Thursday, April 30, 2009

My Little Basil


My Little Basil

My little Basil, how I love thee. Let me count the ways!
Your little pink nose spasmodically twitches in greeting as I peer into your pink igloo.
Your ears are slightly crumpled, not quite erect, like bed-head when you wake up.
Your great yawns showing your tiny tongue and big, pointy teeth.
Your folded front paws as you stand erect on your back feet.
Your odd habit of insisting on the corners of your cage being free of shavings.
How you deliciously relish stretching your front paw and opposite back paw.
Our game that I hand you food and you store it away.
How you look like a doughnut peach when you have your cheeks stuffed to maximum capacity.
You seem to be training for a marathon--hamster ball division.
And if I could enter you in that marathon, I know you'd win.
Uncannily, you come out of your igloo and look at me, just as I'm heading to work.
Full of character, cautious, cute, quirky--my little Basil.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Excerpts From the Survival Kit

Excerpts From the Survival Kit

Toilet paper
Tolkien's books
Truffles, chocolate
Trusted friend

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Friday

Friday

NaPoWriMo's been fun fun fun.
Yay, writing poems in the sun sun sun!
Yet to Friday to I look look look,
I'll sleep 'n read a book book book.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Sleepless

Sleepless

What if they--
Or maybe I should have--
Really thought that it was--
Rather would have done--
You said, I said--

Chicken Poem #31

This was from yesterday, if you're keeping track.


Chicken Poem #31


Cooped up hens
run right back in
for cracked corn.
Treats win out over freedom.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

How Very Odd

I didn't miss a day! This is yesterday's poem, I just didn't have access to a computer last night.

How Very Odd

The chick chirps out its protest
against being hoisted,
held upside down
and having its butt wiped
indignantly.
Flapping, flaying, it struggles to free itself.
If it had its way
it's excrement would become increment
and it would die
indignantly.
How very odd it is
to fight the hand that heals
to hold the toxins in
to insist on a false dignity
to the point of death.
How very odd I am.

Friday, April 24, 2009

The Process

The Process

Tarzan swings
Grasping in air,
lands a sure grip.

Exhilaration and terror produce movement.