The woman ran away with the Sun
to take pen to nature's silhouette;
Round out all the rough edges
file them down to couplets;
Lost letter shavings
that didn't fit;
Chugalug
Muse's
gold.
Remain silent until it's time
to love again
Finger touches and tongue tips
dance again
Rain drops coursing leaf veins
I want to stencil my name
all over your anatomy
as if I never had before
Magnified insight
finding new ways to envelop
your light
Soul shavings on bad days
don't need it all
the tiniest portion of you
will do
Sometimes my poetry needs
time for you to seep into
my vocabulary
to understand that perfect ground
you fall upon.
dead pencil shavings
lifeless wood wings collect
born to give words life
Little by little
others whittle
until there’s nothing more
while the shavings,
feeling the pain
of each slice,
still believes
that Love
will restore…
Slice by slice
others cut and dice
unwilling to make amends
while the dust
still believes
a glued amen
of Love
will eventually
mend…
© Debra Squyres
In tiny steps i climbed aloft
With chambermaid and pepper pot.
To see the Wizzle of the Snad
Make umphle of the ichybad.
'Tis oft the beast that burdens both
The hunter and the Gruffalo,
For from its jaggy jagged jaws
Drool dripping on its mighty paws
A sound of uttish farple dread
Farpled from its snarly head,
And with a goonish glare declared,
'Has anybody seen my hair?
My frabjous fringe and luscious locks
Have fallen off between my socks!
They've gone and took a holiday
Just where i really cannot say.
Oh woe is me! Oh woe i say,
A Wizzle with a bad hair day.
A Wizzle of the Snad gone bald
My Granny would be so appalled.
She would be simply cross as cross
And own me like a proper boss.
Because she was, which isn't wrong
As hairy as a Whangdibong!'
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