Fight me! Styx wants to say
It comes out as a ‘mew’
They stroke his fur and pet his head
Tickle, fuss and coo
Too soft! He thinks, Where are the claws?
The hard knocks and the teeth?
His friends, the other wampus cats
At least brawl like they have beef
But his clowder mates are holed up too
Hunkering from the hail
What he wouldn’t give right now
To bite another’s tail!
Adrenaline makes his muscles twitch
Pent up frustration writhes
Oh to be outdoors again
Running with his tribe!
Fight me! Styx wants to roar
All six legs set to scrap
He doesn’t want an invitation
To sit purring on a lap
Fight me! Styx insists
And receives a little shove
Yes! Physical contact!
He interprets it as love
Fight me! Fight me! He’s shoved again
He nips, inviting more
He’s rewarded with rough and tumble
And is sent sprawling on the floor
When it comes to good play fighting
The humans don’t quite know how
It’s not the same as wampus wrestling
But it’ll do, for now
Dark clouds fill the horizon.
sweeping through the sky
like soldiers going to battle,
layers and layers of clouds
spreading all around hunkering
in th ground where destiny is bound,
I can feel the wind chill in my back.
and the mad trees running around in the breeze.
and the deer’s looking for shelter underneath the bridge.
the horses and the mules are looking confused.
and they escape to higher ground.
the mad wind sets in ripping off roofs.
rooting up trees, smashing cars
and breaking down barricade doors
it dumps tons of water onto waste land.
flooding roads, villages and town
forcing the people to leave their homes.
and shelter in the railway town
and over in the other State a white
mountain stood boldly at the gate,
but there was no one to make the snow man.
Christmas has come and gone.
and the children were not playing on the lawn.
and the thick snow began to
grow and the wild wind began to blow.
you told me that it was winter.
when I will have a decent supper
when the water receded
and the snow melts
and they bury all the dead.
the exodus will begin.
To love someone who couldn’t love back the same way
Only to be used and than discarded for there own selfish needs
Left out in a storm filled with darkness, no meaning why, but left
Hunkering down as the storm unleashes its worst upon your heart and soul
Bearing to witness the pain and sorrow
of days and weeks to months
It feels like hell
Letting go isn’t an option
Winter arrives on a carpet of white,
in a glistening gown of ice and snow.
She alights as migrating geese take flight
and blustery breezes begin to blow,
to the cheers of the babes of Scorpio.
Snow entombs Autumn's dead in a white shroud,
burying city streets till they get plowed
and shutting down all but Nature's playground.
As a grey, somber sky gives way to cloud,
Nature's wildlife begins hunkering down.
… is a drunkard
Swilling vintage regret,
Tears falling for undared dreams,
Anger spewing over unrequited love.
… is endless replays of yesterdays
With circular insightful wisdom
As likely to reverse life’s ills
As scrubbing dirt off hills.
… is stolen joy in the gloom
Of memory’s moldy greenhouse
Where fancied success blooms, hiding
Mocking hyenas and nightmare roaches.
… is a pustulated soul
Hunkering in a mental bunker
Sniveling nose dripping a green past,
Dreaming victory will roar as thunder.
… is Salvador Dali droop
From the fringes of reality
Or a joy until truth
Flushes it to a cesspool.
Winds blowing
Hard against the house
Buffeted
Shuddering
Hunkering down for the worst
As the front rolls in
Rain pounding
On the metal roof
Voices raised
Just to hear
Rivers running through the yard
Creating trenches
Light flashes
A two-count and boom
Puppy dog
Snuggles close
Hills outlined by strobed flashes
Petitions raised up
Calm returns
Distant flashes now
Long count booms
Rain subsides
Runoff racing downhill fast
The world is fresh, clean
----------
SECOND PLACE WINNER
For the "Give Me A Shadorma" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
Written on 02/17/2022
Recalling 2011
Written: by Miracle Man
August 12, 2021
A violent wind, thunderous, and loudly,
moves some stationary things it touches.
If in the “fraidy hole” hunkering proudly,
you've evaded mother natures clutches
“It’s an all-too-human frailty to suppose
that a favorable wind will blow forever.”
Rick Bode
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS
Hello Santa! The last time I saw you was thirty eight years ago.
I sat on your lap, hugged and kissed you and gave it away.
Our two year old son figured out it was no Santa; but Dad.
