Hear the tale of the green fields where I roam,
Leisure World, the place that I call home.
If you take strolls (a healthy habit),
at dawn or dusk, you'll see a rabbit.
(If you were faster, you could grab it)
You'll see four-legged, curly-haired cuties
who lead their pets while they do their duties,
and grey-brown squirrels on their haunches
meticulously chewing their lunches.
If your garden was ruined by a snail,
I ask, are you reading my mail?
See the colorful apples of my eyes -
hummingbirds and monarch butterflies.
But what I'd like to see most (pardon my sharin'),
is a coyote or a great white heron.
The foxes in my garden
Arrive at night to play
They had their fill of chicken
And so decide to stay
I crouch down on my haunches
And look into her eyes
The little one so trusting
She’s like her mother wise
I see how she has taught them
To fend well for themselves
But only Little Roxy
Has me so overwhelmed
She comes to me at midnight
For honey in a bowl
As I crouch down and watch her
I know my heart she stole.
The other three just run around
They eat and scatter fast
But Roxy and her mother
Make this encounter last
Haunches and Paunches
It’s strange to say,
but people who sit on their haunches
develop fat paunches
but, say, isn’t it usually the other way?
Definition
Procrastination is
a synonym for pure laziness
without, however,
the indecision of the former.
Unhappy
Do you wake up every day
bereaved in sorrow,
because yesterday passed away
and today will tomorrow?
Truism
In the matter of sexuality
men prefer promiscuity
to unguarded adultery:
the first allows selectivity
the second, the notoriety
of damaging publicity.
His Libido
Her husband’s libido works like sap,
rising only in the spring, and slow at that.
Food for Thought or Nought?
Given all the choicest of foods we eat,
and what it becomes in the end,
shouldn’t it make us wonder what it is we eat,
and is it worth the money we spend?
At the Des Moines River’s Road End
There was a sharp tricky right bend
Prickly pines there were ready to defend
Graveled middle, a modern MODOT trend
Weeds that flittering faeries often tend
Mushroom homes, upon whom elves defend
Mother nature sat on haunches to mend
Torn sage weeds, beavers had chewed to extend.
After midnight, an uncle
was born a newborn.
In the center of the Buddhist room where incense smoke lingers
He was born sitting on his haunches
He stood up, his legs trembling
“I really wanted to be a steamboat.“
He was a troublesome man.
So the next day, we went out to the harbor in the morning.
Uncle Pulp was armored up with a heavy body.
“Watch out, Uncle!”
I closed my eyes.
Behind my eyelids, the sunlight shone thinly.
Sure enough, he slips on the tetrapod.
He slips on the tetrapod and flips over.
His head was bleeding and he couldn't move a muscle.
I knew he would not live long
But the way it all ended so quickly
I was a little disappointed and sentimental for a while.
The next afternoon
under the bridge, where I could hear the sound of the rain
I was playing with stones
The leaden sky stretched far out to sea
to the sea beyond.
Then I saw my uncle's soul emerge from his corpse
the soul of my uncle, shimmering
It came to me
“I still can't be a steamboat
But I think I can become a mirage.“
With a look of unconcern on his face
He went out into the rainy sea.
And he never came back.
At night soil dreams in silent technicolour, peaceful and alone.
It exhales gently without the trampling of mankind snapping
roots; without the world above and its usual stampede.
Branches notice it first, having time to stretch,
to watch stars appear; time to open bark and bow wide,
sprawling and luscious. Away from daily smokes and steams,
the sky is a black mosaic of golden shards.
Rivers lap, sigh upstream. Birds fly in a chorus,
circling in trills below the moon’s pupil-white skin.
Fields are resting their patchwork bodies, the tissue of
grass sewn from the earthly vapours of oak, birch, ash.
Nature’s legs grow stubbly at night, wild and unshaven.
In the morning a rabbit stands on its haunches, saluting the sun.
"please sit on your sitzfleisches,"the 4th grade teacher said
Preschoolers do not understood German, so they continued to stand
"Sit on your hindquarters!" This was stated a bit louder.
