The Christmas Squirrel
©2012 Susan Noyes Anderson (poem only)
Photo by Robin Lyon on Unsplash
Beware the charming Christmas squirrel.
He gathers nuts and such.
His look is soft and fluffy, but
don’t trust the rogue too much.
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Photo by Robin Lyon on Unsplash
Beware the charming Christmas squirrel.
He gathers nuts and such.
His look is soft and fluffy, but
don’t trust the rogue too much.
“Italian wedding soup,” she said.
It sounded such a treat.
I’d married her one year ago;
my bliss was quite complete.
I love you like the ocean’s roar.
In fact, I love you even more.
Yes, every stupifying snore.
I love the wind between your lips.
Your exhale doesn’t sigh; it rips.
(The breeze it blows could sink warships.)
Greet the one all creation adores,
crowned the goad-ess of weddings and wars.
She is immortallized
as a feast for men’s eyes,
but she’ll not let them get in her drawers!
Whenever I’m in search of feed,
a deviled egg is all I need.
This worries me, because I fear
it’s angeled eggs I should revere.
A happy birthday to myself!
I just turned sixty-one.
I’d like to say that things are great
and getting old is fun.
My kitchen is perched between heaven and hell,
but it leans in the latter direction.
The dishes I’m cooking are don’t ask, don’t tell
with abstaining the only protection.
My favorite teacher told me in my youth:
“You’ll always be a leader; that’s your truth.”
This left me feeling special, even proud.
I’d often thought the same, though not out loud.