Long Opossum Poems
Long Opossum Poems. Below are the most popular long Opossum by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Opossum poems by poem length and keyword.
They parade around, over, under and through.
They eat the produce they want, their rent long overdue.
The deer go for the corn, and bash my feeders against the trees.
The cardinals and blue jay are screeching, “Stop if you please!”
Butterflies, wasps, and bees flock to my garden in twos and threes.
They do not eat much, pollinate and nibble a bit, putting me at ease.
Opossum and raccoons are nocturnal, so should only be here at night.
I have caught them eating my potatoes at two p.m. so that is not right.
Bunnies nibble on lettuce, waiting for carrots to pop out of the ground.
I pull in creatures and critters like pot belly pigs from miles around.
Aren't these pigs supposed to be catered to inside a house?
Many are dumped in the country by a non-thinking-tired-of-you louse.
In my garden I find lady bugs, grasshoppers, snakes and more.
They share in the delight of my vegetables and pretty flowers galore.
I share with them because there is a lot of Snow White in thee.
When I get to heaven, maybe these critters will be sharing with me.
Yvetta entered the forest quietly, barely making a noise.
She saw some pixies and elves getting out mischievous toys.
They noted her harp and wondered what she was about.
One of them made a tiny squeak, to them, probably a shout.
Yvetta sat down next to a cove on the roots of an oak.
Her melodious harp playing was serious, in no way a joke.
Within a few notes, a catfish swam down to listen.
Water stirred up by guppies, soon began to glisten.
Before the concert was finished she had butterfly and snail.
Hummingbird, frog, opossum and a raccoon with a hurt tail.
Weasel showed up along with a handsome white unicorn.
A snake slithered by asking if they had a French horn.
Turtles and faeries came along with brownies wearing tan.
A fawn showed up with white spots, along with rat from Japan.
Yvetta was thrilled that so many were excited with her sweet harp.
She played wonderful notes said butterfly, none of them sharp.
{This poem was entered but did not place in the ONLY 2025 POSTED POEMS CONTEST, judged on 1/21/2025}.
This entry is for the Second Chance For Non Placement Poetry Contest
_____________________________________
The Little Face I Was Born With
Christine Munsell, January 2025
This is the little face I was born with
And when you meet me you will see
My little baby face
You may not see it right away,
But you will see
This little face
With, still, the hope I had as a baby
That someone will love me
I have love
To give
To others
To the universe
People have come into my life
And I, with each one,
Bond
And each one will detach
Like a shin splint
An injury that burns, but I know this feeling
I know how it goes
And one day, healed,
I walk on, I walk, not away
But just one step in front of the other
As a baby does
I am still that baby
The one my mother loved (until I matured
And then she walked away)
Without real relationships with people
With Christmas alone,
My birthday alone
Any illness alone -
I still love,
I love the animals who look at me
With the intensity of a magic spell in child’s play
A smile of knowing - there you are,
You, my great blue heron - i love you
You, my sweet young possum, let me feed you something
All of you stray cats in the dry blizzard, I’ve warmed up some nice wet food
For all of you. I’ll also set out some warm water for you to drink.
Just give me a little eye contact – I’ll talk so sweetly to you.
Silent lake secrets of a summer’s evening
Beyond meadow’s grasses, rustled in bits of expectation
Light sparkle of reflected diamonds dance on shimmery pond
Cool clear waters delighting the heart of Sister Raccoon and Brother Opossum
Devoted forest trees stand guard at her edges
Shrouded in astral Godliness, meadow mystique
Surrounded by flames of sky diamonds and their mystical promises.
There is a breathless expectation remnant on this bank.
Illumed by Luna’s prophetic power
Whispers of astral shaman and wise woman
Surround Woman Who Dares in wondrous moonlight.
She closes her eyes, appreciating their sacred melodies
Nostalgic moon dance of Lakota ancestors fills her memory
Ambivalent feelings and glints of tenderness surround her
As she meditates on the hill of her sacred kin
Father Owl is waiting to give his signal if there is danger
Silhouette shadow of ancient ghostwalker
Carefully listens to his goddaughter’s chanting, feeling nostalgic.
“Wah Yah Whee Hah, Wah, Yah, Hah,” her chant echoes.
Her mother and father join him. “It’s time,” they all agree.
Receiving her spirit message, a young brave awakens
Knowing he must head toward the pond and her silken grasses.
Urgencies of his ancestors and ebbing moon tides command it.
Ambivalent feelings and glints of tenderness surround him.
He is not from Woman Who Dares tribe,
But from a close proximity. He has lightness of foot.
Brother wolf, her power animal, waits for the signal,
But Brother Owl does not give it, watching with interest.
Man Who Would has been sent by moonbeam heart song.
Illumined by Ancient Ghostwalker’s ancestors.
Stars feldspar bright greet him on his sky travel.
Woman Who Dares senses him and chanting stops.
He is the most handsome brave she has ever seen.
He smiles, and she sees strength of bear, making her breathless.
Feels tenderness from his eyes as he gets nearer.
Recognizing him instantly from her night visions.
Their eyes meet again for the thousandth time, recognizing memories.
Bedazzled, they know each other instantly, devoted through many lifetimes.
Man Who Would and Woman Who Dares, together again.
Brother Owl hoots his approval. Wolves howl. Grasses cheer.
A eulogy on the car radio:
he was a good friend to all.
It begins to rain.
On the road an opossum family,
bodies strewn
according to size and age,
some pancaked, some
playing dead forever.
