Long Squirreled Poems
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I simply find out how to get two hours of sleep.
A walled bastion around your neck is steep.
Elitists commend this moderate landmark.
While visiting vacationers all around the park.
Here's the way your body will in general look.
Arms are stone squares stained with a nook.
A fleece tee lands on the body with a thud.
Despite that, late spring clothing is very scud.
They linger the same as wet palm fronds.
To the path, skirting the drain's ponds
Your toe pain is a metaphor for it anyway.
I squirreled away in a pair of boots to stay.
On the road, the eyelids are shovels.
The white line devours the car's labels.
Written: November 14, 2021
I sat beneath the ancient oak in my back yard,
grieving and in sorrow at the age of twelve.
My best friend, Jessie, was moving far away.
I didn't think I'd ever see him again,
so, I wrote a note to tell him what was in my heart.
I filled the page with memories through the years,
of our laughter, our fears, and things I'd never said.
I didn't sign my name but folded it with great care.
A swift Autumn breeze flew away with my note.
I chased it until it was far beyond my reach.
Now Jessie would never know my love was real.
I didn't tell him in case it would embarrass him
and because he may not feel the same way.
If that was so, I'd rather not know.
No word from Jessie in the five years he'd been gone.
It was my Senior year, and soon I'd be off to college...
a new beginning, but memories of him lingered.
After classes on the first day, I found a note in my locker.
Someone had slipped it through a crack under the door.
It was written in my handwriting, five years ago.
I turned when someone tapped my shoulder.
Jessie! He'd changed, but not his beautiful eyes.
I couldn't find the words to express what I felt.
Tongue tied with disbelief, but Jessie's smile put me at ease.
They'd just moved back to town, a few blocks away.
Yesterday, he'd helped his dad trim an old oak tree
and found something lodged in its branches...
squirreled away like an acorn in a hidden hole.
It was yellowed with age, its edges ragged,
so very carefully he opened it to read
the words I thought he would never see.
We stood there, ogling each other before I asked,
"How do you know I wrote this to you?"
In a voice so deep it made me blink, he replied,
"No one else scribbled little drawings like those.
I remember lots of things from back then,
most of them are about you."
October 29, 2022
A Note in the Wind Contest
Sponsored by Charlie Messina
Each cherished memory of mine...cause iz woe
Analogous to unique ventifact for shore
and seven years ago,
where time and tide faintly roar
within noggin o'this common Joe
reviewing silent film unreleased,
unpopular, unimpressive tour
de force if technology existed
to broadcast and show
projected on big screen only
to elicit chore
tills whereby rotten tomatoes
lobbed accompanied by dough
less bro (i.e. an alter ego equally hoar
rubble at lifelong accomplishments), though
woke to awareness, whence
twilight years sped more
bajillion times faster than greased
lightning, when final adieu
will tide dully be high water mark
luke king point blank at poor
etch heave mints mostly
abysmally, equally,
pathetically barely drew
stick figures upon tabula rasa
mostly feeble scratches galore
looking at you
unknown reader, now
doddering, hobbling, loafing... ignore
rant of untold opportunities
(long fostered barnacle clad) view
wing gamut of healthy risk taking
avoidance in name of war
re: ness against challenging,
testing, upending... true
and tried loathsome
overstayed welcome, a deplore
hubble basket case squirreled
within bedroom, who
suffered rabid exhortations, objections,
ultimatums... told to shovel ordure
lack of gainful employment
beset courtesy a slew
of psychological mailer daemons
case closed by parental cloture
countless decades ague
reduced present fulfillment score
indelible bitterness toward
self confident self I never knew
afraid of doppelganger to
central processing unit silly con wayfair core.
Initially he is so charming
He charms your pants off.
Bring flowers to your mother.
And a treat for the dog.
He is almost too charming.
Giggle. Giggle. Smile. Smile.
You fall in love quickly.
Your father is not fooled.
He despises the guy right away.
There is something wrong with him, he says.
To everyone who will listen.
Not to your mother of course.
She shushes him.
She’s the one who has new flowers.
Giggle Giggle. Smile. Smile.
She is smitten.
He targeted you because you are the life of the party.
You have an internal joy he wants to capture and keep hidden.
At first he says and does everything to make you fall in love.
You are so in-love that you do not recognize the warning signs.
He accidentally shows up wherever you are, follows you places.
Under the pretense of making sure you are safe.
You think it is great.
It makes you feel special.
But as soon as you are married, you are squirreled away.
Taken to a remote location or another country.
