Long Squirrels Poems
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Pinkie was a fluffy butterfly kind of faerie.
She was free spirited with a beautiful soul.
She cared about everyone, and they knew it.
People gravitated to her as if she was cotton candy.
When she got married she invited the entire village.
There was no exclusion. She put an advertisement in the paper.
Everyone is invited, she told them. You do not have to bring a gift.
Of course, everyone did bring one, for they loved her.
She had been babysitting for the raccoon family for years.
The opossums and squirrels came because she fixed their paws.
She had a gentle touch and could take out slivers of glass and such.
Each animal appeared at the wedding to check out the faerie king.
He had better be a good man, they chattered to each other.
He had better be kind they warned the violets under their breath.
They were immediately happy with the king. He was a gentle soul.
Congregation cheered when he kissed his gorgeous bride, Pinkie.
The opalescence of the early morning light flows over everything
It touches over ever leaf, every tree, every exposed part of her skin
She stares at the sky as the dawn breaks
It shines brighter and brighter
The dew illuminated with the power of the sun
Everything around buzzes with the recharge of a new day
Everything but her
Volatile thoughts burrow through every cell
Leaving her empty filled only with the brisk sweet air
White knuckle grip on the rusty swing slowly creaking in the breeze
Time stops for a moment as the birds go quiet and the squirrels hold their breath
The silence was deafening so she screams
She screams out every breath she has ever taken-
She screams with every ounce of strength left in her-
She screams out all the sorrows, all the pains, all the contradictions
Gasping relieved from the build of feminine rage
She sobs out the anguish of unrealistic self expectation
She sobs in quiet determination to feel better or at all
She sobs to release the leash wrapped around her heart which keeps her tied to poise
Sighing she breathes deep even breathes of the fresh morning air
In and out
In and out
She breathes in the peaceful calm of the perfect morning
She breathes in self reflection of her beauty
She breathes in lost ideals of enoughness
She breathes out the snide backhanded comments
She breathes out the monstrous detrimental molds that she’ll never fit into
She breathes out the self hatred and regret and loathing
Stilling she looks around for the first time since she laid down and clung hopelessly to the swing
She smiles taking in the pink and purple watercolor sky
She smiles noticing the slight breeze ruffling the viridian leaves
She smiles as the the electric light beams which zap through the tree branches-
They dance around the ground and all over her body in waves
For the first time in a long time she remembers herself
She remembers herself more than just a woman
She remembers herself more than just a sister or a daughter
She remembers herself more than just a friend or a lover
She remembers herself below the depression and angst
She remembers herself as a person internally whole
She had forgotten her inevitable strength
She vows to never forget herself again
Standing in the warmth of the spring sun-
She laughs
I have no idea how to teach this cute little guy,
who has no clue what sound does a D make,
or a K,
but I reverse the role,
and let him be the teacher today!
he has curly dark hair, and he has lovely shining eyes,
he loves playing with LEGO, and build towers,
but I can't make him write with pencils,
or, except scary dinosaurs, draw anything!
perhaps he should be in the woods
wandering, and toying with pebbles,
perhaps he learns from the chirping birds,
camouflaging Lizards, and scurrying squirrels.
perhaps he learns from the vast sky,
to paint with all that rainbow colours,
perhaps he learns from the old Banyan tree,
how to count the numbers!
perhaps he is my little Krishna,
chasing the cattle from their shelter,
playing a flute on the treetop,
and harnessing the sheep to their mother.
I watch the little boy,
and wonder!
Reference: Krishna is a colorful and polyvalent deity whose stories have greatly enriched the mythology and iconography of Hinduism. Krishna is depicted alternatively as a mischievous child, a divine lover, and a spiritual master.
Deep in the woods, nearly three miles back,
far from New York with its tall glass and steel,
on a low ridge that has no proper name,
I stumble on something that feels surreal.
