One frosty winter's eve
In the silence of the night
Under the glow of the moon
In glittery delight
There's sounds of shuffling tiny feet
In the blades of green that crinkle
And captured in a sea of black pearls
Are joyous reflections of celestial twinkle.
A special dance commences
In the Field Mouse Winter Ball.
Squeaky songs and scratchy steps...
An entertaining eve for all.
As per their tradition,
Before the occasion has ended,
They surround the patch of frozen puddles
With all whom they've befriended.
They pair up and take their turn
To grace themselves on ice.
Then they vote amongst themselves
The winning winter field mice.
An hour or two before first light
They bid fur well and goodbye.
Then scurry home to their safe place
Before hungry predators swirl the sky.
When they feel they cannot venture
Their sorrow they relieve
By reminiscing about the fun they had
On one frosty winter's eve.
Ghostly screams and unseen hands rouse,
with no peace, even for a field mouse
in an unearthly old tilted haunted house.
Creeping spider quickly cowers and ebb
into the murkiness on its old, tattered cobweb.
The silken-midnight cat's shadow came on silent paws,
paused on the stairs and sharpened its murderous claws.
There was a knock-knock-knocking at the door.
At the top of her lungs, the witch, with a roar,
clenched her wrist and screamed. Is that you, Thor?
Thor opened the door howling. Where are you keeping
the wanted children that are still sleeping.
MOUSE HOUSE*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my shoe, I found quite a sight,
a small mouse, with fur soft and light.
He twitched and he squeaked,
as I gasped and I freaked,
Then we both took off running in fright!
*This poem is written in memoriam and dedicated to the field mouse who mistakenly decided our garage would be a cool place to wait out summer's heat.
Laying in the summer sun in a field of green grass
In the distance a lake shimmering like a pain of clear glass
Birds are singing their sweet songs in the bushes and trees
And the soothing humming sound of the honey bees
The smell the wild flowers so pungent and delicious
The scurrying of a field mouse carefree but still suspicious
Laying in a field of green grass the warm sunshine on my face
Alone with my daydreaming away from the human race.
October brought in pumpkins, but also Priscila, autumn faerie.
Adorned in tangerines, oranges, yellows, her mood bright and airy.
She did not make herself known to the humans in the house.
But she was spotted instantly by a cat, pig and field mouse.
How often do you come here? Asked the curious cat.
Every October, stated the mouse, who was the size of a rat
The pig stared at the beautiful faerie, no words were said.
He dreamed of her often, that love-sick sow, Ed.
Deprivation of my rights and freedom
Bodily autonomy, tossed out of
a terrace window, seventy-third floor
of a building in New York that touches
the same ground I walk on, yet reaches much
higher than I could ever imagine.
I scream to them, giant politicians,
but the shadow of their business loafers
overhead scare the sound from my pursed lips.
My individuality exchanged
for a man’s practicality; it seems
as though they've had their fun suppressing us
Toying with my consciousness like a cat
praying on a field mouse, so innocent.
They say: so innocent! Could I be, too?
or shall I wear my curiosity
like a garment, like an oddity for
men to squint at, confine my mind and bones
to the idea that women shouldn’t
bare the decision of what lives within;
shackles on my reproductive organs
dig into my skin like the words they spew
from hot mouths, pouring into the laps of
women, alphabet soup spelling, “no more”.
Let us breathe in the possibility
of respect and dignity, the promise
of true liberty and justice for all.
Far too powerful, they fear, women are.
Idle nests linger
Fledgling feathers learn to fly
Angry winds scowl
The old bell shivers
Its tone muted in the cold
A fox perks its ears
A lost mitten weeps
What am I going to be
A field mouse moves in
An icy moon
A symphony of shadows
Nature’s nocturne
When I was beautiful
A rose in bloom
a field mouse
Climbed my stem
fell asleep in the center
To inhale and sleep
in my fragrance.
The rave
had no sense of beauty
I was a lure
The struggle was short.
Self-indulgent
I kissed the sun
Nothing untoward
had happened
Summers are so short
To be a revolutionary.
The Rose Revolution
in Portugal ended
now we have
social-democracy
When my brother was fading away,
black chimes signaled for the demons to play.
They attacked all sides of my hobbled mind.
Treating the heart like an orphaned marble
They were rabid and had brackish intentions
Hope chipped away like a crowbar to cement.
In a dream, one of them took me into its sky
I clung tight to its undercarriage
begging for it to release me
It promised that it would if I said
that I loved it...I relented
It didn't keep its promise as expected
and we wrecked together.
I coddled a little amber cross....
(a field mouse in an owl's greying claw).
I was dismissed into a pillow of tranquility
The demons slowly drifting away...
as did my brother the very next day.
God Controls Time
Miracle Man
8/20/2024
From high on it’s perch,
a patient hawk seeks it’s prey.
Also with each clock tick,
God is shortening man’s day
It’s “survival of the fittest”
so a field mouse below.
Is on the menu for dinner,
And clock continues to flow
The titmouse isn’t aware,
That it soon will be sup.
The clock keeps man’s time
God decides when it’s up.
teeny tiny field mouse did not have a chance there
eagle-eyed red headed buzzard spotted him from the air
swooped down, then took mouse up to fifteen thousand feet
making him into a squirming wiggly tasty treat
The sweeping stops
the world cuts its own grass
feeds itself with the living
while the dead grow trees and turf.
You notice things,
the eyes of your eyes are open lattice windows,
shutters taking pictures;
making those images move.
Suddenly, as quite as a field mouse
the view you are watching
becomes just watching.
Only then do you recognize
this ever expanding life of all who move
through you.
Employing the Wind
The red-tailed hawk sails across
the backdrop of the April blue sky
Employing the wind as he defies gravity
with the gesture of his tail and ease of his conscience
His great wings reaching out for abundance
as he scans the ocean of green grass below
with its occasional island of trees
herded together many seasons ago
from the might of the farmer’s plow
The field mouse scurries across the pasture
circumventing the patchwork of cow patties.
Employing the wind as he gages his path
with the twitch of his nose and the whip of his tail
His tiny soundless feet carrying him into the abyss
With nothing to assure him but his own intentions.
Pixie’s favorite steed is a porcupine.
I thought this was an exaggeration, some kind of line.
Surely that is not true, don’t they have prickly quills?
If you get them young, they will give you thrills.
I took a look at the porcupine and I laughed like a louse.
Pixie's porcupine was actually a regular field mouse.
You mean it is fun to be galloping on a porcupine?
Oh, yes, and you can bring your sandwiches and dine.
You will have a fine time, a really fine time, cousin of mine.
Just jump on the back of this porcupine!
I commented on how soft the porcupine was to the Pixie.
But my muse and I secretly laughed; her name is Trixie.
Painted Easter greetings miraculously appeared on a giant egg
In the middle of a field, the story goes from my cousin Meg.
The scarecrow was frightened, he hid his face from the anomaly.
We were all scared agreed a field mouse. Not me said a flea.
No one can see you, so it’s not like you were in danger anyway.
This was stated by a caterpillar, who is prickly almost every day.
I saw the flea said the rabbit who was finishing up the sign.
He was not bothering anyone, and now he is a friend of mine.
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