Best Squirreled Poems
They say if you don’t use a thing for a year
It’s time to get rid of it, just to be clear
Feel free to sell it or give it away
But to get clutter free, just don’t let it stay
So, I checked my garage for stuff I could lose--
and found hundreds of words I simply don’t use!
Lilliputian and Sprightly stood on a shelf
Elbow-to-elbow with some wry little elf
Bucolic and Bumpkin were squirreled away
Beneath a big bale of bright yellow hay
Garish and Gaudy were in a glittery box
with Trinkets and Baubles set with fake rocks
Surreptitious and Unobtrusive tried to avoid being seen
But I caught 'em sneaking off with Clandestine
Beyond these loose words, which filled many a bin
Lay whole turns of phrase like Much to My Chagrin
I held up to the light a Gossamer Veil
Then dumped it in a Perfidious Betrayal
An Ethereal Cloud, glued to the ceiling
I scraped off with an Ambivalent Feeling
I rolled back the rug to see what I'd missed,
There before me stretched a Yawning Abyss
Into a huge crate, these big words I did toss
Bobbing on top were Flotsam, Jetsam and Dross
Fatigued by these labors, I took a short break
But that little respite may have been my mistake
Soon I was deep in most Pensive Reflection
On how Assiduously I had built this collection
In crept Myriad Doubts about so brash a move
What if I meet some Cad I need to Reprove?
What if some Craven Cur should Incur my Wrath
But words fail me due to this Ill-Chosen Path?
Well, soon that old crate was quite empty once more
And cluttered again were bin, shelf, drawer and floor
But one thing has changed, this is Palpably Clear
My Leviathan Word Horde I now Deeply Revere
Intrepid and Dauntless, I sling without fear
Iota and Mote.. I dust off once a year!
____________________________
by Brian McClain - Feb 2, 2016
Cold winds, the assassins of startled vegetation,
blow in with late autumn. Snow arrives
to cover the terrain with blankets
of white, pristine feathery snow; meanwhile,
some bodies of water turn into ice.
As the sun hangs low in vales of shadows,
December silently creeps in.
Skunks, raccoons, squirrels and other small mammals
also have crept in silence . . .
to hide inside secluded spaces against the cold’s encroachment.
Their breathing, heart rate, and metabolism slow down.
Waking periodically from their torpor,
they feed and then go back to sleep.
As cold-blooded as the enveloping snow,
snakes slither instinctively into crevices of rocks
as turtles and frogs burrow into mud.
Bears, having feasted in the fall,
now hide in their dens in a state of deep slumber.
How silent and tranquil is the realm of nature’s creatures
hidden from the prying eyes of us humans.
Some of us become almost as sluggish as the animals
squirreled away in their nests of twigs and leaves.
We feast like the pre-hibernating bears.
In a festive mood or perhaps feeling sadly forlorn,
we are more likely than in any of the other seasons
to hide away inside our own abodes,
especially when soft pearls twirl from twilight’s sky
and winter lays down a thick quilt of snow
beneath a canopy of sparkling stars.
We waken, at times like this, to our world abloom with snow,
grumbling at times about having to shovel our driveways
or to travel on roads slick with ice or snow.
Like the hibernating bear, I prefer in winter
the tranquility of comfortable slumber.
Nights in winter stay dark longer.
Our heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure drop low
as drifting into the deep of dreamy sleep we go.
Ah, winter, let me sleep in your quietude
as though I were being buried in the wondrous snow
of your slumber land.
My son and his family drove down from the big city,
out to the countryside with open fields and steams.
They brought their standard golden poodle along,
a curly-haired fellow, name of Timmy.
Timmy had never seen a cat;
not even a mole or a furry rat.
Visiting country kin, he was checking things out.
Everything went fine that very first day.
Cats went about paying him no mind.
He walked about just passing time.
On that second day there was a big mistake.
Being a city dog with more worldy ways,
to add pleasure to his hum-drum days,
he thought it time to befriend these country kin.
The cats had never seen a dog this small,
only those on stilts, big, long and tall,
like Pyrenees, big wide mouths and teeth to match.
With barking big dogs on the scene,
up a tree they squirreled, never to be seen.
But this golden-haired fellow, with city clout--
they’d give him benefit of instinctive doubt.
Mama cat was even so bold
to sniff this city slicker right on the nose.
