I Asked An Idea:
"Squirrel, What's
Righteous Indignity?"
[He/She/It] Had No Idea.
It Has No Imagination.
Imagine Anything!
Complete On
Your Own Time.
No Answer.
Don't Say It.
-Gray Squirrel
06-10-2026
Grandad land is a place like heaven
Where one can disappear
Shut out all the daily noises
A place granddad holds so dear
Where women talk in silent voices
And the kids are rarely seen
We are spared the great indignity
Of being called geriatric, senile, or unclean
It is a place that time can pass
So blissful, serene and quiet
Away from the nagging and the incessant chat
And any impending family riot
The world where Rainbows shine every day
That wonderful place only he can know
So when you see Grandad looking vacant in a chair
That’s where he is, so now you know
The Greenhouse or Garden Shed
His main place of refuge when
He needs some space to be alone
In peace and tranquillity once again
He has selected hearing
For those moments which he cares for less
And occasionally you have to wonder
What planet he’s on I guess
But he will always still be Grandad
The one who will always care
As he smokes his *** and sits and dreams
In his old comfy chair
So spare a thought next time you see
That he’s drifted into his own world to get inner peace
Because when he awakes he will always say
What, when, who of course I was listening, wonders will never cease
The squirrel council gathered
beneath the old oak tree,
debating this year’s acorn tax
with wild indignity.
Red Tail argued loudly
for equal stash for all,
while Gray Tail filibustered
by climbing up the trunk and stalling.
Chiptooth formed a committee
to count the winter stores,
but half the nuts went missing
before they reached the floor.
White Tail, the Treasurer (a clever one)
insisted on a vote~
but bribery with hazelnuts
kept everyone barking a troat.
Yet somehow, through the chaos,
a compromise was made:
each squirrel keeps their acorns
but must share one… someday.
And so the forest functions,
in its nut-based parliament~
a jittery, tail-flicking congress
forever in dissent.
Come February
This is the last day of January 2026
It has been a long month; my surgery took
more out of me than I thought
I have shrunk the trousers' legs too long. I have
to fold them so they do not fall over
I have been thinking of Ernest Hemingway
He had a gun and knew how to use it
I never had a weapon; one needs a license, but I could
Say it is for protection
If I ask for one bullet, they will say I need
a clip, how many bullets are there, six?
I'm painfully sober, a glass of red wine wouldn't
Come a miss, I'm optimistic with a drink
Again, I think of Ernst Hemingway, who avoided
the indignity of old age
When nightfall dips in palest of gold
I feel a sense of indignity,
As owl's melody loses its eloquence
Through the absence of a safe abode;
Where quietude calls for avian coos
The kind which never seeks to intrude…
And its orbed eyes larger than neons, freeze
In need of natue's hued, aerial parade---
Startled, bird's forest trail is washed out
By mourning dew of poison
Denying the barren woods of nourishment
while allowing thieves to skin owl feathers,
mangled talons like so, wasted ---
Wise keeper of secrets, hushing the noise.
Life marvels at your nocturnal guardianship
yet, this world shares not your moonlit toots
lithography of hills no longer owns
your delicate interludes of silence...
Man ravages bird navel, flesh , and plumes
For trading quests, for self- interest ---
Can this earthly slaughter cease
sucking nectar soil of birds dry?
Somehow, I still hail the dwindling number
of hooting owls
Which believes that the next generations
will wander on an environ,
Soaring their wings... joyously free at last.
A fable
I flew high, but it was hot, my wings were tired
when spotting a well sat on the rim of the well
saw my reflection; yes, I was beautiful, but
noticed a dark shadow behind me
pushing me into the well and looking up
Evil had gone
clawed myself to the top, the Evil sat by the fireside
my talons scratched its eyes out
Evil ran outside, cooling his dead eyes in falling
I'm a silky bird with golden feathers
The evil scream bore man's suffering
Wisdom lost there was a land that had golden sand
lemon trees and jubilant grapes
A Muslim land?
Among them lived a minority known for wisdom
prosperity and respect, with riches, came power
Europe was full of new ideas and a call from the minority
that had grown rich until calamity blocked progress
The call from this minority was a new demand for the right to
go back to the land of golden sand and lemon tree to turn
it into their land and to get revenge for the past indignity
So it comes to pass, for now, but since the minority had lost
the wisdom of the story is endless
those who have spent years on ship decks
know how to keep the balance
sullen is this night
bearing the burden of toil
as footwalk grows bleak…
crushed weeds,
skeletal trees :
molussk and corn
wait not for anyone
while sandstones drift
mocking the light.
Against kohl shadows
time stalls
to maim common workers
peeling the dark...ebon
craving for innocent stars;
that even stalks weep
slapped by winds--
how in blood of silence
men, women,children
wrestle with indignity
leashed on tattered marrow ,
yet they reap hope
until night’s edge---
restless thoughts gnaw
and... they gaze past clouds
finding comfort in the rain.
Dodging one here, dodging one there,
Riding along without a care.
Three in a row, which way do I go,
I close my eyes and curse the so and so.
Oh! what a bang, the old van shook,
But at least it is still going and not in a ruck.
