This is the saga of Veronica Vole
Who committed the perfect crime.
She murdered three lovers,
But not all at once,
She did 'em in one at a time.
The first was a lemur,
A two-timing schemer,
Who seduced all thirteen of her nieces.
Every female enticed him,
So she sliced him and diced him,
Then stir-fried and ate all the pieces.
The second, a lobster,
Was also a mobster
Who threatened her once with a putter.
So she got him alone,
Then boiled him well done,
And had him for lunch with drawn butter.
The third was a vulture,
Devoid of all culture,
Whose name, she remembers, was Vince.
He was planning to eat her
After he bet her,
So she tased him in self-defense.
In a big pot she tucked him,
Then scalded and plucked him
And served him "en casserole"
To her fourth beau, a critter,
Who'll make a good fritter,
She thinks as she spoons out his food.
'cause though she doesn't tend
To have good taste in men,
She does tend to like men who taste good.
Ms. Vole is not a siren or a femme fatale,
The kind of dame who'd tell a guy to take a hike.
At heart she is simply a sweet-natured gal
Who never met a man she didn't like.
Categories:
vole, animal, humor,
Form: Light Verse
At harvest time
Where a white ghost flies
Across a blood red moon
Behind the fields the rolling hills
Are purple, pink and blue
Over a dreaming wheat field
A barn owl patrols
Noiselessly it glides
Over the golden yellow drifts
Suddenly, it flaps its wings
And stares down intently
Below on the soil a startled vole
Sees a white star fall
A squeak and the owl is gone
And with it the limp vole.
Categories:
vole, animal, bird, death, environment,
Form: Free verse
Maples were first at letting down their leaves they always go first actually.
Sycamore and oak were a day later; both let them go satisfactorily.
Their crispy waiting autumn leaves had been ripe for more than a little while,
But if they did not let maple go first, there would be a frown, not a smile.
Colorful eager leaves cascaded, sprinkled, floated, twisted, danced, and swirled.
They were like exotic Romanian scarf dancers with bound legs unfurled.
The pumpkins and squash sat rolling their jealous uncaring eyes.
They were always in perpetual grumpy moods. No big surprise!
A spider began making her way toward the barn gate.
The knowing farmer tried to stop her, but he was too late.
Her intricate web was already up, as fancy as any lace cloth.
A delicate piece of pure danger for any insect she caught.
From the house wafted delicious pumpkin spice and cinnamon smells
Perky pink nose from leaf pile turned west as by magic spells.
Vole friend warned the mouse, I would not go in there. No way.
The cat had an early lunch, and the mouse learned the hard way.
Written 9-9-2020
Contest Autumn Fall Rhyme Challenge
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Categories:
vole, autumn,
Form: Rhyme
Poor dead thing.
A mole some said.
Ugly for sure.
A vole others agreed.
The only thing we agreed on was that it was dead.
Poor dead whatever.
No funeral.
No service.
No words.
Just a hole dug in the earth
And a decaying body.
I wondered as I was digging
What else I would discover.
Hoping if I did it would not be human.
I have no idea what I would do about that.
A vole someone argued.
I rolled my eyes.
What did it matter?
It is not like we were going to be singing a song.
Or saying a prayer.
Or giving it last rites.
Too late for that.
I ignored them all and kept digging.
Hoping to find nothing….
Categories:
vole, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form: Free verse
The mole and the vole, went out for a stroll
For the moon was all shiny and bright.
Happily chatting, unaware of the flapping
As the incredulous owl now took flight.
Too late they saw the oncoming claw
So enraptured they were by the moon,
The mole and the vole, poor little souls.
Their demise, it came all too soon.
Categories:
vole, animal, children,
Form: Rhyme
Un oiseau a volé
Je rêve
La fleur rêve
Rêves qui tombent du ciel
Amer est le miel
Toutes les fleurs se sont noyées sous la pluie
Moi, je ne sais pas qui je suis
Sauf que j’ai été perdu toute ma vie
Mort ou vivant
Tous les rêves ont disparu
Même toi
Categories:
vole, poetry, sad,
Form: I do not know?