A squirrel in autumn hollered, “Dang!
This heat’s got my tail in a tang.
It’s ninety-eight degrees, y’all~
that ain’t autumn, not at all!
Where’s sweata weather in Texas?” he did pang.
we were
always burdened
by the
captivating chatter
discreetly hostel
last likely
a shew
proposition to
reconsider southwest
precook texarkana
thickened tangy
ambition crookedly
fluster and
recognizable flake
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 31–September 6, 2026)
Today’s September 2d,
but Sam the squirrel is not impressed~
no brisk air, no acorns dropping,
just heat he can’t digest.
He squints up at the cloudless, furnace sky,
tail drooping in sweaty defeat:
“Where’s pumpkin spice and sweater weather?
Why is Texas still a heat-wave cheat?”
Beside him stands an armadillo,
cool as a desert stone.
He shrugs beneath his armored shell:
“Buddy, this is Texas. We own the heat zone.”
The squirrel fans his face with a wilted leaf,
dramatic as dramatic can be:
“I’m filing a fall-weather complaint!”
The armadillo sighs, “File one for me.”
The old pecan trees murmur tales at dusk,
their branches bending low with whispered lore;
a phantom rider stirs the meadow’s musk,
his shadow slipping past the ranch house door.
The bluebonnets turn their faces as if to hear
the cadence of his hoofbeats threading through the year.
Some say he guards the dreams the lost ones keep,
and walks the night so Texas souls may sleep.
July inTexas,
it’s hotter than a jalapeño
doing laps in cowboy boots~
so hot the cows are fanning themselves
with old election leaflets;
so hot the armadillos
are applying sunscreen in the shade.
But the farmers have it worst of all,
their chickens are panting in the coop~
so they’re feeding them crushed ice daily
to keep things cool and sane,
because one more scorching afternoon
and those hens will start producing
breakfast ready-made:
hard-boiled eggs straight from the nest,
no stove required.
Burrowing and Borrowing-
Starving but harvesting-
NOT quite charming but alarming-
Harming when storming-
More than a boring warning-
Performing and conforming-
Alluring the enduring-
Touring the reassuring-
Scurrying and worrying-
Working NOT twerking-
Twitching and itching-
Computer glitching when stitching-
Missing NOT dissing-
No hex
No mess
No sex
No stress
Wrestling with a nestled Texas style onion ring...
Castling the mastered haphazardly masked task...
Of a vaccinated infatuation ally rally for a new kitchen sink...
Getting pushed pass the brink by the former owner of a skating rink- because of drinking.
sun
burns wide
over long roads
wind-leaning trees
Texas
Texas Bobcat—quiet resident of nearly every county,
you move through forests, plains,
and the edges of our neighborhoods
with the ease of an animal built to belong anywhere
concealment remains.
Your coat—tawny and mottled, with faint bars and scattered spots~
mirrors the muted colors of scrub and stone.
Tufted ears lift like alert punctuation,
your short tail flicks its small, decisive signal,
and your muscular frame carries
the steady confidence of a medium-sized hunter.
While we sleep behind walls and windows,
you cross rocky ledges, wooded corridors,
and even urban green spaces with practiced silence.
Your senses read the dark for rabbits, rodents, birds~
and sometimes the bold chance of larger prey.
Unseen and adaptable, you are proof
that wildness still threads itself
through North Texas—alert, enduring,
and entirely at home.
yellow petals, lone star highs -
catching the Black-eyed Susans
with butterfly eyes
There’s no mercy in the Texas sun
There’s no favor for anyone
There’s no grace in its glare
There’s no respite from his stare
There’s no escaping the celestial fire
There’s no defying our Sol so dire
There’s no shade near deep enough
There’s no victory in being tough
There’s no mercy in the Texas sun
There’s no outrunning what can’t be outrun
There’s no eluding his scorching touch
There’s no denying it’s just too much
And summer is still a month away…
Franklins rise like brittle bones of the earth,
holding the heat in stillness,
while the desert sand drifts.
gold blooms spill down the Franklin slopes,
a sudden sunrise rooted in the earth,
desert wind brushing color into motion.
Delay, Delay, Delay, How long of a delay? 1 hour, 2 hours, 3 hours, 4 hours, 5 hours
no, not 8 hours, yes that was the delay when my Texas train did not arrive on time.
I caught the old-time blues, when my Texas train did not arrive on time.
Cry, shout and holler quietly in my heart and mind. What was I to do?
Delay, Delay, Delay How long of a Delay? 1 hour, 2 hours, 3hours, 4 hours,5hours
no, not 8 hours,yes,that was the Delay when my Texas train did not arrive on time.
What was I to do? Shout or Cry?
I caught the old time blues, when my Texas train did not arrive on time.
Texas rain arrives with its own slow truth,
slipping down from a sky that remembers everything,
touching the land like a hand on a fevered brow,
cooling what the sun has burned into silence.
Old stories rise with petrichor and scent of wet dust~
hoofbeats, wagon wheels, cattle drives, and children’s bare feet~
each droplet carries memories of this vast land,
releasing them into the open air.
When the storm finally drifts away,
the ground shimmers with secrets it never meant to share.
accompanying memoir vignetted at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/secrets_of_texas_rain_13713
blue hush spreads
over open fields~
cedar breath,
distant cows,
sun breaking through ragged clouds,
sky rinsed clean again.
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