Best Nibblers Poems
When the snout of lush abundance is full and flowing,
when all prey and creature-kind spill upon the verdant swards,
then it is that I worry night and day,
for the stoat, fox and hawk are at work,
they scythe in the whelm and nimiety, they hack and harrow.
The kits and chuckling’s are many, the light too bright;
for then the foragers forgoing fright, are palpable and open.
The long-eared nibblers, hairs on scattered rodents laid bare,
they scutter, skitter and twitch much in the open
greatly prone to be pounced upon;
their paltry pelts all unhidden, and being many,
and not running, they are huddled; yet not strong.
If this slew not ease, if the grabbers not falter,
if the singled-out dither, the glut not wither,
then the green snake will climb to where nestlings hutch -
they all so easily plucked and quickly snatched.
I worry for the wee brown birds; mottled shells still unhatched.
I fear a winnowing, withal a harsh hazard of gorge and sate.
I fret for the freshly delivered, the teeming,
the newly produced, all the bounding bounty
for those too easily found and so, arrived too late.
Hush hush busy muskrat;
all you bucktoothed beavers
gnaw on unheard, work you unseen.
The sleek panther is stalking
slipping silently through the feathergrass
an angel of hunger is in its eyes.
You timid rabbit and fawn, be gone!
That creeping killer can stalk the wind
it smells your breath,
the faint odor of death
is already upon it.
Quick you nibblers, you green grazers
Your time comes ever nearer -
flee now, be gone!
The rise and fall of great mice.
A string on the tail let loose and set free.
The reach from here to there is one step.
A trampled mouse in the underground protected community.
Catches attention with the democrats.
It stirs up controversy of hate and hopelessness.
The rise and fall of great mice is near its end.
The steps are closer in proximity to and the width is formulating.
The voice is a sound squeak of protest.
A crowd gathers at the foot of a bed stool.
And people are still on the mantle covered in wax.
The applaud gathers and the cheer gets louder in silence,
as the numbers increase and scattered about in fewer numbers.
The political arena is fixed.
A thousand pieces scattered, a hungry audience awaits.
The fans are less then few, it gains in many through parables.
The vegetable soup is heated.
The wax is chipping by great nibblers of its history.
Somehow, the people that were there have vanished. A shiny
mantle is all that is left. A change of place has taken its course.
And the crowd begins this time with chips. The forms have shaped
with areas around and bent.
A laughter appears in hindsight. To that with which has no recognition to its relative. In solution to there of; a gesture of thought.
Recourse it is said its name.
Hooks and lures and fishing line, an eight foot throwing net
The sea is calm, the weather fine, there’s challenge to be met
Bait fish schools along the rocks dart frantically away
mesh descends on heavy weights to trap unwary prey
A baited hook is set and cast, the line is brought in taut
time like water trickles past, the battle still un-fought
The sun beats down on golden sand, the waves lap at the shore
the rod is passed from hand to hand as shoulders become sore
Nibblers tease and rip the bait but miss the gleaming hook
larger fish show here and there but only seem to look
Then all at once the sea explodes with one almighty flash
a heavy pull and line reels off, a headlong racing dash
Leaping twisting running deep the line pays off the reel
excitement builds and tension mounts, the fish’s fate is sealed
Pumping rod and straining arms bring colour to the top
but once again the fish will run, it seems to never stop
An hour or more of reeling in, the fish begins to tire
arms and neck and shoulders burn and feel like they’re on fire
The battle nearly over now the fish comes closer in
at last you have it in your hand, how sweet it is to win
Looking down at shining scales of silver black and blue
the streamlined body glistens with the light of every hue
with mouth agape and staring eyes the fish begins to gasp
the hook is pulled, the fish reacts, falling from your grasp
Back into the sea once more, it slowly swims away
maybe to get hooked again and fight another day
A flick of tail and flash of scale it vanishes from sight
You long to hook it up again and recommence the fight.
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
The God gifted, granted nature
Of each and every creature
Is its characteristic recognition
Revealing itself in unique action
All rats are nibblers, wasters
Dog barks on seeing strangers
Cow gives sweet, maternal milk
And a cocoon spins lusty silk
It is only the creature named man
Whose action is never certain
What can he do or cannot do
Is out of any certainty and clue
Sometimes he can be a survivor
But next moment a destroyer
He is the only of all creatures
That has lost his natural features
He can save his own sisters
But can smash all others
He can save his own honor
But can cause others dishonor
He can be an angel for someone
But for all the others brute demon
He can be a worshiper at a place
But a destroyer in another case
Even his creator cannot know
How much brutality he can show
How he has lost his manly trends
And created in him guilty brands
A bird house attracts the beautiful and divine.
Who offer the soul both a charm and a chime.
Blessing hearts with palette and song.
Along come the rippers and nibblers.
Gleaners of peace they're born to be.
Leaving the heart to hobbled dream.
In skies of robin egg quiet.
Now blistering in twisting silence.
Battling the harshest of seasons.
Amidst winter acorns and peace thieves.
Bird houses filled with dead and dying things.
Did I mislay my bell ringing skull?
Thoughts are out of school
they run into fields of white mice
they multiply - fruitlessly.
Many mock me in front of my other
more head-ridden selves.
Got out of my sleep
with a crowbar and shovel,
mislaid the brain I had yesterday
or was it the day before?
Distant chomping sounds in a rabbit hole.
