Racoons Poems

City Heat

The neighborhood has gone to bed
A lonely yellow light peeks out a window
A wary city coyote gives a curious glance
Racoons pick the combination lock on the trash can lid
A feral Tom serenades its purring lover
Street lights offer a dubious trust
As a cradle moon rocks the stars to sleep
A wind chime succumbs to the humidity

Summer Days

Lights are glowing gently
The curtains have been drawn
The radio plays softly
An old, well loved song
The summer night is calm
With the moon on the rise
Racoons head for the corn
Much to no one's surprise
Darkness coats the hillside
Cattle have settled down
Village streets are emptied
'Till morning comes around

A new day approaches
Sun will rise in the east
Towns and farms grow active
As daylight is increased
Swimming pool is open
Picnics are in the plans
All the white skinned children
Are working on their tans

Life keeps rolling along
Through all the summer days
Young kids hit fishing holes
Farmers round up the strays
Woman start preserving
From artichokes to plums
Will be food a' plenty
When the hard winter comes

Soon baseball and swimming
Gives way to football games
Then there is harvesting
Between the autumn rains
Kids will return to school
For studies and class plays
And all will tell stories
About their summer days

Her Life as a Poem

Her big-boned spirit
was a fine-spun sprouting 
of prairie brome,
threaded through with engine oil.
Her home was a rickety refuge
for wayward cats.

Upon her tangled porch
poems grew in small pots
muddled with the stale air 
of Maui Wowie.

She wrote on the back of her mouth
with cigarette smoke.
Her poems were the rain-filled footprints,
of Jack Kerouac.

She had pronouns after her name.
Her fame became legendary
but only between the gaps in her thoughts.

Her love for possums and racoons

was almost romantic.

Some still write about her ghost
as if she still lived.

Sunday Sermon

kindly air
big mouthing every throat
lungs suck until drunk

maggie has gone shopping with alexa
they back and forth with girlish glee
while songbirds listen
to the electronic voice of god

aunty agatha went for a naked moonlit walk
the racoons began to chatter
like old men

it was a fairytale ending for her

and now it is a sunday morning
a day to talk to trees
and not listen to the words they say
as if we were all in church

brown walking boots
already smeared with grassy puke

winter bones are showing up
like fingers they point to a cracked pot
on the surface
of a new
more alien moon

Rambling

Rambunctiously I go
Rambling in the dark woods
Randomly following
Range trails made by racoons
Raptly I watch among
Ramps, next to the creek bed
Rationalism leaves

ramps-noun-a wild plant much like spring onions with a garlicy taste

Skylarking

Winds bell-ring the tulips.
Racoons hang lazily from eaves
watching the watched.
Barns are bent into rafts of moss,
an age shedding green
gathered by crow-footed wanderers.
All is a montage of one single facet
of day-sprung now.


Meadowlarks slip through their own songs
I unlimber my gray sticks
and stride,
my piecemeal mind mended and alight
with a bright-eyed flowering.

Spring clambers over my bones
to chase the wagging tails of
barking dogs,
sunshine gallops along a paddock fence
casting a mirage of painted flickers.

Hard to be anything less
then my best idea this day.
I search for a notion, a reason, a why,
only to be scooped-up
by a flock of fleet sparrows,

their small brown wings going nowhere,
yet all of us flying inside a sky-lifting joy.

The Up and Rising Sun

Glory be to the newborn December sun
how bravely it drips its frosty shine!

The backwoods bears are snoring,
bleary are the eyes of somnambulant racoons.

Right here and now, where the hedgerow
winks through its own bare-boned branches

the sun that plunged on through
the dim-eyed daybreak, all is now awake!

Debonair Raccoon

Debonair raccoon had his pick of women of course.
He found them in the barn, cuddling next to the horse.
He liked them Rubenesque, reddish and round.
They gravitated him sleek and slick, marriage-bound.

The horse got jealous when Debonair took them away.
He liked female racoons. Many of them “made his day”.
They were eager to please, and their sense of humors were keen.
He thought when Debonair took them from him, he was being mean.

Trees Weep When I Write

Trees weep when I write
knowing they pay a price
for each word, each line
each crumpled thought.
They cry as pencils,
worn to nub-like points
are cursed and banished.

Recycle barrels are not impressed
for racoons do not read poetry
fail to grasp the metaphor
of transient words
the alliteration of rhythms drumbeat
nor does the alley cat
serenade the windowed house cat.

An itinerant wind
may carry my poetry
crumpled in its pocket,
drop it somewhere
and by chance
a passerby take a peek.

And knowing this
I still write to sate
the insatiable appetites
of a guileless muse
for she knows not of the trees
or the oceans
lest I explore them for her
with her, because of her.
For we are lovers
of places only we can go
feelings only we can share
moments spent alone
exploring the blank pages
of poetic wondering.

