SQUIRREL’S SOIREE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam the squirrel, sprightly and spry,
sought a soirée under the sapphire sky.
With acorn appetizers and nutty delights,
he danced with delight through the dappled night.
Chirping chums and critters abound,
cackles and chuckles, a charming sound.
In a twirl of tails and a flurry of feet,
Sam spun in circles, a soiree sweet.
GEOFF: A Whet Pirouette Poem
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
furry, spry squirrel, Geoff
Chaucer he doth channel
"Come and 'whet thine whistle'."
"Poof! abracadabra!"
Really?
Now Georgie,
you're silly!
be smiley,
beguilely!
Old men dwell on living well
They still aspire although they tire
Spry or stiff they live as if
They won't collapse or soon expire
Like it or not they've made their lot
And learned to live with what they've got
But in their mind they know their kind
Won't come again so they remind
All those around what they could do
When the world was younger... and they were, too
But I think this kind of kind revision
Is most likely just another loss of vision
Black heart, red tie
Some live, some die
Not smart, not spry
Won't give, won't try
Written: July 17, 2025, for contest by Joseph May
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Silk voice ties the tunes of the throng
As you play the chill, snake-hands song
Void doesn't just loom—he swoons and croons
Of the throng, silk voice ties the tunes
My sound won't cross—cling to your room
He swoons and croons—void doesn't just loom
Won't quench the charm and delight dross
Cling to your room—my sound won't cross
I'll break the chain with skillful smarm
And delight dross won't quench the charm
Haunts the twilight with spry disdain
With skillful smarm, I'll break the chain
Even my heart can't sate your height
With spry disdain, haunts the twilight
When the coming spite pours a chart
Can't sate your height, even my heart
She was born on this day in ‘66
A Belle that rings above all other chicks
She’s dated some gems and dated some pricks
And beyond it all she keeps her wits
So on this day she can breathe a sigh
She can lay back and watch it all go by
She can about her life to her heart decry
Sing a song my heart, shed a tear my eye
And as of late (and maybe all her life)
Jesus is at the forefront, Jesus is the guy
He makes her feel so spry
As another year is added, another year’s gone by
spry purebred feline
hailing from siberia
snowsquall royalty
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
My little guy to my happy surprise
is with me still and very spry
His heart pills keep him ticking on
personality of his still is strong
He loves to growl and bark all day
for him it is the way he plays
the thing he loves most of all
is when I scratch his chest he is enthrall
It relaxes him and keeps him calm
never enough keep scratching on and on
The old guy walks the perimeter of the fence
sniffs to know whose been whence
About every couple of feet or so
Genghis lifts his leg and lets it go
He makes his mark to claim it all
and mosey about walking tall
Old Kublai used to follow him on his tail
mark over his mark as Genghis he trailed
As if he had to mask Genghis's scent with his own
for Genghis's claim Kublai disowned
I miss my Kublai they were a funny pair
But now I have sweet Sassy dear
She sits and watches Genghis from finish to start
as that silly old boy, Genghis makes his mark.
Erratically-tossed sequins
Mark the places of night's stadium -
A netherworld of colored stones
For the spry flights of cherubim -
And Jehovah - madman or genius -
I cannot quite discern -
Overlays time upon us
And I'm a lowly spectator.
One angel keeps an amethyst -
Ignoring an agate - then ruby;
I do wonder if by chance
There's a rock somewhere for me ...
He's an old man now,
it's strange but it's true,
he'll be sixty six this year,
when the Winter is new,
All I can say, is Wow, how time flies
I remember when he was a spry 35,
and wonder "Where did the time go" when I see the age in his eyes
The sunrise paints the prairie gold,
The breeze still hums that tune of old,
Where once I’d ride with reins held tight,
Now I rock through the hush of night.
My boots sit still by the old back door,
Dusty dreams from days before.
The saddle waits on its wooden stand—
But now I hold life in my hands.
No roundup calls, no cattle cry,
Just lullabies and baby sighs.
I traded spurs for whispered songs,
And sleepless nights that stretch so long.
But oh, my heart—it rides each day,
Through love too fierce to drift away.
Though trails are quiet, and horses rest,
This little one is my newest west.
I miss the wind, the leather’s creak,
The freedom dancing on my cheek.
But I would choose this soft-eyed view
A thousand times, and all anew.
Someday soon, I’ll saddle high,
With baby watching, bright and spry.
We’ll ride again—me and the sky—
But for now, it’s lullabies.
Wee Willie Wagtail, sleek and spry,
Flew up to catch a bug on fly,
When along came a wily willy-willy
Swirling winds aloft willy and nilly
Loop-de-looping poor Willie, up into sky!
It would be a pure adrenaline freedom thrill to fly.
Flight motion is a dreamy adventure I would savor.
How excited I would be to Peter Pan the sky.
I feel certain the atmosphere would gladly comply.
Granting me ascent would be a most splendid favor.
It would be a pure adrenaline freedom thrill to fly.
Passing birds would wonder why and what was saying hi.
My desire to sky soar would never reduce or waver.
How excited I would be to Peter Pan the sky.
To sky view earth's wondrous beauty might make me cry.
Dipping and lifting thru blue could make me a flight craver.
It would be a pure adrenaline freedom thrill to fly.
My liftoff would be a spry leg jump and arm raising try.
I could be an artistic flying, smiling, cloud engraver.
How excited I would be to Peter Pan the sky.
Amplified amazing waves of euphoria would apply.
Each moment of exhilaration would grow me braver.
It would be a pure adrenaline freedom thrill to fly.
How excited I would be to Peter Pan the sky.
Vines in the spring of my life
were sturdy and spry. Utterly dependable,
they ran along the many parts of my body.
Able to cling to ligaments, tendons and muscles
with great connectivity,
they allowed me to walk, run, and jump with ease.
How wonderful was my pain-free youth!
Winter has arrived all too soon.
The vines down my spine have lost
some of their much-needed support.
With hardship now, they move toward
the joints of my left knee.
My vines in winter have me out of kilter.
No longer do they comfortably sprawl.
No more can I joyfully jump or dance.
Matching their apparent stagnation,
I still try my best to keep
c r e e p i n g a l o n g
longing for the days when
vines were green.
seed
aloft,
lands lightly,
sends roots below,
sprouts into sunshine,
and, as the seasons pass,
becomes a great sycamore,
while, below, a boy lies face up,
and reflects under its swaying limbs,
"a climbing tree is not built in a day".
tree
regards
a young boy's
strong, supple limbs
on a summer's day.
both of us, in our primes
he thinks, shading the spry youth,
cooly offering his branches,
pondering the pervasive creature,
"you see tree climbing boys every summer".
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