere. 
But one certain blackbird thought he could be best. 
He flew to the chimney and sat there to rest. 
"Look at me," shouted he. "I am looking at you. 
If you were up here, you could look at you, too. 
I'm grander than you. I'm so big and so tall. 
From up here, the rest of you look very small." 

So all the birds looked. They looked up there to see 
Just what the big noise was. Oh, what could it be? 
They saw the ole bird who thought he was so tall. 
They saw where he sat and said nothing at all. 
But one little bird didn't like it a bit. 
He flew 'round in circles, his small beak in a snit. 
"I don't like it," said he. "I don't even like him. 
I'll show him. I'll fly to that great big high limb.”
The little bird flew to a perch in the tree. 
He looked down below and said, "Hey, look at me! 
I'm up here so high, and I'm looking at you. 
If you were up here, you could look at you, too!" 
He looked at the first bird and hollered, "So what! 
Now I am the tallest. I'm tall and you're not." 
One bird on the ground said, "They think they're so big. 
But what they don't know is we don't give a fig!" 

The other birds stood it as long as they could. 
They wondered if one of them should, could, or would 
Say something to those two who thought they were tall, 
And tell them they weren't the two tallest at all. 
One bird said, "If you were down here, here with us, 
I'd show you there's nothing to make such a fuss."
"You flew way up higher than us. Yes, we saw." 
He stopped his tirade, but it stuck in his craw 
That those two up there thought that they were so tall, 
And they weren't any taller, not taller at all. 
Just thinking of it, he continued to stew. 
"You're looking at me, but I see you two, too." 
And having said that, he said not one word more. 
He wanted to say it all seven times more. 

The two birds were silent, a little chagrined. 
They knew the bird speaking was truly their friend. 
"I don't know about you," said one to the other. 
"But I know for sure that I'd very much 'druther 
Be down there with them. Our real family. Our friends. 
The ones who will love us 'til world without end." 
"You're right," said the other. "So let's you and I 
Fly down there with them, and not sit here up high."

"You know," he continued, "The thing might just be 
To just be ourselves. Be just you and me." 
They flew to the ground to be with the rest. 
They saw for themselves they weren't really the best. 
And so it should pass that they figured it out. 
They figured it out, what life's really about. 
That being up high doesn't make you so tall. 
You're still just the same. You're not taller at all.

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Way Back When

‘Way Back When

I often wish for days of old and things I learned from stories told
when old folks sat around the room and swept their minds with memory’s broom,
and told of ‘way back when.

The work was harder in those days.  They didn’t have our modern ways,
but still they found the time to see what friends’ and neighbors’ needs might be,
in days of ‘way back when.

Men respected womanhood, and it was always understood,
that while men were the household’s head, ‘twas womanhood that truly led
in homes of ‘way back when.

Chivalry was ’live and well.  It’s something now that we just tell
each other that it seems it died, and no one knows the reason why
it’s not like ‘way back when.

We lost a lot when those days passed, a way of life that did not last,
a time of graciousness and style (that’s now considered not worthwhile)
like days of ‘way back when.

I heard as they “remembered when” and told of how things were back then.
I wished that time could change somehow and make those old days happen now,
the days of ‘way back when.

Details | Yvonne Uzzell Poem

Her Only Crime Was

Her Only Crime Was . . .

At wrong time and in wrong place set the scene for frantic race
To keep her from electric chair.  A simple errand brought her there.
In desperation to escape and possibly avoiding rape,
She shoved assailant down the stairs, and thus began the whole affair.

The jury said, “We’re not deceived.  Her side of things is not believed.”
Decision took her to her death, and soon she’d take her final breath.
They strapped her in and hit the switch.  There was a massive techno-glitch
That left her paralyzed and blind, sent lawyers scrambling ‘round to find
Ways to have her made exempt from government’s next death attempt.

The killer finally found and caught, but Sarah suffered all for naught.
Still many years of life ahead.  She could be lying dead instead.
Sarah has a life to build and she can have one most fulfilled,
For who’s to say life’s not sublime when living it a second time.