Without a support system.
He makes fun of you for wanting to talk to your mother.
He goads you into dropping your friends.
Pretty soon he has thrown away your cell phone.
He is not pleasant any more.
He is demanding and commanding.
He is enormously not pleased with you.
You are not breaking quickly enough to suit him.
He steals your joy.
You learn not to smile.
When you laugh it hurts him, so you stop.
You try to please him, but you are never
“a good enough girl”.
He begins to treat you in the worst ways.
Beatings start.
He is always sorry.
So contrite and sad when he does it.
Begging you to take him back.
You have no other choice.
He has once again charmed your pants off.
Giggle. Giggle. But there is no more smiling
And you are probably not as in-love as you once were.
My epitaph writ large...
courtesy third person singular.
Mise en scène pour décès
pardon his feeble attempt at French,
a unilingual English language
quibbling, and scribbling mensch
strongly advises applying
left handed monkey wrench,
which custom designed tool
assigned impossible mission
to discern sense and sensibility
regarding following poetic thread
subject of a fool's errand.
Mein kampf witnessed, punctuated,
and evinced courtesy final breath
automatically triggering (tumblr
to activate) final curtain call
and unremarkable death.
As stipulated in the living will
cremation of his lifeless body
cremated into soft gray powder.
A prerecorded hashtagged obituary
downloaded to individual smartphones
and simultaneously appeared on
the following poetry websites:
COSMOFUNNEL, Hello Poetry,
Neopoet, My Poetic Side, Poetry Soup,
PoetryNook, PoetryVibe, Prose|
A community of readers and writers,
and All Poetry.
He hesitated and lost out
on game of life big time
even fumbling crafting reasonable rhyme
noshing, spending, and whiling
inordinate amount of hours
squirreled away in his bedroom
surrounding himself with reading material.
He amassed fountainhead of knowledge
quietly engorging cerebral gray matter
whereat noggin swelled up
rivaling globe, but Atlas shrugged
at him, whose head
resembled the first Chinese brother
who swallowed the sea.
Odd his voracious appetite
to buzzfeed with one
after another binary byte
zealous precocity to engross himself
with storied reading material
that does extremely excite
(at the expense of healthy socialization)
where his imagination took flight,
nevertheless myopic eyes of his
did glean insight
keeping his cute button nose
between pages of choice morsels
to appease hunger
keeping himself awake
drinking high test coffee
during darkness aided by jacklight
processing meaty material with might
experiencing abundant, exultant,
intoxicant, over-extravagant
joie de vivre day or night,
a balm, elixir, inebriate... quite
the panacea to abet emotional incapacitation
which entails crafting poems
oftimes spending efforts
with efforts undertaking rewrite
unwittingly garnering a fanbase
courtesy ideology doth unite.
No Stopping The Carousel Of Time!
The inescapable reality
consigning one at birth
automatically includes no breath
oblige premise, whereat
existence can terminate
with sudden,
and untimely inexplicable death
cruel ploy wrought,
whence randomly begat
into this webbed wide world
grim reaper nonchalantly,
asper macabre Vaudevillian
character cane twirled
automatically infers
cessation of livingsocial
with no forewarning,
where nutty squirreled
memories become indelibly engraved
(photogravure) inherently
pervasive I apprise imperiled,
which ever present
unavoidable demise,
(albeit a bleak thought)
looms larger as orbitz
(demarcating sans initial debut),
each subsequent anniversary flies
faster as staying alive finds
every mortal getting
older, where guise,
which gloomy thought didst arise
with the windmills
of my mind particularly,
sans unwelcome thought,
when my person dies
came to mind, while subtle
diminution to exercise
asthma body, mind, and spirit
approaches sixth decade (come
January 13th, 2019),
the harsh reality lies
within this cognitive,
intuitive, and fully
still operative flesh and bone
aware of becoming deceased
increases in direct proportion
as another year done
and all to quickly, irrevocably gone,
when deplorably belatedly
late life self discover
re: visa vis hone
passion with words specially,
possibly, feasibly encrypted
while supinely prone
on deathbed with
onset of rigor mortis,
yet just barely
enough buffer'n strength
to etch said chicken scratchings,
hens forth before
mine unbeknownst cremation
whereat Facebook friends invited -
cost will be...ahem...
(no more than one rolling stone)
presently concludes any
subsequent poetic endeavors
shot thru with quasi morbid tone.
