Two quail skitter quickly up
this gentle country dirt path,
one running faster than the other.
It's hard to keep up sometimes.
A dog watches from his porch
and wonders if there's food
ahead as he barks at the quail.
Competition can be a real strain.
In his envy and frustration his barks
get louder -- the quail run faster
to the safety of bushes with berries.
"See here ... doggies don't eat berries."
There once was a squirrel named Pam,
a scatter-brained woodland glam with no plan.
she’d skitter and squeak,
go speechless for weeks,
then pose precious-cute just because she can.
bitty birds jig and flitter
they don’t care
much
they don’t hole up to wait it out
but dive in and out
of the rain
bounce breezily
small flocks feather fluff
preen
hop and skip along
they don’t miss a thing
as they wick away drip-drops
we could
we should stop to watch them
but it’s raining too hard
and wet running eyes
will not look
no
not even for a moment
the staircase stops mid-air
cobwebs choke in dust
down, down critters skitter
down invisible rails
waters swirl
up springs Hope
without a cue card
violins carry it off
Simple Weight
I dropped my killick deep into the bay,
not made of iron, but of gathered stone,
and a dead branch lashed tight to keep it whole,
to hold me while the tide turned on its way.
It settled in the mud, a simple weight,
where tiny crabs might skitter and explore,
a humble thing to keep me from the shore,
a promise that I would not drift away.
I watched the water's skin grow hard and gray,
and held the breath I didn't know I'd held.
The line went slack at last, a sudden give.
The tide had shifted and the stone broke free,
and somewhere on the bottom, it was lost.
My simple anchor, set for me to live,
had found a place to rest, a final cost.
And I began to move, a slow release,
as currents pushed me out toward open sea.
I left the killick to its endless peace,
and drifted, finally, with no need to live
within the limits I had set for me.
Memories lost within a frozen mist
And dangling in the static atmosphere
Of muddled recollection of things dear
Haunt the backwoods of the years she has missed.
Through foggy glances, blurred thoughts that persist
In the dim haze, shapes of the past, appear;
These flittering figures, some far, some near,
Skitter through her mind, meek and shadow-kissed.
But soon they drift to a fathomless past,
A time she can no longer touch, just hear.
Rocking mechanically, her face austere,
She searches, brow stuck in a furrowed twist.
As I watch her eyes wander vacant space,
I wonder, “Will she still recall my face?”
Only on full moon does my essence
find release,
When the blaze of moments infects
my hunger for raw wantonness...
Gulls skitter on coastlines
and reel overhead
Their croons heralding night's ebullience,
Until my limbs twirl unceasingly
For an endless tempo
of wild bohemian dance.
Living in the Now,
my body- soul races free
Like chants of untamed prayer
welcoming eve's thrill almost sublime.
buttery morning
light
licks
there are daintily cupped blooms
small white weeds
that no one can name
the sun has spread its table
green rippled gardens
garner
flecks of gold
an old groundhog
a basket of hedgerow twigs
baby footed clouds
blue dingle
between eggshell
vales
run along
all those that can leap a fence
or skitter under it
go
for the light is everywhere
new arriving
let the rooted behold
even if this domain
stops its clement rolling
even so
late-summer sky, vast cloudless vault
hued blue as eyes first meeting mine;
soon autumn tinged fresh campus air
as flirting-glance to fondness grew
and verdant leaves donned ochre hues
then blushed rust tones when we would gaze
deep into eyes, hearts warm as spring
in dappled shade beneath spread limbs
of gold and umber, pumpkin-rind,
soft pastel sketches for the eye
while we held hands and strolled to class,
kaleidoscope of trickling leaves
adrift and wafting, sifting down
to skitter softly in north's breeze
while we embraced for our first kiss
in gloaming colored like the leaves
Itch
Does A Squirrel
Know It's A Squirrel?
***
First of All:
Why Would That
Be My Name?
I Like It,
But It's
Ridiculous,
Random.
Characterized
By Bias That's
Required For
Words to Have
Any
Meaning
At
All.
***
Does Your Experience Convey
Enough
To Hear What I Say?
***
Their Greatest Fault
Is Nobody's Fault.
***
Now...
Skitter Away.
-Gray Squirrel
09-17-2024
Beating their wings hard against the wind
stars spring out soft, then slowly rescind
Unwinding their colors round fur line trees
the world as we know it falls at their knees;
Supernatural scents permeating the air
diffusing their magic with charm and with flare
Utopian eyes that wander then mirror
cool crystal waters that cloak and transmit her
Down in the orchard a butterfly sprite
with emerald wings to gage through the night
They dance and they flutter on wings of slow butter
hovering gentle to hither and skitter
inside a dominion of archmage enchanters.
A carpet of flowers surrounded by magic and dew,
slow sip aromas of chamomile essence & feverfew.
Inside my box
The night is very dark.
A chill wind blows through my mind
And scatters thoughts
Like dry leaves before a storm –
Twisting, whirling out of reach.
They pile up in corners in
Disordered heaps.
I grasp in panic, but they
Skitter away just out of reach,
Taunting me. Please!
Bring back my ordered life!
I’m lost in moonless black –
No light ahead – no warmth –
All order gone! I shiver.
I draw in upon myself
And see me growing smaller
And smaller - until, at last,
I simply disappear.
Not an occasion for the
Queasy or fainthearted
But the start of a journey
Into waters uncharted
Not an element of skill
Just a game of luck and chance
To throw five dice on the table
Watch them skitter and dance
And each display their value
Only the number one counted
And as the game progressed
My fear and dread mounted
Seventh one ordered
Fourteenth one paid
Twenty first one drank
That’s how the game was played
No limits to the concoctions
Just order what you think
And pray down in your heart
You weren’t the one to drink.
Just a game of luck and chance
Not the slightest bit of skill
Many a poor loser has retired
Confused, bemused and ill.
Called Chicago in the village
In the mess called Snake Eye
Many player has longed
Just to crawl away and die.
Last leaves have fallen from the sycamore tree
Leaving her limbs unclad, so naked and bare
While they wait for their new coats of cottony
White snow, and the squirrels, here and there,
Skitter about searching for the nuts they stored
All summer long for wintry days they anticipated
Most of them have found carefully stashed hordes
Since the leaves are raked and falling has abated.
Instinctively, they hurry to prepare for the winds
Securing their leaf nests in the hollows of limbs
They even seem to cooperate as squirrel friends
As the warmth of a November sun steadily dims.
A sense of barrenness and busyness on the lawn
As the sycamore filters the dimming light through
Up early, I can see the squirrels working at dawn,
Mother Nature has taught them exactly what to do.
Written November 6, 2022
swirling leaves skitter
chasing squirrels on the lawn ~
fall Olympiad
Written October 26, 2022
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