An old-growth forest grove, somehow survived
the thirst of furnaces and logging claims,
straight white pines that, in centuries past,
would’ve been masts for ships sailing the main.
Thick, furrowed bark runs up the branchless trunks
up to a one-hundred-fifty foot height,
maybe they’ll never beat a sequoia,
but in the east, they’re one hell of a site.
Now this hidden plot has dozens of trees
that must be six-feet in width at the base,
throwing so much shade the undergrowth dies,
and you can walk easily through the space.
Jail-bars of light that somehow make it down
do little against the shadowy cool,
fleet squirrels will scamper, disrupting the calm,
as they’re chittering away like young fools.
Trunks rising around me like buttresses,
smooth boulders scattered about are the pews,
the altar is the crest of the low ridge,
for a service know to a blessed few.
Birds high above are impromptu choirs,
communion wine is the babbling brook,
mosses are vestments, worn close to the earth,
pine needles are incense when by the wind shook.
I may like those churches of wood and stone,
but for all of their grace and beauty,
somehow they cannot hold their own against
a seemingly random mish-mash of trees.
How nature so red in tooth and in claw
can create something stately and sublime
out of the chaos that Darwin’s law brings,
has always baffled my poor, human mind.
But feeling so small against aged giants
makes me think these is much more yet unseen,
I do not think it can be an accident
that there exists such a place so serene.
Much as I’d like to show you all the path,
I fear doing so would only end wrong,
great trees last longer when they are unknown,
and I mean for this grand place to live on.
As I rounded the hill
Face to face with the still
That I'd only heard rumors spoke of
With no one around
I sat myself down
And proceeded to sample the stuff
As sweet as honeydew melon
Got my feet to a geling
Made me feel like I did in my youth
Sat with a dumb gaze for a while
Then got the biggest of smiles
When it came to me what I should do
So I went with my plan
And opened a stand
Right there on the mountain side
When word in the forest got out
I never had any doubt
That all of the critters would be stoping by
You should have seen them all guzzle
As the squirrels ordered doubles
Then proceeded to tell wild nutty lies
It was quite the fiasco
When they brought out the cowboy hats and lasso's
As the party went well into the night
They paid in nuts and berries
Which was fine by me
With them I made different flavors of shine
In flavors I made 32
So I wouldn't get sued
By Baskin-Robbins who has 31 at this time
From all the flavors I made
Boysenberry was the fav
The raccoons made up a dance called the boysenberry crawl
Which was a big hit
At the discotheque
The beavers built in the early fall
We made a deal
I would sell them my swill
For a little piece of the pie
We were all getting rich
I have to admit
It's quite the relationship, the beavers and I
Of course the beavers got greedy
You know how beavers are needy
Couldn't leave well enough alone
Figured they had the right
Who's going to pay for these lights
That make this the best disco in town
They started charging a cover
Which didn't go over
As well as they would have liked
Plus they doubled the price of the booze
Which left little food
On the woodland creatures tables at night
Things went from bad to worse
When they started to curse
Me, "The Man" for the troubles they had
I barely made it out alive
By the skin of my hide
When I packed and hit the road mighty fast
Things had been going so well
Before it all went to hell
And me and my still were forced to leave
Now still to this day
You know why I always say
That famous line, passed down in time
"Leave it to Beav"
Emptiness
(Childrens song / lyrics and music by Joan Donnelly Ellis )
When a thing is empty it is not much good at all
.
What good is a baseball diamond with neither bat nor ball?
What worth a hat without a head? A house without some folk?
How foolish a shell with no egg white or yellow yolk?
Can you find any use for a well without water,
Or a quill that has no ink ...Well
What good is a hockey arena with no skating rink.
Can you explain the purpose of a book void of pictures and word?
How unfun a bell without a ringer? Seems to me absurd.
How dull Summer without rainfall and sunshine, Winter without snow?
Would a tree be lonely with neither squirrels nor birds that caw like the crow?