Skeletal garden stalks rattle, shivering,
long leaved arms rustle in the wind,
bony fingers snap in rhythm
to October’s haunting song;
they gather as shadowy hillside wraiths,
spectral companions for Ichabod Crane.
Summer shudders,
scattering abundant harvest corn,
thick as hoar frost,
squirreled away in darkened dens by scurrying rodents,
tasty treats against winter’s frigid tricks.
Wet days drip from the eaves,
hardening in lengthening icy fingers
that pry slippery edges from shortening days.
The pumpkin fields,
beaten chocolate brownie cakes,
sweetened with light snow,
have surrendered fat orange fruits
to carvers’ knives for spicy pies and jack-o-lanterns.
Autumn bridges fire and ice,
a zesty-sweet season splice.
© September 15, 2015
Why... just yesterday
where webbed wide world troubles
seemed so far away,
that would hove bin Monday
(October first tooth
house sand eight
teen), i.e. yea all
ready yes tar day
immediately found me ah say
comfortably, yet (gnome
min Ellie squirreled away)
seated on lawn chair a lay
ying when tired noggin sinks
deeply buried amidst pillows, may
find me submerged clay
mare ring with fervent eagerness,
and minimal delay
to soak in contents of the latest
issue of TIME magazine
came in the mail, hooray
which information periodically,
I always eagerly await
akin to puppy at play
time, though occasionally,
an issue doth
not arrive so okay
lack of receiving timely enjoyable
enlightening material,
no reason to nay
say United States
Postal Service pray
tell, an alternate option avails
to peruse online
contents, aye vay
their experience, the
smooth paper texture
this "FAKE" snoop
doggy dog tags
online medium deplore
able, cuz lack of poor
lee no comparison versus
cozying up with pages
as wood burning
stove doth roar
these fingers can turn more
appealing than straining, whar
only with great effort,
aye wreck kin and,
unable to ignore
eyes coon sitter
this quite a chore
to lean in attempting
with difficulty to explore
(with scrunched brow, and
squinting myopic ocular orbs)
scroll thru webpage,
while ma back
also feels strained, nor
ken nigh, yet favors
the hard copy
visa vis discovering significant
global and local happenings,
(which affinity also applies
to The Nation magazine),
yet latter noticeably more
brashly appealing tummy with
righteous leftist political
leanings bobbing along bon jour.
She loves me she loves me not...
Just my luck that when juiced a lad
din grammar school, aye own every
rhyme and reason tubby mad
every friggin time boyhood fingers
plucked petals off flowered daisy...
just as well, a relief and more than glad
tomb hiss out on doing the wild thang
and be'n totally tube yule lore lee baad
yea, how boring squirreled away
voraciously reading 'bout some cad
oh my dog...I too could write story
"FAKE" steamy extramarital liaison add
chocolate flavored Glynnis (Msgeegee),
whereby celibate chap goes stir crazy - egad
yours truly drives back to her pad
within sketchy part of West Philadelphia
starring as chief protagonist
none other then... yupper this dad
until caught with pants down (figuratively)
thine missus both angry at me and sad
I immediately unapologetic longed to gad
about even jetting setting off to Vlad
divest stock to escape wrath cull bile
daily spewed phlegm at me - wad
off by bajillion miles wife got poor aim
cruel colorful epithets coarse expletives had
filled beyond capacity to resist or tolerate
hence, yours truly sought to skad
had dude dull married life awkward fit
analogous, incongruous, perilous
why dead men don't wear plaid
they make no bones about
nor act self flesh deathly quiet
oblivious toward latest fad
mouldering into dust
whereby gravesites sprout weeds
mother nature's couture clad
eroded tombstone disintegrating
vanishing without trace
unremembered story...
unlike Odyssey and Illiad.
Hans had been raised to believe you protect your woman at all costs
His father was a warrior king, and instilled this in him since his first dawn.
Today his ideals were hidden, squirreled away, possibly even a bit lost
As his wife-to-be jumped into the fray, facing the monster head-on.
He had been startled when she raced around him and began to fight.
The monster bared his teeth, and growled; he was a ferocious sight.
But Greta held her ground, and backed him into shadows so dark.
Hans rushed in to help, but she was holding her own against this mark.
She fought with the brave heart of at least six valiant men.
She did not back down, she had this monster cornered within.
The monster let out a screech, a wail, and a siren’s sound.
The confused darkness in the shadows enveloped her all around.
Hans was terrified for her, this warrior, full of rage and power.
He could barely see what was happening, at this final hour
To a beast, who fell hard on her blade in this foreign land
For Greta had been raised to believe you protect your man