They found you in the dust behind the barns
A skittish spark with lightning in your legs
A diamond in the rough with uncut charm
All promise
All heartbeat
All raw edges
You burst onto the track like dawn breaking
Crowds rising as your hooves carved out a future
Every stride a prophecy every win a rumor
That greatness had been hiding in plain sight
Seasons wear on even the brightest stones
Your shine dulled not from lack but from living
From so many winning miles run hard
Expectations stacked like saddles on your back
Some whispered you’d lost your glimmer
That the sparkle they once saw slipped away
But diamonds don’t vanish they change
They carry their history in every facet
Every scuff a story every flaw a truth
And you Diamond Scuffle…
Still catch the light in your own way
Not the blinding flash of a rising star
The steady gleam of something that’s endured
You may not blaze like you once did
But you still shine
With the weight of everything you’ve been
A diamond still…
Just one that’s learned what brilliance costs
The words are troubling
A bit skittish
Becoming leery of each other
Wondering
“if those two get together”
“oh the implications”
“do they know what they’re saying”
The words seek
The gray areas of
Duplicitous doubt’s
Tactful treachery
The truth
Their scarred hostage
Reading a confession
It did not write
Tiny, my precious one-eyed ball of fluff --
with oh so sharp teeth and claws --
is disarmingly warm and cuddly but
often still quite skittish,
and stand-offish.
She purrs non-stop, contented,
when safely protected, on my lap
while being stroked. Her food and her water
bowls are clean and full
and her litter box is mostly promptly
emptied, refilled, odorless
and sanitized.
So what if she nips playfully
at my aged paper-thin skin?
Also she may snag my dressy
seldom-donned attire with those
sharp claws. But
she over-pays her board, her daily care,
with fond head nudges, and with her
unabashed preference for me
above all others, even now,
when I may no longer be,
to others, what I was.
To her, still, this outer shell
is precious, is safe,
Is reciprocated love,
is home,
is everything.
They ARE Skittish!
Just Like Real SQUIRRELS!
It's A Survival
Instinct...
It Stinks!
See?
-Gray Squirrel
02-28-2026
The Russian sheep are sleazier,
the Greenland sheep are fatter:
Trump therefore finds it easier
to carry off the latter.
Do nations have existence,
or do they count for nada?
The yardstick – size, or distance,
or the biggest enchilada?
The standard – be the victim spent,
complaisant, even skittish,
suggests that, by your argument,
America’s still British!
You said ‘Hello.’ and kissed my hand
running your fingers on skittish skin.
No knowledge needed to press start,
hot breath on my arm raised a quiver.
Running your fingers on skittish skin,
my clumsy lip was modestly chewed.
Intimidated by a fantasy come to life.
No knowledge needed to press start,
it was an expert game of telepathy.
Your carnivorous mirrored my want.
Hot breath on my arm raised a quiver,
lick my inner wrist. (But do not bite)
How did you know what I needed soft?
10.
Flying Fish
Hail! You marine creatures skedaddle skittish
Haven't perceived anything worth so named languish
Yet, how this realm of vast dominion
Entities stay underwater's nation
Mere lapses aqua occupation – flying fish!
-01/03/2007
(Dumarao)
*Topsy-Turvy Limerick Ironic
Thick in the freshness are you
And deep in the freeness.
Park's skittish herds; herd late for
Neighbourhood pen's distress.
Ought to be called denizens
Of worlds of sensation!
Of a dancer's is thrown out
Each limbed agitation.
Impulse of a sky beyond
This, a child's day arching .
Lived up to in modes of bliss.
In states of life-trusting.
The pumpkin contest.
Not just about being big and strong.
Or long, looping vines.
Just pumpkin things.
The pumpkin contest.
Isn’t all orange and bright.
It’s grimey and harsh.
The rind-like feeling all over.
The pumpkin contest.
Is not anything.
We don’t smile all day.
And at night, it’s all weird and skittish.
The pumpkin contest.
Is undefined.
Is more of an anniversary on a loop.
They rot eventually.
The pumpkin contest.
Comes to life like the inside mush.
Seeds and sprouting.
We all win in a groggy way.
The pumpkin contest.
Keeps us awake.
They call us at 3:39 am.
With a pumpkin smile.
She is as fleeting as the koi
twice as skittish
delicate and pretty
life has burned her
a naturalist, who loves Thoreau
a poet, who enjoys Coleridge
She dreams in color
a woman who has been hurt
To approach her, you must be subtle
honesty is the quality she must see at all costs
if you try to approach any other way
she will shut you out like the others
There are towel-drying winds.
parks grow soggy with small dogs.
May is an old man riding a bike backwards.
It is oil for the broken engine in the barn.
Wetness folds this way and that
the sky unzips a larkish sunshine.
We hear nestlings in their reservoirs of dew.
New life bubbles in puddles,
the green and tufted arrive out of nowhere,
boys' fish for skittish girls,
beryl buds swell, unclasp and curl.
The Lake.....
lies… still,
a glistening sheet of tin foil,
shimmering in a cold-eyed wind.
At night
the lake still... lies… still;
a coffin with lid screwed light-tight.
On occasion, the moon trickles light,
lightly across the lake's pitch-black back;
the knack of making the coffin lid crack!
Today, I challenge myself
to touch-dive the lake’s chilling depths,
halfway down I halt, a dark vault,
weakens my errant confidence.
Despite puppet legs and handcuffed arms
I spin frantically to reach a detached surface,
bursting out like some skittish, Scottish salmon
only to be held between the two supremos;
illuminated sky and darksome water.
Tonight, the lake grips my bedroom window
and I watch as watery, inky tentacles
claw and talon at an unsettled shoreline.
Later, I wait for sleep to possess me,
sensing surrounding hills clinging closely
while rain falls like pellets of iron.
So I drift…listening to the lake
whispering dangerous, whispering treacherous secrets
until nature’s seesaw; night tilts into daylight.
Ian Souter
Brutish bison stepped on my left foot today
Making me less merry, forcing me to delay
It weighed a ton, so what could I do?
I yelled “Get off of my tennis shoe!”
Skittish bison got startled and galloped away
My toe is broken, bleeding, its nail is turning gray.
So, I cannot come over for my play date today.
Maybe you should invite my cousin Jay.
We were once bejeweled dolphins frolicking.
Within the starry glitter of a spiritual sea.
Our freedoms were gilded and fathomless.
Then eyeless ogres of mayhem and madness
Steadily parched our peace and happiness.
Tempered our smiles, muffled our clicks...
Until there was nothing but blackness left.
They've molded us into skittish goldfish.
Trapped us in their rose-stemmed glasses.
Feeding us a few rancid flakes at a time.
Dictating that we should be forever grateful.
To be in the shadow of their pseudo shine.
Riding their plastic sextants and jagged kindness.
Thinking we need them to center our lives.
Dunking these vote-centric peckers is paramount.
Now kick back, smoke a blunt, watch the blue buzzards drown.
Dedicated to my dear friend Eve Roper
The muse was too late, so I did not write it with any picture in mind and not meant for the contest.
Oh Rose Marie, dear Rose Marie,
Where have all the skittish sheep gone?
They were all gathered on the lawn
But now they disappeared at dawn.
Oh Rose Marie, dear Rose Marie,
Go search and search up high and low.
Those skittish sheep must now be found.
Don't you know, dear, they cost some dough?
Oh Rose Marie, dear Rose Marie.
She did her best to find the sheep
Found them she finally managed
Neath a rubble wall all asleep.
Written today 26 August 2024
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