The Rat Under Our Deck (Sonnet)

Alas, there is a rat under our deck

Who tortures and teases our canine crew.

We wish that rat would take a nice long trek.

I tried to scare him off by yelling, “Shoo!!”

See, here is my quandary, I will not kill.

No glue trap, no poison, no quick-snap-trap.

Of this ratty rodent I’ve had my fill.

I’m tired of cleaning up this rat crap!

A catch and release trap, now there’s a plan!

Who could resist yummy peanut butter?

But he snuck the peanut butter and ran!

The trap did not trip, it makes me shudder.

I will prevail, reset the trap in hope,

Until that trap trips, I’ll just have to mope.

An Old Dog’s Tale

Let me recount an old dog’s tale.

Once a beloved companion,

when suddenly dog’s best friend passed.

Bewildered canine imploring,

now without an owner is lost,

his former life now put on pause.

Similar fates for many paws.

Wagging has turned to droopy tails.

A dog whose old days have been lost,

without a human companion.

Now they wait caged, now imploring.

Strangers staring then walking past.

Wishing they could bring back the past,

Rawhide, nylon leash, muddy paws.

No fun, no hope while in mourning.

Good memories weave quite a tale.

Here, I’m gone with no companion,

without a flock of sheep is lost

Kind people say all is not lost.

Yet they still continue to pass

my cage. Give no companionship.

I wait by the cage door. My paws

wait to touch ground with a new tale.

So I can go out exploring.

With me life will not be boring.

When you first left, I was so lost.

Between my legs, I left my tail.

I sat waiting for this to pass,

as the grey fur covered my paws.

Here I wait to run, companion.

I’ll leave here as your companion.

But I’ll still spend time imploring,

inside your home, to place my paws,

and never feel as though I’m lost.

Until all of my time has passed,

and once again I’ll wag my tail.

As companions we’ll start new tales,

passing, walking, not in mourning,

not lost, my paws will know the way.

As Chad Changes

As the rainfall slows, so do the people
a new birth of land, means the death of time

Within their system, our selfish lives block
out the chance of light, no fog or moisture

The clouds hanging there, which we tend to fear
bring life to the lake, and hope to their town

Everyday means work, sorry, day of rest
we have work to do, we want to exist

We’re trying to scream, but there is no time
for to stop and yell, means a loss too vast

Each will carry on, each will stumble on

Recebba’s Perspective

Curtains block out the world, providing focus

Remotes control who experiences time

Glasses change your perspective

Pens bleed out their dying words

Coffee forces motivation

I’m sorry to say, it happens.

The wind screamed, making the trees plead for mercy

while everything man had created tumbled back to the earth.

As the walls were torn down and the towers destroyed, our traditions were as well.

Forced to leap from our usual heights.

But while hidden from the storm, we were cursed to also avoid any trace or response.

Their reaction never reached us, our fate left to cower in the dark

whilst clinging to our sanity through repeated tales of who we are.

Past lives before ours told fluently, without a word of a lie;

 through the terror, the world made us honest.

Once discovered by the frost, we had to flee again.

Forced towards the edge, such a new and bothersome concept.

On our trail, survivors have collapsed,

 and our only remaining morals were used to drag them through this cold, sick war.

We needed outside forces, without them, souls were lost,

but a lack of help from the unaffected meant that death tolls were beyond us.

Maybe if we were “your people”  our struggle would have deemed importance.