OLD HEN AND YOUNG WEASEL


 

 HEN CLUCKS, WEASEL LISTENS

“Peck, peck, cluckery-cloo, peckery-do,”

old moulty hen self-pleased in stray grains

did coughy-cackle in aged loo

of brisk prancy preen over the plains.

Even though droppy combs, bleary eye

topped this old head pointed  far out

Old Clucky waddled a two-step, oh my!

dusted up a line dance, bend over and shout!

“Sloockely, moochely, peckety, almost youngedty”

cluckled old Henny to who she cared not,

Not minding a slow slinkety weasely minkedty,

Sniffing her tracks, whistely slurpedty in trot.

“Rude dude, you waggely weasel slink-stink,

“Cockle-peck, trottle-deck I spike thou fluff tail,

“‘Til you lie down, bow crown and blink-blink

“In trolly-holy star now fallen in hale.”

“Wriggle in shame, same slinkedty hair-tail!

“Know you not this ol’ chick out here peckedty just waiting

“Under the foretold star fall, old toll wing sweepy trail,

Means we peckies and sneakies  no owe no bail!”

“Oh, Big Mama Hennie, no more peckie, no more scratchie!

“Oh, forsooothy in my toothy, I no more drooly slinky!

“Oh, promisey measy weasy, only wriggledty matchie

“So lookey uppey, Nobley Hennie, in cluckedty blinky!”

Now Hennie and Weasie stretched up necks in gaze

So sparkly in cheer from all the choirs of ages,

So still were Hennie and Weasie they were in daze

Most peaceful, most willing good in humming stages.

Now Mama Hennie and Junior Weasie touched feet

as they marched on under new light

Lifted in joy by chorus so sweet

Forgotten was old game, no more no fight.

“Wait, wait, Mama Hennie: why we actin’ this way?

“Why we not clawin’ and slurpin’ and peckin’ and bleedin’?”

“Hushie uppie, cluckie-chuckie, we put feet in stall.

“We bow and sigh and blink at Baby indeedin.”

 

SIXTH WEEK WEDNESDAY: CONFLICT & TENSION & BALANCE CONVERED ON HARMONY


The wind and the leaves and the

rake could not agree:

Is there to be one big pile?

many small piles? drifts?

Lines, compostedness, wheelbarrows?

some stuck in white hairs?

Some chewed by Little Dog?

some helping a chipmunk’s

Winter burrowing into the cold?

some batted high by Fluffy Cat?

If the rake wants one larg pile,

the leaves float away to breathe,

The wind insisting.

When the rake plans

Oh-so-neat rows of rusty piles,

Wind sings a new song,

Dancing and sweeping away rejoicing.

When the rake scores sunset crackling

Colors into lines, leaves slump

With sadness at this disguise

And the wind is their everfast friend.

When the rake lifts up

To the wheelbarrow a slaughtered

Mass of color,

The wind is filling the air with righteous

Indignation, well-toned chiming of the hour.

Then Chipmunk, Little Dog, and Fluffy Cat

all sit together on the leaf-encrusted rake,

Looking up spiritous in unison:

“See how well we befriend the leaves,the wind;

Let us now help you with the rake.

We will join in harmony, singing to the setting sun,

The new moom, the departed wind.”

All are now balanced with the required

Tension to maintin a posture

Of Harmony.

Conflict flown with the wind to

Another earth-side, another set of actors

On this stage of Being.

THESE VERSES TRULY CENTERED ME IN READINESS FOR TODAY!

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