John G. Lawless
©3/3/2020

Totems

Lakeside, among the rustling reeds,
there is a whir and stir, whisks of motion
swish and ruffle.
Yellow Jackets, dragonflies, and Yellow Tailed fritillaries
vie for space in the sultry air.

The water though is still,
a mirror turned over for the sun to peer through.

In the glassy water a day-dreaming vision surfaces,
I see the animals;
they are neither in the water or out of it.
They skim between worlds, observe with wide eyes;
owls, bears, racoons, and Bob Cats
all observing.
It comes to me that they are totem creatures
spirits and guardians of the living.
Familial ties keep them close; they walk a life-path with us.

All this seen in the gloss of the still lake,
in the dazzle and glaze reflected there.
The formless taking shape, ghosts within ghosts
that follow me when I leave.

Journeying on, they gradually fade to invisibility,
all but one,
my own totem stays, and is with me now
as I write this down,
yet I will not name that one, not under
this or any other sun that haunts the daylight.

Animals

Animals
Animals love us, 
and we love them, 
So take action 
to save the same.
Big cats from the African savanna 
or Orangutans from the Borneo forests,
the world if full of creature
found only in places rarest.
Birds also are important, 
Some are found in American woods,
But I found many, right in my neighborhood.
Amphibians and reptiles,
all lay eggs,
many of them
may dare to eat cleggs!
Ostriches, beavers and caribous,
drakes, eels and kangaroos,
quails, seals and camels,
arboreal animals and mammals.
Moles, sharks and rhinoceros,
fawns, parrots and hippopotamus,
Polliwogs, does and baboons,
Salamanders, budgies and racoons.
Animals of every kind and more,
so go out there and explore!

Deep Forest Frenzy

Underneath green leaves that wave at the sun,
Goes mad activity in the environs of summer!
Fuzzy rabbits hopping along sunshine bound,
Scurrying racoons-bandits off for a heist,
Bushy tailed squirrels dancing in the pines,
As fresh scent wafts through the afternoon!
Chipmunks rush to feast on the wild berries,
As violet birds are off to feast on cherries.
Chirping crickets and buzzing bees day to day,
As the earth moves round in the familiar way.
Eager frogs leap wide eyed on a vivid quest;
And blue snakes slither in the emerald bushes.
Tortoises and turtles do a slow dance with June,
As ruby-throated hummingbirds hum a sunny tune!

Totems

I almost see the totem animals.
an almost place, placed before my eyes, 
this morn-flushed day.

The red sky that charged the horizon
is shading to flamingo pink.
The storm must have lost its wings.
The light is tattered, but it plumes now
with the floss of broken clouds.

Lakeside, among the dripping weeds,
Yellow Jackets, Dragonflies, 
and Yellow Tailed fritillaries
vie for air space.

The water is still, a mirror
turned over to watch
what reflections fly beneath it.

It is there that I see the animals.
They are neither in the water or out of it.
They skim, peering into both,
they observe with wide eyes,
owls, bears, racoons, and Bob Cats,
all observing.

They are the aliens now, and we the 
spirits of water and air.
The totem animals, sniff, and eye us
as parents or guardians would.

Familial ties keep them close,
as they feel-out each life-path,
then following, but at a distance
always at a distance, for they possess
this hinterland amidst the glaze
of our daydreams.

A surface tension that echoes
the nearness of water and sky,
yet from an in-between place,
close, yet so far away.

Hedgehogs

My hedgies are tossed here and there across my study furniture.
I guess in “reality” they are nocturnal, 
however, they are always bright eyed and open in my home.
Some of them have a “for special” place they like to rest;
I try to remember to place them there.

Some of them, like the salt and pepper shakers, 
prefer to group in clumps and chatter.
The one among the barbed wire collection is a bit of a bristly sort himself.
Then when my back is turned, the others say he smiles.

They’ve come together, year after year, as gifts from friends or myself.
They like all my poetry and aren’t near as messy as racoons!

My Racoons

Racoons, Racoons, bouncing everywhere!
Ceiling to floor and door to door.
Down the rain pipe, then back up.
Scuttering around seeking food;
a comfortable place to sleep.
When night creeps up my sliding door,
lights out for the night;
I can trust in their pitter-pat to keep me brave.

Children go home, husbands die.
The racoons return, little soldiers, day and night.
Their rambunctious rattling ease the missing footsteps on the stairs;
where ghosts still range from time to time, unreliable at best.

The racoons, seven at last count,
don’t mind the frightening sight of me without my teeth or hair.
They live and play above my head;
just grateful for a warm insulated corner in which to rest.
As others speak of their grandkids, I speak of my racoons.
But my racoons are more loyal;
they never leave; they never cry.
Their character lays in their unaltering, steadfast presence.

It seems such a small thing, yet it’s everything when your old and alone.
		Kids grown
		No one coming home
		A silent telephone

They expect nothing from me
Giving me the greatest comfort there is,
the muffled sound of little feet across the ceiling.

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