Eulogy for a Chipmunk

I saw you dying in the garden bed

you were not your frisky little self

hurry quick under the deck

cheeks puffed out with bird seed

I called you Chippy when I saw you

childhood joy of seeing a chipmunk


I buried you under the rhododendron

where other pets are now bones

you were my wild one

who came unannounced

wanting food


I was sad when Chippy died

but yesterday I saw three more



open mike at dVerse



Eulogy for a Chipmunk


It’s a mole

It’s a mole

come and see him

make a hole


Where once the lush

green grass was flowing

now he makes it

hard for mowing


It’s a mole

It’s a mole

piles the earth

and moves the soil


See the brown ground

pushing upward

with every mound

he serves his hunger


It’s a mole

It’s a mole

watch him moving

towards the knoll


Down below

he tunnels further

if he keeps going

he’ll find some petro


It’s a mole

It’s a mole

both day and night

come see him toil


I count the piles

there’s twenty three

if it’s up to me

I’d stop the mole


It’s not a mole

It’s not a mole

after some thought

perhaps it’s a vole



NaPoWriMo prompt – repetition




Me and a Tree

what’s a tree to me

something to climb

or hang from

to see a bird in

hide from another

or take a branch

and run some


what’s a tree to me

watch the sun shine

through in the morning

that bee hives hang from

a high wind could bend it

or crack the wood

when a storm come


that’s what a tree is to me



a prompt from toads – back to childhood



Me and a Tree

To Find the Shore

Lake Wapello was a place we would go in the Iowa summers.
I lean out of the rowboat into a field of water lilies all in
white bloom, so thick that the vessel made a trail behind.
My father rowed, split the blossoms and stems with his
bladed oar. The sound of wood and water the only voices.
We were cut through and found the shore as every lily moved
back to its perfect creation.

Memory of a time
One stroke after another
To find the shore

a memory haibun

To Find the Shore


Come in from the garden

through the back door

a few steps up

there is grandmother’s kitchen

big room with a huge farmhouse

table and there she

kneads dough

her loose white skin

moving with each punch

Some loaves are already in the oven

the yeasty smell fills the house

baked in the old gas oven

until grandmother knows

exactly when to take it out

slices and serves with strawberry jam

to waiting grandchildren