I've carved lions and tigers
but never the possums
or the beavers which
taught us how to build
and better to flee to the
threats of bark.
Shattered marbles,
never roll back
and are done for,
not even keeps
are worth it.
Killing myself
over this,
and yet,
the washing machine
tumbles again.
But this time,
I won't be Christian ed
for your vanity
Obsession
with me.
You can't destroy
the worse of deeds
in the black mirror
Face your own weeds.
Sitting on a long deck
At a trailer
In South Georgia
Wind in the Pine Trees
Reading Nathaniel Hawthorne
My stomach is empty
except for
this longing and guilt
A murder of Crows
loudly soar through
Creasing the boughs of the Pines
It is only
Them and I
And
Love that I left
Love that I lost
A hollow serenity settles in
I pull at the Scarlet Letter
Blazing on my chest
Hester exposed
As the Sun sets
A Possum skirts the front yard
Unnoticing me
He is my Kinfolk
An eater of ticks
An old world scavenger
Deceiving the world
Playing dead
Yet
I cannot
The blood on my hands
isn't mine
show me that cool trick again on how to die ~ said joey to his mum
only this time she didn't reply ~ yet still obliged from a rattlers tum
By
David Kavanagh
hms
What a friend
we have in possums
eat ticks
On the road - a possum family
all quickly slaughtered together.
There is something about their crushed bodies
strewn according to size and age as they are.
The whole family pretending to be dead,
even now in deaths squash
still seeking inconspicuousness.
I recall those monochrome pictures
of holocaust atrocities.
The thin bodies, little bodies.
The prioritized scattering,
as if the placement of last moments
were deaths final pose.
While we the living, are invisible
as we swerve to avoid them -
driving quickly away.
Two possums fight in the middle of a road
Their pain and fear do not show
Ferociously they fight for the prize
Pushing them to tear at each other's eyes
At the end one must die
Three days they fight
Through the day and the night
Fur now red with knuckles gone white
After all that they bickered
One stands the clear victor
He can't believe his eyes or his luck
And as he looks on so proud
He gets hit by a truck
dande- lyin- malaise..
the weight of the night in a jar on
the porch collecting rain.
my grandfathers English spaniel in the yard.
a front porch light reflects in the eyes of the possums
they have surrounded him again...
I canhear him wimpering, he is afraid..
he told me once he never wanted to be like
this drunk in the yard with a bunch of ugly
creatures hissing at him.
but in his head he dreams of kangaroo's that
wear new balance shoes and leap over globes
with torn paper borders.
in his head he walks past the possums steady
as a deacon carrying communion sunday..
head held high..
bright and full as the yellow dandelions in the grass
who may turn gray eventually but not quite yet.
Five free range chickens surviving earth’s natural selection...
Spring flowers began to emerge while “Hefei” and hens explored.
Wary of snakes and possums, they moved about with caution.
Hunting, pecking and scratching, together in one accord -
One hen snuck into a pitched tent to lay her lovely eggs.
Behind some plants over wintered in a place nice and warm.
With shattered wing and broken shells, she felt survival plagues.
She emerged escaping death this time, enduring deform.
A few days later, she was gone, feathers strewn about.
One hen, then, another hid…sitting on precious eggs.
Within a month, the strutting rooster crowed his prideful shout.
Nineteen little chicks scurried out close to two hens legs.
ã June 7, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Eggs, but NO epulaeryus
Sponsored by: Black Eyed Susan