Sizing him up all the while, a friendly rat, she surmised,
a might bigger than some she had seen,
playing cat and mouse, yet acting so coy;
that is, until that overgrown golden-haired rat
walked up to Mama’s black baby boy.
Mama’s two other sons, another black and a blue,
began to gather nearer this city dweller, too.
Timmy politely extended his nose.
black son cat extended his razor-sharp claws,
with a bristled tail and fierce hissing jaws.
Timmy let out with a painful yelp,
as Mama cat called all boys in for help.
Cats surrounded and gave chase to the dog,
life-fearing circles around the cedar tree he’d log;
four hissing cats hot on his tail,
poor Timmy yelping in a desperate wail.
The master of Timmy gave rescue,
but Mama cat and her three grown sons,
strutting in pride, putting a dog on the run.
Written by: Carolyn Henderson
For Constance LaFrance's Cat Poem Contest
Won 9th Place
Single pennies wont get you much these days
Hardly anything can you buy for a cent
Cents can become dollars if squirreled away
Save enough pennies you can pay the rent
Hardly anything can you buy for a cent
Yet I still pick up those pennies that I see
Save enough pennies you can pay the rent
Its a good place to start you'll have to agree
Yet I still pick up those pennies that I see
Cents can become dollars if squirreled away
Its a good place to start you'll have to agree
Single pennies won't get you much these days
Skeletal garden stalks rattle, shivering,
long leaved arms rustle in the wind,
bony fingers snap in rhythm
to October’s haunting song;
they gather as shadowy hillside wraiths,
spectral companions for Ichabod Crane.
Summer shudders,
scattering abundant harvest corn,
thick as hoar frost,
squirreled away in darkened dens by scurrying rodents,
tasty treats against winter’s frigid tricks.
Wet days drip from the eaves,
hardening in lengthening icy fingers
that pry slippery edges from shortening days.
The pumpkin fields,
beaten chocolate brownie cakes,
sweetened with light snow,
have surrendered fat orange fruits
to carvers’ knives for spicy pies and jack-o-lanterns.
Autumn bridges fire and ice,
a zesty-sweet season splice.
© September 15, 2015
It was a green semi-dry oak leaf,
last and youngest of the family.
She did not want to fall
as she stared at the heinous wind
on a cold night in late fall
Maybe it was best to jump down,
since it’s been long
after her family bade farewell.
“Oh loneliness!” she mused, “you’re unbearable”
“I can not breath, nor can I smell”
Pretty soon, a squirreled showed up
hungry but,gleeful.
“Oh God! why do you look so scared?”
he asked in all his mischievous curiosity
She replied,”I’m an orphan,lonely and snared.”
“Wind is treacherous and life is no fun any more.”
“No! don’t say that li’l leaflet.”
“You are so fresh,but rookie,” said the squirrel,
“You’ll have many friends in rest of your life”
“What is a friend?” asked the leaf
while her desire to learn was rife
“A friend is a warm hand,
clutching your hand in depth of the storm…
A friend is the one who cried
once your heart writhed in pain,” said the squirrel
The tiny leaf smiled as her tears dried
“So, do you feel my agony in my heart now?”
“I truly do!” replied the squirrel
Just then a gust pulled and drifted the leaf away
The squirrel shed tears as repined
while she yelled “Do not cry, squirrel!”
“Now, at least I have a friend behind”
Yes I have
a facecord
of poems
and am open
to offers.
A well seasoned lot,
neatly sorted
by category or whim.
Some dark and dense
to last through
long winter evenings,
others lighter
to keep the fire bright.
A few spiced with jive
to keep your toes moving.
And squirreled away
for those long nights when
you need extra warmth,
a handful of erotic poems.
Sometimes, they work for me,
who knows, they just might
work for you.
Yes I have
a facecord
of poems
and am open
to offers.
She loves me she loves me not...
