*WE ALL LIVE IN A ‘NUT SUBMARINE’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In a park where the oaks stretch tall,
four bushy-tailed lads heed the call.
With acorn guitars and a nut-shaker beat,
the Liverpudlians scamper on stage
John Lemontail, sharp-eyed and sly,
scribbles lyrics that question the sky:
*“Imagine no birdfeeders… it isn’t hard to do…”
Paul McNutty, the crooner so smooth,
sings *“Yesterday, my walnuts were gone—
Now I need a new place to carry on!”
George Harristripes, mystic and lean,
chants *“Within You, Without You, Walnut Supreme.”
He meditates deep ‘neath a mushroom cap’s shade.
Ringtail Starr, on a hollow log drum,
thumps out a rhythm: “Boom-chicka-bum!”
His cheeks bulge with pecans, a percussive stash.
They thrill on the Ed Sullivan stage,
*“Twist and Shout!” they harmonize causing quite a rage
leaving female squirrels with nutty desire.
I move like a question
no one dares to ask aloud.
Soft-footed. Sharp-eyed.
I was born between shadows,
stitched from dusk and flame—
a whisper in the underbrush
with teeth.
You call me sly.
I call it survival.
I know the wind before it changes.
I know the hush that means danger.
I know how to vanish
without meaning to.
Your world is loud.
Metal, smoke, hunger that swallows
without tasting.
Mine is the flick of a leaf,
the crackle of something small
making the wrong move.
I don’t chase what doesn’t want to be found.
I wait. I listen. I know
how to want quietly.
At night, I run—
not to get somewhere,
but because running
is what keeps my name from rusting.
The earth sings in pawbeats,
and I answer,
red thread stitching a story
through the trees.
Dew drops grace green grasses
Soothing like my pearly power shower
I choose the right outfit for an orange day
Under the fruit bowl by Vincent Van Gogh
Breakfast bar stool welcomes hungry hips
Honey dew melon kisses lips
Pray meditate talk to God and myself
Water plants feed perky pets sweep steps
Thunderous thud at the French door
Blue genes deliver the paper boy
Who always smells like molasses
Busy red rush for beige boisterous bus
Cool car pool to trendy train that passes
Helium houses that empty again of masses
Spied by sharp eyed animals of prey
Early bird flight climb sky
By Water Lily Lake
Sun is a ball of fire rolling uphill
A wise bald eagle relaxes on top of the world
His seat red, white, blue flag’s pole by the mill
Sun rays in his face
Tattoo him as silhouette Smokey gray
Imagine ... our continental divide,
seen by nose lengthers who are not sharp-eyed.
The Yellow-Bellied Marmots, host the most,
from the northernmost down off the west coast.
There are six varieties of marmots
that live in the area, and what parts
them from the other five marmot species
are that they are polygamous? Unease
males, penance ... more than one mother-in-law.
They're gamey, thought by some that use a claw,
and squirrely; their defining term. There's
a cousin whose shadow's in the crosshairs.
Late winter, early spring, Yellow Bellies,
seasons bring ... the nights, Machiavelli's.
Old timers in a dark tavern were telling tales
I was the eavesdropper, and none seemed to know
Where exactly is the hanging tree? One asked.
I was horrified, but not enough to quit listening.
An address was given, so I headed out there on foot.
The house was simple, but every light was lit.
Odd for this time of the evening. A crow watched me.
Was he listening to my footsteps? They slapped against the walk.
Looks like rain a grizzled cowboy type said.
I nearly jumped out of my shoes. He laughed.
Gave me a nod and tipped his hat.
I was too shocked to smile.
I had not heard him creep on me.
Silent footsteps; how often do you not hear that?
It was an odd evening; Halloween-like and not Halloween yet.
I turned to say, “I didn’t even hear you!” But he was gone.
I looked in every direction. “That is the hanging tree,” a man’s voice whispered.
I looked past the house and knew this was the hanging tree.
The crow gave me a sharp-eyed look and flew off.
I felt like he had been an ethereal visitor.
Remembering Achill island where:
landscape so barren echoes with loneliness.
Remnants of harsh winter slowly receding,
leaving terrain behind burnt from elements.
Will spring bring a green renaissance?
High on cliffs inquisitive Peregrine Falcon,
sharp-eyed and watching ocean frenzy.
Arrogant bird of prey, with attitude,
indifferent to Achill's weather.
Sojourner birds will return with spring.
Glacial island's intriguing domain.
Atlantic storms forever sculpt prospect,
as bitter winter sun skims land playfully.
Creating elusive shapes and shadows,
like a kaleidoscope of mystery.