Fancy a yard without soft green grass to delight the barefeet
A pie shell without pie filling could hardly be called a treat.
What would you think if the sky held no sun,no moon, no color, no rain, no star?
Now I do not want to upset you but what if narry a crumb could be found in Nana's cookie jar?
How could you dance if there was no music in the radio or jukebox
The only empty thing that's worth anything and loads of fun, I daresay is an empty box.
~
With a moonbeam in her smile,
she illumined every flower,
while she wandered down the path,
neath an ever-changing sky
With a chuckle and a grin,
peeked behind the twisted maple,
where the dragonflies would hide,
if a stranger passes by
On this quiet summer eve,
as the crickets started chirping,
with a pinecone as a necklace,
she was dressed up for the show
As she took her favorite seat,
near a toadstool who was sleeping
and a tree frog she called Larry,
on her shoelace down below
When she heard the singer sing,
as the evergreens were swaying,
in a soft melodic fashion,
while the cello played in time
There were songbirds in the trees,
where they added happy whistles
near some squirrels who would listen,
just to see if it did rhyme
When along a spider came,
(no, it's not some different story)
with a top hat on his head,
said he'd really like to dance
They all watched as he performed,
with his eight legs quickly moving,
then applauded when he stopped,
this might be his only chance
Next, a butterfly ballet,
so demure, their wings a' flutter,
in a silken pirouette,
so enchanting was the sight
They received a roaring cheer,
loud as thunder in the heavens,
as they took a tiny bow,
then they ran off to the right
Where beyond the forest edge,
came the morning sun arising,
purple, pink and tangerine,
were the colors she did spy
So, she rubbed her weary eyes,
gave a little hug to Larry,
made her way back down the path,
as she waved to all good bye
~
Kids with their families walking up and down the hill, dogs barking, cars going up and down past our home, hopscotch chalked into the sidewalk, come on you know you want to get it a whirl.
Kids gather at the bus stop, trying to stay warm in the cool autumn breeze, dancing and talking amongst their parents neighborhood friends, thus is what I see each day outside my window.
Birds squirrels, even a red fox are the many sights I see on a daily basis, sounds of birds pecking on our roof, fall is here, so many colors of yellow and red leaves brighten up the night trees across the street.
A swift fall cool breeze, the trees branches Dance in unison, a lightweight coat you might need as you step out to take a walk, smells of pine cones, hot apple cider from angel food, something sweet..
A monarch butterfly just landed on my native milkweed plant, its wings of red and orange open wide to reveal is a girl, praying she leaves a few eggs behind.
Evening has come, as the golden sun has begun to set, it lowers ever so so slowly, as not in a hurry, the moon lights up the sky, another sky has ended, perhaps tomorrow will be the same.
The horror of Covid dead bodies pile up in the grass,
they died alone and now my growing is disturbed;
bury them deep, so I, the grass can grow over them.
When I am done they will be out of sight, forgotten,
but, I pray some will remember and bring flowers;
to lay in my new grown green grass.
I welcome the rabbits, the squirrels, birds and chipmunks;
for they love being in the grass, that I am.
Yes, I am cemetery grass,
and I have a job to do!
______________________
March 20, 2023
Poetry/Personification/I Am Grass
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1532-771-20
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, In The Grass
sponsor, Anthony Biaanco, Judged 05/30/2023
Toast me a bagel, please.
I've a load of laundry in the wash,
fed the birds and squirrels
watered the garden squash
and now must sweep the floors.
Had my coffee early on
but now my stomach grumbles and burns,
in the middle of my morning yawn
growling for something more as it churns.
A bagel would do me fine
with a little cream cheese spread,
guess it's too early for cheese and wine
to fill in the crevices of air in my head.
Could you do the shopping
start the car and go to the store
i'll stay and do the mopping,
have i ever asked for too much more?
Toast me a bagel, just a wedge
before you head out to the deli,
make it dark and burnt along the edge
with whipped cream cheese and just a hint of jelly.