Just my luck that when juiced a lad
din grammar school, aye own every
rhyme and reason tubby mad
every friggin time boyhood fingers
plucked petals off flowered daisy...
just as well, a relief and more than glad
tomb hiss out on doing the wild thang
and be'n totally tube yule lore lee baad
yea, how boring squirreled away
voraciously reading 'bout some cad
oh my dog...I too could write story
"FAKE" steamy extramarital liaison add
chocolate flavored Glynnis (Msgeegee),
whereby celibate chap goes stir crazy - egad
yours truly drives back to her pad
within sketchy part of West Philadelphia
starring as chief protagonist
none other then... yupper this dad
until caught with pants down (figuratively)
thine missus both angry at me and sad
I immediately unapologetic longed to gad
about even jetting setting off to Vlad
divest stock to escape wrath cull bile
daily spewed phlegm at me - wad
off by bajillion miles wife got poor aim
cruel colorful epithets coarse expletives had
filled beyond capacity to resist or tolerate
hence, yours truly sought to skad
had dude dull married life awkward fit
analogous, incongruous, perilous
why dead men don't wear plaid
they make no bones about
nor act self flesh deathly quiet
oblivious toward latest fad
mouldering into dust
whereby gravesites sprout weeds
mother nature's couture clad
eroded tombstone disintegrating
vanishing without trace
unremembered story...
unlike Odyssey and Illiad.
I do this each year, usually November
The box is heavier than I remember
I lift off the lid, inhale the odour
First it's the Yardley my Dad used to wear
A giant birthday card, a 21st treat
Hides the treasures I buried beneath
A removal of this, I'm suddenly there
Back to a time of no worries or cares
Silly old letters, words of love lost
Old theatre scripts, a small diamond cross
Cheesy song lyrics, wrote with intention
of giving. Your marriage my only prevention
I kept every one, to preserve memories
That many moons ago, you belonged to me
There's cinema tickets, ragged and spoiled
You gave your last Rolo so I kept the foil
A white envelope that smells of your house
A severe difference between then and now
And then comes the photo's I squirreled away
Why do I torture myself in this way?
Snapshots of people I forgot I knew
Of parties and whitey's and hullabaloo
Those LSD nights, third degree gurns
Burdenless shoulders, pink with sunburn
A dog-earred schoolbook covered in doodles
Traditional student living on noodles
Chases from police with weed in the car
Walking to the beach in shorts and a bra
Tokens and proof of infinate liberty
But for now, for another year, I put the lid back on me
Why... just yesterday
where webbed wide world troubles
seemed so far away,
that would hove bin Monday
(October first tooth
house sand eight
teen), i.e. yea all
ready yes tar day
immediately found me ah say
comfortably, yet (gnome
min Ellie squirreled away)
seated on lawn chair a lay
ying when tired noggin sinks
deeply buried amidst pillows, may
find me submerged clay
mare ring with fervent eagerness,
and minimal delay
to soak in contents of the latest
issue of TIME magazine
came in the mail, hooray
which information periodically,
I always eagerly await
akin to puppy at play
time, though occasionally,
an issue doth
not arrive so okay
lack of receiving timely enjoyable
enlightening material,
no reason to nay
say United States
Postal Service pray
tell, an alternate option avails
to peruse online
contents, aye vay
their experience, the
smooth paper texture
this "FAKE" snoop
doggy dog tags
online medium deplore
able, cuz lack of poor
lee no comparison versus
cozying up with pages
as wood burning
stove doth roar
these fingers can turn more
appealing than straining, whar
only with great effort,
aye wreck kin and,
unable to ignore
eyes coon sitter
this quite a chore
to lean in attempting
with difficulty to explore
(with scrunched brow, and
squinting myopic ocular orbs)
scroll thru webpage,
while ma back
also feels strained, nor
ken nigh, yet favors
the hard copy
visa vis discovering significant
global and local happenings,
(which affinity also applies
to The Nation magazine),
yet latter noticeably more
brashly appealing tummy with
righteous leftist political
leanings bobbing along bon jour.
A SPECIAL POEM FOR MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.
Agony of a Squirrel (poet Henry Ochiagha)
Hunted hunter hunting my soul.
Why are you hurting me so.
Hunted hunter hinted at bay.
Unwelcome predator looking for prey.
Setting the pace and blowing the blue jar.
Wake up one morning and saw the gray.
Hoping to meet the day dangling on a rosy line.
But was astonished by the treacherous arrow of the nile.
Crossing the air space shatter the leaves.
hitting the unknown victim.
Forgetting we are here before they came.
born rightwise to this fine land
intrudung hordes defiling it.
Loving unity while diversity is at risk of hate.
Lets promote things that unite us not things that divide us.
We see before the scene.
We see what we dream and dream what we see.
Even the greatest hunter cannot explain all that happen in the forest.
Instead of been caught, let laughter took over the road i was chase by the hunter.
Crops, trees and the fields are all my habitation.
No wonder the birds choose the sky.
