Long Voles Poems
Long Voles Poems. Below are the most popular long Voles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Voles poems by poem length and keyword.
Shark is aptly named.
A neighborhood terror if we had a neighborhood.
But we live in the country, so he only frightens wildlife.
Which saves me from phone calls from indignant neighbors.
Shark has a kill room.
We did not know it until the summer time.
It is a heated box the size of a baby coffin.
We keep it outside for him on cold days when he insists on being out there.
He uses it too.
We thought he went in the cat door and was cozy in there.
We discovered in the summer that this is where he drags his kills.
I will not gross you out with the details.
We found skeletons and or carcasses of birds, moles, voles, rats, and snakes in there.
I will not disgust you by telling you what alerted us in the summer time when things thawed.
But let’s just say Shark, the mighty hunter, is aptly named.
Transports of hereafter
pass one leaf to unclasped heaps.
Flirty winds rearrange the hedgerow plumage,
wisp in gentle whispers.
Chipping sparrows play hid and seek
with a watery sunlight.
Business is flourishing for the snuffling groundhog.
It’s the narrow part of the day,
a shoaling light ripples where squirrels dart.
A Blue Jay raps his usual rib-digging oldie.
Felicity flutters the loose and drifting:
the soft green carousels of evening,
the pirouette and circumvolve promenading.
Leaf bundles are ransacked by delving voles
but gently.
Seeing all this
I paint the hedgerow again with this eventide wash,
watch it all spun into dusk
from these owl bright eyes.
A post from the past.....just trying to put down all the ones I have written but deleted when I left the site for a while......this is almost too long, but I couldn't find which animal or insect to eliminate.....
Gardens attract a number of guests,
Some are welcomed, some are pests-
Let’s peek inside to get a view,
Of what these guests are really up to-
Honey bees pollinate, wasps sting,
Mosquitoes suck, song birds sing-
Crickets chirp, caterpillars putter,
Grasshoppers jump, butterflies flutter-
Aphids cluster, ladybugs twirl,
Katydids hop, pill bugs curl-
Owls hoot, peacocks prance,
Fruit ripens, damselflies dance-
Leaves sprout, dragonflies catch,
Shrubs grow, chipmunks fetch-
Trees shade, breezes blow,
Blossoms bloom, fireflies glow-
Moths destroy, hummingbirds drink,
Earthworms chew, stinkbugs stink-
Ants march, slugs cleave,
Turtles saunter, spiders weave-
Fish swim, lizards climb,
Toads croak, snails slime-
Fleas vault, frogs leap,
Roaches scatter, millipedes creep-
Hawks soar, rabbits munch,
Snakes slither, beetles crunch-
Mites bite, moles scurry,
Walking sticks cling, termites hurry-
Mice dart, ferrets burrow,
Hedgehogs mosey, voles furrow-
Gophers tunnel, thrips rasp,
Foxes chase, grubs clasp-
Possums play dead, fruit bats roost,
Water bugs float, pirate bugs juice-
Woodchucks eat, rats devour,
Squirrels store, seedlings flower-
Gnats annoy, spittlebugs attack,
Ambush bugs take, cicadas extract-
Scaly bugs secrete, squash bugs infect,
Silkworms spin. lightning bugs inject-
Armadillos dig, water scorpions fight,
Woodborers drill, fruit flies alight-
Root maggots scarf, locusts smother,
Harlequin bugs feast, flower flies hover-
Deer nibble, cats meow,
Mealy bugs attach, dogs howl-
Antlions trap, leaf-footed bugs pierce,
Robber flies rob and hornets are fierce-
Nematodes battle, leafhoppers invade,
Cutworms clip, leafminers raid-
Psyllids drain, cabbage loopers inch,
Weevils infest, earwigs pinch-
Vines extend, doodlebugs grab,
Woodpeckers peck, assassin bugs stab-
Raccoons forage, geese parade,
Praying Mantises capture, falls cascade-
Skunks spray, branches sway,
Upon your plants an insect may lay-
Harvestmen walk, lacewings feed,
Some of these guests your garden needs!
The Composition of Shadows
by Michael R. Burch
“I made it out of a mouthful of air.”—W. B. Yeats
We breathe and so we write; the night
hums softly its accompaniment.
Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn
leads onward, and we smile, content.
And what we mean we write to learn:
the vowels of love, the consonants’
strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape—
curved like the heart. Here, resonant,
sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass
like singing voles curled in a maze
of blank white space. We touch a face—
long-frozen words trapped in a glaze
that insulates our hearts. Nowhere
can love be found. Just shrieking air.
Published by The Lyric, Candelabrum, Iambs & Trochees, Triplopia, Romantics Quarterly, Hidden Treasures, ImageNation (United Kingdom), Yellow Bat Review, Poetry Life & Times, Vallance Review, Poetica Victorian
When I am on the hunt if I want fresh
I choose young, it is always fresher meat.
Young bunnies, squirrels, rats, moles, voles.
Tastier, and less of a struggle.
But when my mother’s heart catches their eye,
And I think for a second of my owlets, I sometimes
Let up, and go after something that has had more of a life.
Hoping I will not also catch their eye.
Injured meat is what I swoop for if I have had a long day
And I am tired. Injured meat is easier, struggles less, and
Has a unique fear-based taste that is a little saltier.