A lobster gave up its existence
for me,
was boiled alive for me.
I did not hear it scream,
but a dog began to bark
and would not stop.
The red and black restaurant
yaws like a Spanish galleon,
rain splatters windows,
the booth plunges through the wake
of a stormy squall.
A seagull crashes into a porthole,
not here,
yet I hear the wet, red splutter
of its drowning.
I imagine it is raining
inside the restaurant
lobster eyes follow me out,
they drill small black pinholes
into the back of my mind.
Driving home.
The radio:
The rain will end everywhere shortly.
When the rain doesn't stop
no one says anything.
They are making plans
for the funeral of a great man,
again they say that he was a friend to all;
few had anything bad to say,
few knew him.
Dead birds litter the roadside,
The sky is racing too fast to be read.
Nobody has mentioned
the dead birds, the weird sky.
A lack of context crawls
around in a glass tank unable
to explain a thing.
Later that night
I overhear
hermit crabs broadcasting lies
into their empty shells.
My eyes screamed as the blinding yellow light latched itself modest self upon me.
Why?
It happened so fast—so unexpectedly.
At first, my mouth watered as the taste of peppermint fermented on my tongue and the scent of jasmine danced in my thoughts. I was so happy, and I am still so happy.
But why do I lie here on the ground, drawing a sweat as I have to consciously pump air in and out of my lungs! Why do I stare at the ceilings at night thinking of nothing but those tormenting demons who scream me lullabies at night! I am so happy!
The days are blinks, and the nights linger like the smell of a rotting opossum disemboweled on the turnpike. My bed encases me, and my sheets burn my wrists and ankles as they twist around my unwilling body.
“Help me, please!” I will silently scream. “Please.”
Hours go by and my eyes burn from the salty crust forming around them. Even blinking took too much strength, for the night devours my will, my hope, my time.
So here I am. Happy. I truly am happy. But I can’t explain why the nights love me so. Maybe it’s because I might not love myself as much as they love me.
I always wanted to be cheese the blowtorch said.
The opossum thought this funny but had to play dead.
There was a brick of cheese wrapped in waxy red.
She stated that the blowtorch had a really fine head.
After the threat left, the opossum took a tiny bite
Of the cheese and stated that it tasted all right.
The blowtorch changed his mind about cheese at this sight.
I think I will just be me, he said to the critters of the night.
The opossum did not comment but was glad she had a part.
She liked helping people’s imagination stay fresh and tart.
The cheese was embarrassed being half his original size.
He asked the opossum to please avert her eyes.
She is an unsung, unaware, unbridled, unsuspecting scene, deep in the woods, lost in time.
Not ventured into by hunter, or explorer for nigh onto thirty years, full of undisturbed cobwebs,
Large, and beautiful, intricately built by joyful diligent spiders, who have orchestrated them as delicately
As a maestro, taking their sweet time, using inner knowledge to enthral and entrap their prey.
Birdsong lullabies rarely glide through this forest, but the hoot of an owl can be heard nightly.
Wolves, skunk, fox, and beaver, do not notice the owl any more, focused on scavenging and hunting.
Raccoon and opossum scurry in the underbrush, hesitating only when encountering anything strange.
The mirrored pond, where animals gather, but only with their own kind, is the focus of the night.
Opalescent reflections of moonbeam light her, a beautiful contrast to the shadow dreams of the trees.
Mother Nature’s tapestry at her best, she will instantly enchant anyone brave enough to venture near.
Her affinity with twilight spirit, and her joy of being undisturbed, and undeveloped, keeps her safe.
She gathers her sleeping menagerie to her breast, watching them sleep, unsung protective mother forest.
I have a large print Webster’s dictionary on my desk.
I flip through it and write down words that interest me.
Then I decide what kind of poem I am in the mood to write.
If I want an alliterative poem I choose lots of words in the same section.
dictionary, dictated, diaphragm, diagnosis, diabolical
If I feel like an acrostic poem, I make sure I am spelling the word right.
Acrostic poems do not do well if the initial word is misspelled.
Sometimes I wake up, look at the sink in the bathroom and think
What if a miniature alien crawled out of that drain?
What if a cobra swished out and bit me while I was brushing my teeth?
My imagination loves playing this kind of game.
What if the refrigerator came to life?
What if an opossum crawled out of the toaster?
What would I do? What would I say?
Would the opossum be able to talk? Would it be pink?
My muse Trixie likes playing with these kinds of ideas.
She throws things at me during the day and during my dream state.
I often wake up with an idea for a poem.
Unfortunately, that idea usually peters out and dies before breakfast.
I have probably lost as many ideas as I have ever had.
living in the country was the life for me
attracted to no other place; this was my destiny
we bought a meadow with strawberries wild
I became even more in touch with my hippie child
my husband said “This is God’s country”.
I loved knowing he also felt a bended knee.
Cows next door banter and bellow.
wild woodland sunflowers are extremely yellow.
Today a swarm of something came by.
There were hundreds of them in the sky.
Were they wasps? Faeries? Angels or bees?
They came over my head, floating on a breeze.
They were dragonflies, at least fifty or more.
Way up high I saw a long wing-span hawk soar.
we have fox, opossum, raccoon, turtles and deer
Next door is a marsh, the water gurgle we sometimes hear.
Our gentle country life is slow-paced, and feels great.
We are not in a hurry, going nowhere, never late.
My husband and I have loved the country all of our life.
For fifty-three years I have been his happy wife.