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Wally Cleans His Room

Wally Cleans His Room

When he woke up Tuesday, Wally looked around his room.
It really was a mess and so he went to get his broom.
All his cleaning items went into his purple pail,
the dustpan in his right hand, and the dust cloths on his tail.

He hung his clothes up in the closet, placing them just right,
swept and mopped and dusted, and then polished things so bright.

Next was putting all the toys in toy chests where they should be,
When he finished, Wally thought his room was clean as could be.

His bed was made, the pillows fluffed,
the floor was clear of all the stuff.
He thought that he had done enough.
“I am so proud of me.”

Picking up the broom and mop, he tripped and hit the floor,
gave his head a great big whack, his tail caught in the door.
He got up carefully and put his cleaning things away.
“I tidied up my room real nice.  Now I can go and play.”

In his lime green studio, he took out all his paint pots.
The last thing that he painted looked like it could use a spot
of color added here and there to make it better yet.
Now it had to sit a while because the paint was wet.

Wally’s glad he cleaned his room ‘cause now it’s spic and span.
 The job was easier than he thought it’d be when he began.

He needs to tidy up each day
He’ll keep his bedroom neat that way
He plans to do it on Tuesday
of each and every week.

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Ode To Happiness

Ode to Happiness

Happiness is elusive
It perches on the shoulder for a while
Flying off in an instant if not nourished
O, Happiness, the search for you began
With first breath
The struggle to find you is unending
And unquenchable
How sad that you dwell inside us
All the while
And no one looks for you there.

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The Disenchanted Cottage

The Disenchanted Cottage

There was a clearing in the wood where once a charming cottage stood.
It was a dark and dismal land, a barren place of stone and sand,
Where nothing green had ever grown, the reason why was never known.
A dreary land, and what is worse, the rumor was it had a curse.
‘Twas never said by who or why, and interest faded by and by.

It was here a newlywed did bring his wife to hearth and bed.
And even in their wedded bliss, they felt that something was amiss.
In early days, these two would toil to try to grow crops in this soil.
It never happened.  Things were bad.  And then they lost their new-born lad.
Yet they both worked until they dropped, and still not one poor measly crop.

After years of working hard, their hands were calloused, tough and scarred,
And still no respite was in sight. They knew they could no longer fight.
One evening, sitting by the fire, when nearing time they should retire,
The husband looked up at his wife, remembered only years of strife,
Back-breaking days of endless work, and in his mind some evil lurked.

It isn’t known what happened next, but reader, here’s what I suspect.
Some demon hand took hold then fled – the man set fire to hearth and bed.
The wife he’d loved was never found, and nothing’s left –burned to the ground.
The devil took the poor man’s mind, and now he roams, alone and blind.
His memory’s wiped away and gone, a victim of The Temper’s spawn.

A shallow grave deep in the wood where long ago a cottage stood.

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The Old House Beside the R Oad

The Old House Beside the Road

There is an old, ramshackle house that stands there by the road.
This house once had a family, with many stories stowed
Within its crumbly walls, and it now stands there all alone,
With gardens dead, untended yard, and weeds much overgrown.

The broken windows, tilting shutters, steps that rotted down,
And paint that once was bright and white but now shows dingy brown,
Would cause most people to ignore this rundown old abode,
This old ramshackle house that stands just there beside the road.

An ancient giant willow oak looms o’er the dried-up well,
And just beyond, there hangs an old and rusty dinner bell,
A frazzled rope with rotted seat shows where a child had swung.
Around in back, a wagon stands with half a broken tongue.

I wish this house could talk to me
And tell me how things used to be,
How happy it was when love flowed
In this old house beside the road.

I think this house has heart and soul with many tales that lie untold.
So many things that it might say, if only it could speak today.
For now, I’ll just enjoy my thoughts of all the things that time has wrought.
In this dear old, rundown abode that stands beside the road.