I think it is from their blood pumping so hard as they
Struggle to get away. When they see my wing shadow, they know.
The old ones are the easiest, no matter what animal I am
Hunting. At dusk or pure black of night, they are the easiest to take down.
I do not hunt much at dawn, as that is my sleeping time. The old ones
Are grateful when I snap them up. They are ready to be torn apart.
Their spirits are grateful for the relief.
The only problem with the old one’s meat is, that it is tough,
And grainy and is not as blood-tasty as the young or the injured.
My owlets cheer when I drop a young one into our nest. When it
Is an old one, they turn up their beaks. Act like I have failed them.
I am so proud when I run an animal down for them.
The animal sees my wing shadow, and it knows I am a fantastic mother.
Transports of hereafter
pass one leaf to unclasped heaps.
Flirty winds rearrange the hedgerow plumage,
wisp in gentle whispers.
Chipping sparrows play hid and seek
with a watery sunlight.
Business is flourishing for the snuffling groundhog.
It’s the narrow part of the day,
a shoaling light ripples where squirrels dart.
A Blue Jay raps his usual rib-digging oldie.
Felicity flutters the loose and drifting:
the soft green carousels of evening,
the pirouette and circumvolve promenading.
Leaf bundles are ransacked by delving voles
but gently.
Seeing all this
I paint the hedgerow again with this eventide wash,
watch it all spun into dusk
from these owl bright eyes.
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of yellow, metal Caterpillar’s.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
He moves under tree shadows,
if there are no tree shadows
he takes a bus.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the Green Man,
he is not a straw man,
or a hollow man –
he is green
at least for now.
There is a tool box on my desk and it is full of good stuff
Scissors, masks, paper clips, cocoa mix, tree pencils so rough
Were I always run to and look first, my go-to-find-something place.
I would not be surprised to see green chickens from outer space.
Like the junk drawers we have at home my husband once said.
He chuckled too making fun of me, so he is lucky he is not dead.
I have another stash in the cupboard, something out of my house.
I can hear something in there chewing, I suppose it is a big mouse.
Rats may come too bringing raccoons and other wild kin.
I can see them hanging from my neck, biting me on the chin.
Vermin and voles will come to me in no particular order or way.
I am a pied piper of rodents, they find me simple and gay.
Out of the burrows and hedges and dreys
Heads began bobbing and eyes were agaze.
Rumours were twittered and grunted and squealed:
‘The combine is coming to harvest the field!’
The moles and the voles and the rabbits and hares
All hurried and scurried and scattered in pairs.
The hedgehogs and ladybirds, pheasants and shrews
Did all that they could to distribute the news.
Then all made a dash for old wise badger’s sett;
The only safe refuge in face of the threat.
There, in the deep hollow they felt the vibration
They shivered and shuddered in great trepidation.
The thrumming and thundering monster machine
Soon passed overhead... and then all was serene.
And out of the hollow came heads, tails and paws
Another day safe from the harvester’s jaws!
Most recently entered into 'Your Best Rhyme Poem That Is Trophy Worthy Contest 3 Poetry Contest' sponsored by Tania Kitchin - 05.10.19
I chose this poem because not only is it one of my personal favourites, but to this day, I've no idea where all these little creatures came from! Written early on in my poetic endeavours, it made me appreciate fully the amazing powers of the imagination!
'A rattling rhyme contest' sponsored by Nina Parmenter
12/08/18
04/12/18
'I cannot believe I wrote that Poetry contest' : sponsored by Nina Parmenter
Your Choice,Any Form,Any Theme Poetry Contest : sponsored by Brian Strand
Ghillie Dhu.
Forests lie deep and dark with never ending looping paths,
Known only to those who dwell within and live their lives
In undergrowth and leaf litter fallen from tree tops high,
Like a carpet of leaf upon the ground shielding voles and little mice,
Where squirrels search and leap from intertwining branch,
In endless search for nuts to bury in the ground,
Saved for winters harshest time if only they could remember where?
Brightly plumaged jays may steal them for themselves,
As dusk descends on woody hall as crows and rooks circle,
Cushat –doos languid cooing a nightly lullaby,
Watching with wary eye the foxes as they prowl,
Badgers also brought out with promise of midnight feast.
Worms and grubs wriggle around lit by moon light ray,
Through the gloom stealthly walks like regal procession,
A group of red brown deer, great tines a top the head,
Crowning glory of king stag glinting with nightly dew,
Always alert watching and listening for the slightest sound,
Behind an ancient oak eyes watching them in grace pass by,
His hood drawn over his head ,his coat of leafy hue,
Fae light twinkles in his eyes breathing low and still,
The watcher of the woods is out protecting all those lost,
Showing the paths and trails to follow home to safety,
From out of wooded maze that confuses a strangers thought.
His name is spoken of in whispers and some fear,
Amongst the folk of villages and duns close to Celidon wood,
His aim is harmless and to help those in need and lead them away,
From harm and possible doom.
Ghillie Dhu is his name the spirit of the woods ,
Under midnight star collecting nuts and grains,
Mushrooms eaten as a snack as he wanders ,
With eyes sparkling bright observing all within,
Watching them all caring for them all,
A special guest at the Butterfly Ball.
© Andrew McIntyre,2016.