Now, I want the real Santa to come and visit me, pretty please.
I have not been naughty lately for I have not been outdoor
dancing for the last four weeks and four weeks is too long.
I have been nice, masking, distancing and mostly hunkering down;
but, I have been going out of my head with the Corona fatigue,
especially this week that I do not have on-line classes anymore.
My children cannot give me what I want for Christmas.
So please, won’t you come, visit and give me what I want.
All I want for Christmas is a ride in your sleigh on Christmas Eve
and let Rudolph drive me to get away and escape from reality.
I’m sure you will still have plenty of time to deliver your
presents in your list so nobody would pout and cry.
Santa's Covid Christmas Poetry Carolyn Devonshire
The summer of great outdoors
Has become the winter of discontent.
Families hunkering down indoors,
Tring to find various ways to be content.
Damage of economic uncertainty,
I rather have muddy boots to clean.
And reasons to live and think positively.
Before the cold winter froze my dream.
Tapping into those demons beyond the remit
There is emotional privacy creating space.
Linked family and friend’s intimate closet,
Estate, separate and safe, a kind time waste.
A path less taken to the peak of intent,
The new belief of seeing around corners.
Being heroic in the winter of discontent,
We find ourselves asleep with desires.
What visions mean to change our course
From oceans dragging the world under.
Soughing waves gasp for breathless pause,
Awaken to find darker things in the hour.
We feel the darkness invading our soul.
Fear, anger, and blame, waiting to explode.
Doubt held the reins balancing the world,
All sides of the human condition grow cold.
S lowly, imperceptibly, long summer days start to die,
E vening comes down, like a smile to a frown, softly as a sigh.
P atination turns to grey, suffused with rustic hue,
T ides turn and skies burn a different, steely blue.
E verywhere is hunkering down, now that summer's lost,
M ornings are fresher, following the thresher, now rimed in frost.
B ucolic ease flushes the trees with dazzling autumn shades,
R uminants sleep in byre and barn as daylight softly fades.
I nsular people in city and town find refuge in their mufflers,
S unny smiles and beguiling eyes morphing to sneezers and snufflers.
Millennials are spring breaking
Boomers are hunkering down
Clowns are pointing fingers...again
No vacancy at the coroner's lounge.
Florists and pharma are stacking chips.
The panicked are dusting off prickly prayers.
The media is tossing frantic into the wind.
The government is shutting us down.
Not enough bleach or kits to go around.
The preppers laughing at the newly desperate.
The rich and the guilty have all been tested.
Poor men get no empathy and are laid to rest.
Under champagne glasses of tinsel towns.
Covid-19 is but a long prequel.
For much nastier things to come.
A wise old woman once said to me
"Death always comes in threes".
Somewhere in all this froth
I've lost track of myself
and no longer count the blessings.
Forgives Florida
Not so much The Bahamas
Stay safe everyone
Keep hunkering down
This monstrosity shall pass
God be with you all!
Date written: 09/01/2019
Smoke glaze of Crayola pink
salmons through foamy Colgate
spat from mouth
to porcelain sink in the washroom
nearest the bedroom overslept in this morning.
To look at it, spineless and slow,
amid hunkering swirl
gurgling down to wish on gators,
is to see the frail rivulet percolate
on New Hampshire’s white meadow late in December,
to see it bubble
beneath blood oaths of brothers,
solemnly sworn,
made null by the twist of an axis
wringing the color of life from
tattered red panties
tossed to the tumble of snow-soaked socks
circling like doves through soap and boiling water.
Tom Turkey got lost 'midst the teeming flock,
Thus, avoiding the dreaded chopping block!
Hunkering down spared his life,
Averting the carving knife!
He now recovers from traumatic shock!
Autumn Begins
I stand on my porch
eyes raised into a pallid sky
like Greer Garson on the Cliffs of Dover
watching her lover's Spitfire cross the channel.
Geese gather in the bay.
Daily practice formations vee over
my cottage which is even now
hunkering down into the forest.
It pulls in its garden skirts in one last show
of bravado with golden asters and tattered
baby's breath lace kicking high. Wood is piled
on the porch to feed my parlor stove when
white is the colourless of the day. My geese
bugle and triumph in a crackle of song, " come with us,
come with us woman of the north, Join our soaring
into the warmth of another land."
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