The kids stared at her, still not understanding.
"Your haunches, your petootsies, your derrieres!"
They looked totally consternated now.
A preschool teacher walked in.
"Sit on your pockets," she said.
They all sat.
hey, mommy, can I please read a page?
the kitten was sitting on her haunches, waiting.
The next page, the girl promised.
She was loving this adventure story.
Every line was a treat to read.
Kitty sat high on her haunches.
Now, Mommy?
In a second, the girl replied.
It is very difficult to relinquish a book like this.
My horse's haunches sway,
Saunter up hillocks and down a valley path,
Above a ridge off and on: a village where some people fish,
Phosphorescent flotsam washed ashore.
Green embers breathe as if through shriveled lungs.
Wax in contrast to the gloaming dark that's coming on.
Shrubbery shadows lengthen, enlarging blacknesses.
Crickets ratchet down their temperatures.
The earth cools in wan mirage.
Time lapsed, the stars make
A slow, quiet carousel of lights.
It circles far above us disengaged.
Wings of crows scoop pools of air,
Then dive down open maws
On tiny, furred crawlers shocked stock still.
Crows chalk their caws across the night.
A copse will grow into a stand of oaks.
The vintage children like to climb.
Gnarled limbs reminding them of fiction sailing ships.
Hand over fist to where the topmost rigging is.
For now, people and trees are bottled tiny on a shelf.
At dry dock like some whittled models are.
Until the oak is christened keel and frame
And of agers live lives and make their livelihoods at sea. (9/18/22)
Monochrome winds fantail snowdrifts.
Fleck-churned sparks maw feathery flights
and a howling backdraft
spikes matted fur.
Pawing winds spring traps clenched,
injurious icicled haunches hollowed.
A smothering whiteness whistles
through yellow teeth, a smoldering
witness from snow that isn't snow,
(one homeless person's jaw drops, he looks up,)
I wolf down yogurt that drips off the plastic sides,
whitening the Los Angeles sunshine
where some homeless rest on the reflective sidewalk,
all but one, the nimbus of his mouth quakes.
The soil is dreaming in a silent technicolour,
peaceful and alone. It exhales, gently without the tragic
trampling of mankind snapping roots, without the world above
and its usual stampede. Gone. Branches noticed it
first - slowly having time to stretch, to watch clouds;
time to open their barks wide and bows sprawling and luscious,
away from smokes and steams and smogs. The sky is blue,
clear. Rivers are lapping, sighing. Birds fly in a chorus, circling
in trills below the moon’s pupil-white skin - seen at night.
Fields are resting their patchwork bodies, their tissues of
grass and pores sewn from the vapours of oak, birch and ash.
Nature’s legs are stubbly now, growing hair left wild and unshaven.
In the morning, rabbits stand tall on haunches saluting the sun.
rumor should have stopped at our living room
not sure what happened
temporary insanity?
we discussed it
agreed to never share it with others
both lied apparently
came back to bite us in the haunches
served us right
knew better
Some are sensitive more than others
It's an inbred trait, just like a buffer
Causes some problems
We get up on our haunches
Uncontrollable it is, right down to the buzzer
A chipmunk chases another,
who somehow vice-versas the first,
One chipmunk pops out of a hole,
and hops across the lawn,
and stops upon the wall,
and rests upon its haunches,
to chew up a maple seed,
One jumps up a rohodendron’s wiry arms,
and scrambles to get lost among the leaves,
Piercing with a peep somewhere deeper in the woods,
Does The Tall look down at a fighting-to-rat-race us like it's cute little chippering play?
You look at me confused,
haunches poised to
leap upon my lap.
Eager to slobber my face
with kisses, and for
your ears to be scratched.
I stop you, arm extended,
with a strongly articulated, “No!”
Initially, you look confused,
then hurt wondering
what wrong you have committed.
I smile, and pet your head,
my smile conveying, “It’s alright.
Not yet, but soon.”
You turn, and hop up
on the leather couch,
turning three times,
and plop into the nest
you created, and, sigh.
© 2019, The Book Of Ruth, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
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