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Oh, small gray squirrel with paws swift and horrific,
your crimes against Christmas stir outrage mythic.
Every December, the same dang fight~
you gnaw through our twinkling strands of light.
We’ve duct-taped. We’ve sprayed. We’ve begged you to cease;
yet, you chomp with a rodent’s relentless mouthpiece.
Your tiny teeth, sharper than Scrooge’s spite,
leave our lawn a dark, half-lit blight.
Next year, we’ll rig traps large and unbenign
or string the lights with razor wire design.
But deep down we know—you’ll win this war,
one chewed-up bulb at a time, you anarchic piece of forest lore.
The Cloak
The cloak of darkness gathers ancient woes
from yesterdays, unveiling broken dreams.
Reality now threadbare, heaven knows
each day a silhouette with altered seams.
Emotion’s ragged pockets lost in years,
a masquerade of changes, pain’s design
with patches intertwined amongst the fears
of voyage weaving shadows unbenign.
Though darkened, tattered edges filled mirage
while fickle time continued dancing thread,
that haunted past in vivid decoupage
became too small to wear when angels led.
Today, the cloak remains within the chest
where feathered, treasured moments came to rest.
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