Long Squeak Poems
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In loving memory of Chewy, my guinea pig friend,
Whose gentle soul touched mine, until the end.
A guinea pig with a heart so pure and kind,
You were the one who rescued me, in my mind.
Four years ago, we found each other,
Your soft, black and white fur and eyes so full of light,
Brought warmth and joy into my darkest nights.
With every squeak, you brightened up my days.
A tiny creature but with a spirit so strong,
Now, my Chewy, you've crossed the Rainbow Bridge,
Leaving footprints in my heart,
where my memories of you will forever remain
Amongst the peaceful meadows, where rainbows can be seen,
A cherished guardian angel, for eternity.
Chewy, may your spirit forever rise,
As you find Oreo in celestial skies,
Thank you for the joy, filling that empty space
Rest well, my Chewy, in that sacred, heavenly space.
Black
I lay in my bed, alone with my thoughts, looking around,
But all I see is black.
Black is what remains of a disregarded rainbow,
Colors that used to spew from my mouth as happy words
Are now the slow drip of a faucet, thick black sludge drips down my chin.
I think about jazz hands that have now turned trembling digits,
Sweaty palms, purple nail beds, frozen fingertips.
I look at my eyes.
Once glistering with shades of bright green and deep browns.
Twinkling with brightness, beauty, and life.
I look at my eyes again.
Ringed with purple, irises a murky, foul swamp
Dull, emotionless, the eyes of a walking corpse.
I look at my hair.
It fell down my back in perfect golden ringlets
As bright as the sun
As soft as dandelions on a warm spring day.
I gaze once more.
Greasy locks hang above my shoulders,
Knotted from the countless times I run my fingers through my hair.
I listen to my voice.
Once bell like, sounding as smooth as honey,
Dripping with confidence.
I speak to myself one more time.
My voice left hoarse from sleepless nights,
Screaming,
Crying,
Giving up.
The bell is no longer in use, replaced by boards that
Squeak and creak every time I speak.
My voice cracks, shaking with fear, eventually to be silenced by
The air that is not entering my lungs.
I lay back down and look up again,
Attempting to get a glimpse of some sort of color spectrum,
But all I see is black.
He does not wait for me to unpack the bags
his nose pilfers as his stubby tail wags
Home from shopping and Kubla hunts for joy
he is expecting his brand new toy
Genghis confused barks and howls
for he plays with any old toy anyhow
But Kubla must taste his heart's wish
a new clean toy is his favorite dish
It has to be furry and squeak with each bite
to bring Kubla to his happy delight
He grabs with his mouth and bites to squeak
it is the sound sought and seeks
New and fresh he chews and chews
first a tiny hole then he bites it into
Out the air bladder that squeaked divine
he chews it dead as a treat he dine
Genghis shakes his head fast and furious
with an old toy in mouth wants Kubla curious
But Kubla is content a new toy destroyed
it took only a few moments for the little fat boy
The remains of white stuffing all over the floor
with little-spoiled doggies who could want more
The Hedgehog wedding was the talk of Dry Gulch Creek.
There were moles, badgers, chipmunks and mice that squeak.
Cheering commenced when the bride bent kissed the groom.
Then the couple took a giant leap of faith over a broom.
The bride was a hustler, the groom was a cook so great.
The provided their guests with veggies and rib eye steak.
Heinz 59 said the bride, nothing too good for our guests.
Wedding party agreed the food they served was the best.
You have got yourself a great man, the cousins told the bride.
The groom’s cousins were giving the bridesmaids fancy eye slides.
By end of the reception, three more couples were engaged.
I guess being married to male cooks is now all the rage.
...dead mice thus far do gnaw, splintered mirrors
neck and rubber yet with scant regret.
Ropes both for hanging and climbing, good grief,
bad love, honey-do-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpacking pockets,
string bags under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls as mute as hollow urns
turn to cry their mournful why’s.
One horror story lives forever much chewed over
by skeletal moths and stray cats.
The edge of IF, the pots of peeled moonlight
guttering in a midsummer dunk, these glad me not,
yet are kept like the pickled smiles of saucy women.
In my book of lies there are truths still worth distorting,
times killed by a compulsive retelling,
fields plowed over too long
where the dead are uncovered only to dance again
on the graves of long reclining martyrs.
The drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
works slackened and sent unfixed back to the
depths from which they came. The unclaimed, reclaimed
and the unnamable named.
Yet here I am, the one person, this golden spark
in a potash smutter, still blinking my way,
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic wings hover
to grab up my rash stash of self, and I say:
yes let them yes come, and god help those wings.
Captain Cur rounded the bend and gave a snarl.
His first mate growled at his cook, Hog Carl.
Fox spy kept his eyes straight ahead to the coast.
There was a squeak from Squirrel, who annoyed him the most.
Captain Cur was annoyed by this motley crew.
But he inherited them from his Daddy, so what could he do?
The Fox had great eyes, at least and Hog Carl could cook.
Squirrel could be thrown under the water if Cur needed a look.
They were pirates on a hunt for treasure, looking near and far.
Singing shanty town songs with a laugh and a hardy har har.
Thanks Daddy Cur said, making me captain of this motley crew.
Straight ahead was an island with lapis that shined up blue.
A variation on a theme by Dr. Seuss...
There once was a Grinch who was bad to the bone,
Which was why he always spent Christmas alone,
But one year the Grinch said, "Enough is enough!"
And decided to steal everyone's Christmas stuff.
In the village below, in the center of town,
Stood a great Christmas tree with gifts all around.