These impressions stay with me,
when returning to my concrete existence.
Instead of screeching soaring seabirds:
the endless roar of traffic.
Closing my eyes I remember.
sharp-eyed, cool hand mom
toddler discovers ladder
dad on the roof
May 15, 2020
I want to walk with you
on the hills of tomorrow
drag fingers like tines
in the dark dirt
prepared by centuries
of anticipation
nothing but a few shoots
of grass there
waiting perfectly
for growth, some
human attendance, some
ones to roll
and plant deeply
sending roots
to the aquifer.
I want the honey-sweet sun
to make your skin quartz
glimmering like a thousand mirrors
and every living thing,
every dewdrop-living microbe
and sharp-eyed circling hawk
and waving photosynthetic wand
to take notice--
Strangers from a city
are peaceful now,
love bound and harmonious
and mean everything to you,
are here
infinite one minute
and the gone the next
in combustion of what you created.
The phone app said "unhealthy"
To describe Denali's air.
The sky was gray and smoky
All the hours we were there.
So we were disappointed;
Thought the day would be a bust
'Til somebody hollered "Moose!"
Our brakes kicked up a heap of dust.
A mother moose and baby
Ambled by in camera range.
Then an antlered caribou strolled close -
Our luck began to change.
More caribou were spotted
In the distance, in a herd,
Then a sharp-eyed passenger yelled out
That much-awaited word:
"Bear!" We all looked over
And a grizzly came in view.
He lumbered in the bushes
Seeking berries where they grew.
Our fortune held - the driver spied
A most impressive lynx,
Who crossed the road both back and forth.
(Just showing off, methinks.)
A final sighting- quite a brood
Of willow ptarmigan
(They're the state bird of Alaska)
Got the cameras out again.
We saw no sheep or eagles
And the sky was far from blue.
What a treat, though, watching wildlife!
(And they never even knew...)
A buzzard from his vantage point of sweeping lofty heights
Enjoyed a cornucopia of captivating sights.
He soared above the rolling hills, the meadows and ravines,
His bird's-eye-view encompassed ocean blues and forest greens.
But once, a splash of colour made his sharp-eyed vision blink;
A stunning apparition dressed in fine flamboyant pink.
And like a ballerina it performed a pirouette
Then took a slow bow downwards as the sun began to set.
A beautiful flamingo in a lake of cobalt blue
Had brought a touch of magic to a buzzard's scenic view.
15/01/19
'Buzzards And Flamingos Poetry Contest' : sponsored by Anthony Slausin
2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 18 Mark Toney : 3/13/2019 N/A
Na Re-Run Poetry Contest : Sponsored by John Hamilton
22.06.19
Sharp.
Cutting. Ouch!
Sharp writing, revered.
Sharpshooter. Wow!
Sharp-sighted. Flight cleared.
Sharp-tailed grouse.
Sharp-eyed mouse.
Sharp-witted, admired.
Sharp-tongue makes me tired.
Sharp-cut, defined.
Sharpish,
Sharpie
Sharp!
In the lockers of the classroom desks
You find lunchboxes, of all shapes and forms.
Some replaced from time to time,
But others to appear only at lunch break.
Filled as they come, empty as they go,
These lunchboxes travel a long way
Around a whole classroom, through all nooks and crannies.
Twisting and turning, to avoid being seen
By the sharp-eyed teachers of the school.
And if, by any chance, you would go into such a class,
Just look a little sharper and find
The naughty one at the back, eating
As the lessons go on.
10/31/2018
sharp-eyed you peeled my face
and my body
so sour-tasted me revealed
it was unconditional surrender to your authority
of disposing me in trash box
you yet gobbled up me
and served me your gastric acid
On March fourteenth, the day of pi
I pined to buy an apple pie
A python spied me at the door,
a sharp-eyed pirate on the floor
Oh piebald pipe of piety
Do not aspire to piracy!
A spiny pain will occupy
My poor pylorus pining pie
Pied piper pyromaniac
Porkpie in hand, applies attack
A pyrite spark to light became
Papyrus lit and fanned the flame
The python backs, afraid of fire
The piker fears a funeral pyre
He'd be expired and unprepared
To cipher circles pi r squared
Our pineal glands made pie-eyed plans
And Pontius Pilate washed his hands
A pile of pilots can't deny
I occupied my day with pi
October 25, 2014
Rhymed iambic tetrameter
There are 35 "pi" sounds. Can you find them all?
Tabby watching birds;
Sharp-eyed, poufy-tailed, statue;
Until squirrel arrives.
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