What is that noise? that cannot be right,
I, giving a gasp of utter fright.
Must stop, foot pedal goes straight to the floor,
And the hand brake does not belong to the van anymore.
Coast to a stop, must pull onto the verge,
The engine roars but no longer gives the van any urge.
Beneath the van the axle is in two,
With the stout half shaft plainly in view.
Side to side the rear wheel wobbles,
Not what I expected for all of my troubles.
Beware of those holes, the pot holes I mean,
Especially those that cannot be seen.
Old NED has finally been brought to a stop,
Everything seems to be going to pot.
At least I escaped the indignity,
Of watching that wheel coming off and overtaking me.
Oh! what utter strife,
It is for sure, ONE HELL OF A LIFE !!!
Rural Sunday
I sat on a milk ramp by a road
that has not suffered the indignity
to be covered in a black trickle
Sunday!
the sky was eternally blue
I could
standing up, see the sea
the water was azure as well
is azure deeper blue than the sky
or is it a word used by poets in
the hope he will sound romantic?
Fed up sitting there, but I sat
wanted to see a drifting cloud
the immaculate sky
a tall ship crosses the ocean for a while
balance on the horizon
sailing upside down
till it sank under the weight of the world
Fell asleep!
awoke as the sun's shift was over
a car stopped
the driver offered me a lift
Imperially, I waved him off
I wanted to keep my reveries
a bit longer.
The Perennial
On an overhang, where the mountain slopes gently towards the lowland and the sea
there is a crooked tree with long roots embracing the mountain
Is the plant an asp or a birch, the leaves are compact and sturdy
It has to be as it is the first who catches the winter wind or the salty haar from the sea.
It is also a tree that catches the first light of the day and the last
To see the disappearing day, the first to see how wonderfully clear our firmament can be.
This tree will not risk the indignity, of being dressed up like a tart
have gifts in the colourful wrapping of favour bought under duress and be thrown
on the waste heap when the party is over
This tree will not be an elegant mast on a clipper sailing to China and Ceylon and
one day run aground on the hardy coast of Norway and be sold off as planks.,
This tree is art because someone looked up and said, look
at this, its true art and has a natural beauty and emotion only great art can provoke.
She buried the bodies down by the orchard grove
It's so pretty in spring
You just gotta go
The flowers grow tall
When the sun goes low
You gotta go
She didn’t kill him just for fun
No fun was had that day
He had the looks that said okay
It was just his mouth
That did betray
She was just an easy lay
The years rolled by
And time forgot
All until that day
The storm unearthed
What was buried
Down by orchard grove
He pushed her awake
Gave her the news
Something about orchard grove
They found dead people down there
Wasn’t that the place
You left in disgrace
She laughed
He had the looks that said okay
It was just his mouth
That did betray
She killed him quick
Burying him next to pear tree, Rick
Sometimes late at night
They come back to say hello
Some scream indignity
Others scream hell no
It was like having good friends around the stove
The bodies buried down by orchard grove.
We can work it out
If not together
And all else fails
Than surely alone
Without suffering the total and
utter indignity
Of our loved one seeing our tears
of pain drain from our red cracked
blistered eyes
Whom will eventually trickle down
either side of our uneven listening faces
That cannot though best we may try to
hide exactly how broken into countless
tiny pieces in actuality it is
Whilst still pretending to carry on
regardless as if we do not have a
care in the world
And that's all well and good as long
as it is day and has not passed over
to night
Because unfortunately sadly then when
we eventually go to bed
The realization comes crashing in that
it is all but you and your head for constant
company
And the pair of you cannot for the life
of you
Work out anything as simple as
1 + 1
Without them never mind you
The ironing on hold,
she donned a teddy for a span,
gazed at her reflection in the mirror
through puffy eyes
tucked beneath a coonskin cap,
hand-sewn in some god-forsaken sweatshop,
then grabbed the keys,
hopped into the Countryman
with a profound sense of gratefulness
for the surge of power as she punched the gas,
vanishing into infinity,
letters from her doctor,
confirming that the stromal tumors had returned,
streaming out the open window,
escaping the indignity
of being pulled from the wreckage
of the truck around the bend…
----------
A silly exercise, really: used the Poetry Soup random word generator to generate 10 nouns, and then tried to put something together using them in the order given...
ironing teddy span coonskin sweatshop countryman gratefulness vanishing letters stroma
"Might is right!" What's rung out.
On the side of "good".
Tis unanimous! With
Battles, fought and won.
Regardless, from whose throne
King of King's, peace-sat
Humanity loses.
Victory to none!
The gambler
The night, on the other side of the bay, is a spinning roulette
garish, the entrance to the cave of the netherworld
guns and uniforms at the place of iniquity; remove your hat, sir!
The voice is menacing, a hand gripping a gun.
Eyes are dark pools transfixed, much to lose, one spin more
the self-loathing is a frozen grin, the light on the promenade
throws itself into the dark water simulating self-destruction
one more cast of the dice; luck will return
There is no winner in this obscene hunt for the unobtainable
small wins are quickly lost at the wheel of hope and sorrow
one more gamble before the day awakes to more indignity
as the losers walk home in defeated silence.
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