There were gaily wrapped presents, some large and some small,
Filled with treats and surprises for one and for all.
The Grinch plotted, connived, he schemed, and he hatched.
"Come Christmas morning," he vowed, "all that loot will be snatched."
Then he rushed back inside to flesh out his plan
To disguise himself as that Santa Claus man.
He measured, and cut, and stitched stitches galore,
When he suddenly heard, just outside his front door,
Something that set both his Grinch ears to ringing.
The sound was quite audibly somebody singing.
He opened his door just a crack so to peek,
And what he beheld made the Grinch squeak out "Eek!"
In front of his cave was a sight quite bewilderin'
A small group of seven or eight village childeren.
Then a curly-haired toddler toddled forward an inch
And cooed, rather cutely, "Mewwy Cwissmas, Mistuh Gwinch!"
The snarl that he tried for turned into a grin,
And 'stead of biting their heads off, he invited them in.
He dashed to his fireplace, tossed on a Yule log,
Then served gingerGrinch cookies and sweet green eggnog.
They ate, drank, and sang for an hour or more
Then announced they must leave and bounced out the front door.
As he watched them depart, to his utter surprise,
The Grinch felt his heart trying to double in size.
He quivered, he quaked, his knees started to shake.
"This unGrinchlike behavior has been a mistake!"
Then he slammed shut the door and proclaimed with a sneer,
"Well, you thwarted me this time, but just wait 'til next year!"
This tale has a moral, quite simple yet bold:
Some people can't change, if the sad truth be told.
The Grinch, of his species, was simply a bad 'un,
He couldn't change his spots, poor thing, even if he had 'em.
It's the resolution graveyard
for those good intentions, cursed,
opening hours from New year's day
to February first.
Here's a pile of treadmills,
dumbbells stacked up near the gate,
abandoned by the desperate
who promised to lose weight.
The hungover who'd had enough,
repenting for their sins
have left wine bottles by the ton
in bright blue wheelie bins.
The smell of chocolate, biscuits, cake
they permeate the air,
left by those stood on bathroom scales
who said life wasn't fair.
Invisible unless up close,
hidden by a yellow fug,
the cigarettes thrown in the bin
from smokers, feeling smug.
The gravedigger, like Santa,
only toils here once a year,
and tirelessly he works his spade
until all have disappeared.
His shovel cleaned, oiled, put away
and ready for next time
when the graveyard gates squeak open wide
upon the New year chimes.
No mourners toss handfuls of dirt,
no eyes are wiped in sorrow,
since all of us are well aware
the diet starts tomorrow.
Sun from the window, shines gold on my grain
With a faded patina, I have come home again
I was broken and shabby, after years all alone
Stored in the rafters, so lost and afraid
You have dusted my cobwebs, and repaired a split rail
There was love in your touch...since the day you unveiled
Discovered me hiding in the damp attic gloom
I felt so abandoned, in my dark dusty tomb
A remnant of childhood, from those days long ago
You have restored me to life, to be worthy and new
Do you remember my rhythm, and my creaky squeak croon?
When she rocked you at midnight, softly humming a tune
You sat in my warm arms, under a soft velvet moon
While you dusted my bones, and shined clean my face
Did your memories fall back to that magical place?
Where the world was your oyster, with such sweet childhood charms
You were held to her breast, in her soft loving arms?
Sweet nights spent together when the whole world was kind?
Now the rhythmic thump of my rails on the floor
Will return all those moments, for reflection once more
You will feel on your face, and I on my grain
Sun's warming shine through old window glass panes
Wherever you are, that old world, or new...
To be home again, is to be here with you....
Nights of flying dream world,
who might chase a raucous laugh,
or seek indeed mirthful excitement,
the sort that has embroidered twists,
as is generally perceived by intention,
but epic hurdles formed in still frame,
city snores past midnight bell clang,
dare one ever risk a robust venture,
should I have said pursuit instead,
sleep is diversion in that steel crib,
that modern crib pillow we fostered,
an idiom that has it’s silken source,
on foot of rainbow studded home run,
as denizens of driven blissful sprint,
with that palette city life concocts,
waiting to arise from brainwave surge,
but toilers so content at last wonder,
can still find that extra zestful yen,
nocturnal misnamed down tool free time,
energizing hour filler may arouse,
around the ink drape walkways,
quite surrogate and surreptitious,
character one may mold from time,
spent as a regal rhombic chaser,
boundary scuppered plot by strolling fleet,
as creatively imagining might edge,
vast supply has penchant without dent,
zeitgeist flower of a fluorescent flag,
warning mask so deft but visible,
canopy laid beauteous black fringe,
alliance in shade infused etch front,
squeaky noising trickle eardrum muffin,
hear full dose of ripple muttering,
clued on obscurantist thin,
taut code evasive decipher ask,
float of urban mirror pool by pattern,
reflection, mirage, cocoon,
after midnight curtain draws,
to protracted claps evinced from,
squinting imp coterie on foot,
ricochet off Moroccan spice tint,
outside vivid haunt so frequented,
perchance, perforce, pertaining patois,
little seen scatter mice squeak,
analogy horizontal spurt funk,
if only these dart and dash clan,
midgets metaphorical so jubilant,
in sonic meddle near edge encounter,
it would be strictly beyond a dazzling cast,
from other daylight theater staunch queue,
when aiming for parallel experience,
performance nocturne wise deep art,
even rich fantasy has upper boundaries,
some grating gulley flake debris awash