The ground are fill with deadly traps.
I don't wanna go down there cos its were squirrel oliver was caught and never seen.
All humans are potential hunter hunted by desire and aspiration.
Hunted hunter hurt de hunted squirreled away some money.
Squirt out of my domain on a squirrel cage.
While my flesh can not even make a pot of soup flourish
Manifestation of métier write
As an indie alt rock'n
tribe beck ha rolling stone dishabille poet,
who views challenge of writing analogous
to begetting an heir or heiress,
which former includes
gestation of an emotion,
idea, sentiment,...unbeknownst
if outcome birthed to be fabulous
then however the whimsical notion spins
within thine cerebral centrifuge,
the imagination pregnant with fetus
of a fledgling concept feeling
with byte size sea legs,
not quite ready for prime time
and beak combs devious, industrious,
overconscientious (hopefully), victorious...
though, as swollen womb dar full expansive
lettered girth manifests and coalesces
into miniature Confucius
versatile Buddha baby
(unless unexpected contusions
render exertion aborted effort), the proud
pro-creator bounteous, glorious, riotous
which unexpected success inspires
brassy, ironic, steely wordsmith
to tackle another and fleeting thought
and sire by product with audacity.
Oft times the sacred seconds silenced
by stillness louder than "Big Ben"
ear splitting only to me - squirreled away
in this makeshift manorial man cave
the grateful dead foo fighters quiet, a riot
with audio logical sonic boom decibel -
asper water nymph sprung from fen
or when the quick brown
(sneaky, leery, and fiery) fox
jumps over the lazy dog
slips into the house,
where the yolk cull doth roost
long fostering mass squawking
of manifold egg on eyes zing hen.
the end result metamorphoses into
a totally tubular unforeseen jumble
of gibberish senseless wordy clump
aspiring to convey some essence of logic,
though best to take a furlough than persist
to interpret dump
of discordantly strung English bits,
which intractable insistence
might spell f-o-r-c-e-d g-r-u-m-p
as the mood one may find them-self,
unless he/she can call
the literary mod squad to resolve harrumph
and with any lucky the once amorphous lump
pen pro lit tarry hit might undergo
an amazing transformation a mugwump,
a cherished poem plump
with juicy fruit weighing down the boughs
as if limbs ready to slump.
Life of the Grasshopper
The birds are flying south for winter
The chipmunks have squirreled away a stash
The ants have slaved all summer to survive
But another season still holds death
The grasshopper has no pretenses
It lives its days
But lives in the moment
Then dies
Just like everything else
The grasshopper had a lot of life in its year
The bird, the chipmunk, and the ant all had a lot of years in their life
All used up working to delay the inevitable
Looking, but never seeing a silent, still moment
A dandelion trying to catch the wind
A ripple racing on a stream
A cloud cartwheeling across the sky
A forest reaching for the sun
Perfection
They’re too busy to find peace
Holding too tight to find release
Mocking the grasshopper’s wisdom
Resenting it for its life of freedom
And its peace with death
A day once long ago in life.
I made a choice that led to strife.
I won't go into any detail.
It's enough to say it's a woeful tale.
I ask myself where would I be.
If I didn't get cast out to sea.
On a wave of youth and foolish fun.
A long lost journey of a seventh son.
I went to see a therapist.
She said, that's no way to exist.
I waved goodbye, bid her adieu.
And turned the misbegotten screw.
So here I sit, nowhere to turn.
Sad but true, I just don't learn.
The window looks out on the world.
As I hold my nuts that I have squirreled.
In life we go through many phases.
And our minds go to many places.
Some people stay right where they are.
And sadly, don't go very far.
It's when we get outside ourselves.
And climb down off those dusty shelves.
That we can find a whole new world.
And spend them nuts that we have squirreled.
It seems that in today's society.
You need not move to get variety.
We sit and click and never move.
And causes health to not improve.
Then one day comes an ultimatum.
And we heed the warning verbatim.
Blood pressure's high and so is glucose.
We don't ask why and we don't suppose.
The answers clear, it's time to shift.
Into high gear to slim midriff.
And when we start to feel a change.
Our whole live's start to rearrange.
So find a way that keeps you moving.
So you can continue improving.
And soon you'll start feeling much better.
When you become a daily sweater.
And as the weight begins to shed.
You'll sleep much better in your bed.
So don't just click, get up instead.
Before you wake and find you're dead.