the squirrel

the squirrel has no shame

no writhing about for a morsel of fame

no grasping at straws meant to bolster his name

no one to disappoint, none to give any blame

the squirrel, he is free both to run and to be

from the bush to the tree, from a need to fancy

he gathers no monies, he charges no fee

he does not take notice of you or of me

the squirrel has no musings, he knows not our game

our riches, our rags, our disgrace or our fame

Geese

The goose is a proud and a serious race
though he does not wear clothes, not of denim, not of lace.
He struts about to squak and hiss, a stern look on his face
and lest you kill him where he stands he claims, "This is my place!"

Two New Poems

the fool

a sneaking suspicion of certain demise

is all that my thoughts will allow me as prize

for position most envied I run, seek, and gasp

but does this man's reach now exceed this man's grasp?

The task is yet simple, its burthens are few

but in this green temple the gold one screams, "Who?"

"Who are you, small, young man with no tales to impart?"

Just a man, answer I, with some dreams in his heart

on the road, in my hand

promise spoken on the wind

     rise up now, let me send

     regret to shut the mouth which gave you form

simply words, half untruths

     meant to silence and to choose
     a purpose truly driv'n to lose

     a bet to stifle doubt's increasing storm

promise once spoken true

     now for me, first for you

     corset-binding and surrounding like a raging, spiteful swarm

cannot breathe through the veil

     fixed as bones set in shale

     even promise can't prevail

     now let you die in vain, leave me cold, alone and warm