in soddening tempest
and billowing gale
i stand and plead with God
for drought
feet rooted in scuttling sand
wind-swept grains thrash at my face
i stand and plead with God
for typhoons
one day i wake up
keeled over in shallow puddles
brought to a boil
by a horizon's line of sun
a flower sprouts by my open palms
and i ask God
for seeds
God in all His majesty
gives us now His tenth great gift
of multifarious joys.
Ghostwinds whistle lilting tunes,
motivating dancing leaves
to make their scuttling noise.
Distant hills are masterpieces.
God, the Artist, planned the blend
of reddish brown and gold.
Mums and pumpkins fill their spots
in front-yard settings bright and bold.
Allow me to address you child.
You've been born into the wild.
Listen to this friendly fowl.
While, innocently, you dream,
wake up and bawl and scream,
creatures crawl and scheme -
says I, the wise old owl.
Scuttling low, sometimes unseen,
you'll find something low and mean.
You must avoid this thing.
Pincers grasp and grip -
this fiend shoots from the hip,
his tail a lash or whip.
Sidestep the scorpion's sting.
The greatest danger you will meet
in the jungle that is the street
preys upon the young.
Slipping, sliding with a smile,
what he wields is guile.
His intentions are most vile.
Resist the serpent's tongue.
Hark, everyone, one and all,
like crabs on rocks, on earth we crawl,
minding tides that rise and fall,
I say unto you.
Vast, long-suffering, scuttling horde,
welcome our new leader and lord,
a bountiful harvest our just reward,
Now we are crab stew.
THE MOUSE WITH THE HAT
But wait, is that a mouse with a hat
Tilted sideways in a most casual way
I guess it must be going somewhere
Scuttling along with a purposeful air
Perhaps to meet another once there
At some fancy formal dress up affair
And it may even be that special day
But a bowtie, so few expecting that
Hermit crab human scuttling about
In my new life. Ill fitting suit.
Like wearing your mother's clothes -
Clip clopping around the kitchen...
High heals filled with little feet...
And dreams of an old lady and her children.
Have I wandered too far into the fiction section.
My old life discarded on the floor
It no longer fits. Too tight. Constricting now.
Still warm with memories as I nudge it with my toe.
Now there's room to grow -
rather baggy if truth be told.
I twist and turn in front of the mirror.
Trying to imagine a time this feels like home.
Look out you might see them
scuttling down your street
patting the neighbour’s dog
nodding to people they meet
They lurk on hospital corridors
wearing their black shiny shoes
then scour obituary columns
for all their latest news
They follow people on stretchers
to sickbeds, funerals, and wakes
asking for extra cups of tea
turning their nose up at cake
They might just take an interest,
if you should start to feel ill
checking on your temperature
your welfare and your will
So, keep your curtains closed tonight
lock all your windows and doors
the graveyard groupies are coming
it’s you they’re looking for…
The clouds scuttled across the night sky
obscuring from sight the silvery moon.
Which managed sometimes to peep out
covering the land with shadowed light.
In the shadows appeared mystical shapes
some were vegetation others were beasts
that stalked the land leaving one wondering
were they real or just obscure imagined
creatures fading deeply into the silent night.
Again the moon was covered by profound
darkness and all one could hear were things
scuttling around creeping ever closer to one
so close they came one could feel their breath.
Yet totally hidden from sight until the moon
briefly popped out lighting mysterious shapes
that seemed unreal as they fled from sight
leaving one feeling strangely unsettled
ill at ease one leaves the dark forest to itself.
NIGHT BEWITCHES
Night offers that welcome darkness
With only the pale moon to observe
When undefined things will emerge
And those rare emotions can surge
Strangest sounds that touch a nerve
And images, proud of their starkness
The witching hour will come at night
Feeling cold running down your spine
The chill wind blows like a soft moan
Now sure that you’re no longer alone
You know something crossed that line
Whispers dance in the air, out of sight
The shadows are barely sure they exist
Moonlight casting weird shades of grey
The dark cloudless sky feels undressed
Things scuttling around, as if possessed
All scurrying to avoid the dawning day
An enchantment opportunity, missed
Their ships must ride
a rolling sky,
masts too high to sail into view.
They appear, board the land,
they buccaneer.
The clamoring mob
fall upon a scuttling prey
pluck the weakest
into hungry holds.
An eye-aye cocked and ready,
they raid and maraud
as only
treasure seekers can.
The gulls are here
and for a while
sea and land broil.
the air erupting
with mutinous calls.
Racing the oval of tide
Watching the sun and moon collide
Riding on horses in the oval of fate
Saddling on courses in the ring of slate
Horses in breeds of colors and shade
Forces in creeds of odors and glade
Mares and lasses of cold and wintry grounds
Grasses and races on parch, dusty mounds
Sun speaks of myths and bounds of horses' blether
Moon tweaks on blithes and squally weather
Sun and moon are light and dark horses
Scuttling, bustling in many races
Sprinting is a long distance course
Glinting and weltering without remorse
Humans breathe as horses, treading and running with reins
Born to win in the oval... praying, striving with strong veins!
What seems an impossible feat
of forte and noble resolve
to boldly face the bitter gale,
a smallish bird feathers the wind.
His wildly beating wings afford
what seems an impossible feat
of willfulness against his foe,
as he hunts for suitable prey.
He hovers so he can find his
preferred meal scuttling around in
what seems an impossible feat
to escape the eyes of the bird.
Such beauty in nature is rare
and one should be awed by the sight
of the kestrel’s stamina in
what seems an impossible feat.
In a motel room near an ocean
I dream in a rented bed,
listen to the scrabbling claws of small crabs
as they emerge from yet smaller holes
in the sand.
The little crabs are going to pick clean
the carcass of a dead horse.
The unfamiliar bed makes only
morbidly obese sounds.
It creaks like a leather saddle
and I am afraid that the scuttling crabs
will overhear.
Why do only the saddest words
invite us to hear more deeply?
Why do rented beds
transmit alien nightmares
as if a stranger still slept here?
So many falling stars!
A meteor shower bursting
like a miniature firework,
Silvery sparkles diving down the sky,
There behind the northern star
Down to the hazy horizon
Far from the Centaurus constellation.
Sinking in oblivion.
My love urged me to make a wish.
Do falling stars grant any wish?
No reply. My love had wandered off.
Worried I felt the spontaneous gyrations of my heart.
I strayed in the dark park searching,
Hearing coyotes howl, owls hooting,
Mice scuttling in the under wood.
I hunted earnestly hoping to see her there.
But she had disappeared
As I looked up at the last falling star.
Wake up, man, love comes not from stars.
And yet it was such a lovely sight
That I was not ready to deny my dreams
no matter what anyone might think.
So I wished with all my heart.
Just one falling star might come true.
My love was waiting for me ardently.
See, she was behind a tree
Hiding from the falling stars.
Stripped blazing, for danger
A tiger.
As blatant, for the fear
On the ear.
Stop; smell your bush, blooming.
Foolish grin;
Letting out an ahh! Then
Out of there
As past some jungle lair
Be scuttling.
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