You can think too much, you can spread yourself
like marmalade over a hundred sticky memories.
Problems appear but only to be unsolved, just
mummified in a facsimile of an afterlife.
I once had a screw-top,
it kept the thinking down to a few finger bones.
Rampant are the curly-tailed nibblers.
All is well, for I dream in the emptiness
of a bell ringing skull,
one placed somewhere else
and far out of sight.
Moonless, the night pastes itself
onto an imaginary sky.
Cats crouch.
Under-bush nibblers in their bolt holes
whisker speak,
as trembling senses crawl
into a skin-tight stillness.
A cloud scatters
shredding threads of perception.
A lamp-lit moon glow
peers through a momentary window,
sees the swishing tail,
the twitching interim paused
in apprehension.
A tablue is caught
in the creeping stealth
of blood calling to blood.
Tracks will be hoar frosted over,
all will be well met
by the narrow boned dawn
where cawing crows may gather
for their pickings.
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With bushy tails and shining eyes
our noon time nibblers come
to sit upon their pole and eat
and give us noon time fun.
They jump and scurry all about
to get what we leave there.
Wee paws, they use so cunningly
to chonk their daily fare.
The peanut shells, they pile up
but we'll always leave them more
to be entertained at lunch time
with their antics we adore.
This is dedicated to Moggie Bonner,
a wonderful women who I had the blessing
to be her aid and companion for the last six years
of her life. I wrote this for her during my employ.
It was a daily joy for both of us to watch the squirrels
"chonk" which is a phrase she always used. She kept
this on her table and read it everyday. She passed away
in 2006 at the age of 95. I miss you Moggie
and I'll always love you. Robin
I can hear
the wind making snowballs
fading leaves crisping
chattering acorn crazed squirrels
a soft rustle of chilled bird feathers
I can see
low hanging branches
offerings to short nibblers
the beginning blush of a Red Maple
the edge of the day creeping closer
I can feel
the excitement
of distant V’s
chittering sparrows at sunrise
scampering squirrels
school bus arrivals
the hints of fall
gently claiming its season
John G. Lawless
©9/30/2022
It's not much of a race,
science trying to outpace miracle
miracle always being fleeter than the equation
the speed of light is simply quicker than the mind
god's heart burning brighter than the hottest crucible of time
the newest equations trying to connect beginning to end
theories about infinity -mixing concoctions for happiness
the middle child, called living, forges on... forgotten.
Man is stubborn, cursed with unbridled ego
believes in himself and not the common miracle
he'll swim his ego against whitecaps,
island to island
drifting further from the spirit
stroking hard to soothe the flesh
but in the froth when the heart goes under
when there is no land in sight
and the nibblers move in to take a bite
man will look up into the stars
pray hard and true like a child
reaching out for the life savior's hand.
Elle laissa tomber une de ses pantoufles de verre, que le prince ramassa bien soigneusement. (Perrault’s tale)
SOUL SLIPPER
magnificent her slipper —
slender, arched, flawless,
resplendent of soul (embodied
the right) a drift of gentle snow
fell as the midnight hand stole
a moon-pale foot, forgiven
of its comfy glass —
with a swarovski sparkle,
possibility of forever-after,
if found and delivered
to the lass with platinum hair —
long and luxurious; diamondiferous
cascade of gown - ankle-sweet.
the royal hound buried it...well
he should have, according to
the snooty stepsisters and their
mother, but instead the perfect soul
at the top of the landing, reminder
of Ella’s smile that bewitched
the adorable prince charming.
curious, he coddles the scenic
looking glass of remembrance —
in love with her tootsie reflection.
the royal hound hunts her down,
sniffs out her kissable perfume,
snarls at the frankenstein-family.
a clever mouse knocks over
a lovely bouquet of wildflowers,
sheltered upstairs where nobody
cares, except the cheese nibblers
well cared for by the classy lass.
released by the princely command,
posed beside the wincing sibs,
she patently slides on hers.
8/28/2020
Contest - Soul Slipper
Sponsor - Kai Neumann
When the green snout is full
rabbits spill on the lawn.
I worry night and day,
because the stoats and the Red Tails
are at work
even in whelm and nimiety
they hack and harrow.
The young kits are many,
the sun too bright.
Foragers forgo fear,
are palpable and open,
not just
the long-eared nibblers,
the hairs on many scutters
are laid bare,
the sniffers thrive,
are prone to be pounced upon;
their thin pelts all unhidden,
and being many,
and not running,
they are huddled.
If this spill will not ease.
If the grabbers not falter,
the singled-out dither,
the glut not wither,
then the green snake
will climb a way
to the nestlings hutch;
all so easily found
and quickly snatched.
I worry for
the small brown birds,
their mottled shells
still unhatched.
In this gorge and sate;
I fret for all this new life
that has arrived too late.
Death comes close in the night
when shadows grow and sleep envelopes, relaxing guards
who snore slumped in corners
their spears and shields useless on the ground,
their dinner crumbs of cheese and bread
just laying there for the rats to nibble.
Amid the sleepers and nibblers Death glides
like a mist; oppressive and still, and dead
leaving a taste, a scent, an air of such an otherness.
The rats scurry off
and the sleepers shift within their dreams
caught, held and slowly suffocated
till the last breath of Life is gone...
Then what does Death do?
The old shapeshifter wakes
and puts on the face of day.
(first published in my 4th book of poems BEGINNER'S MIND, 2019)