Squirrel dreams

If I was a tree, I would shake, shake, shake,

My stumpy, thick trunk to keep squirrels awake,

Until enough leaves fall down to form a bed,

On which they can fall and not bump their head.

Squirelling business can be exhausting

And taking a nap will help their defrosting.

I’d look over them and eat their dreams,

Dozens of delicate brown-green streams.

Quick panic dreams are like fast food,

They leave a greasy taste, fear and dread stewed.

Dreams of eating and eating some more:

Your ordinary feast that comes with a boar.

The dreams of squirrel babies sweet and short,

Oddly contain scenes straight from Agincourt.

Sometimes the dream that I’m gorging on,

Comes to a halt and then it’s just gone.

That’s when I know that one has died,

Maybe an old one couldn’t breathe on its side.

I don’t know if what I do hurts,

If it’s in the center or just the outskirts,

Of their life and if they even notice,

If it’s the leaves or the center of their lotus.

I can’t ask and I can’t know,

I’ll keep eating and eating, though.


Heart tree

There is a tree in the forest back there,

The squirrels climb up it, with utmost care,

Twice as long as with any other tree,

Go have a look if you happen to be free.

I was told it calls out to the wilds,

Reaching minds that are close to a child’s,

Beckons them close, welcoming home,

They settle there and stop their roam.

The old ones lie down next to it to sleep,

Feeding it if the dreams become deep.

It tends the garden: all the other ones,

Snipping their trunks if they grow too many tons.

It reaches out with a hand of thought,

Crushes their veins, waits for the rot.

It awaits the day when one of them grows,

Gains its sentience, learns and knows.

There will be a battle of wills of oak.

It will end in cinder and smoke.

Bear claw tree

I was on a walk and I saw a tree,

With weird fruit that attracted me.

I went closer to inspect them well,

They were brown and smelled like hell.

Shaped like a paw of a grizzly or a polar,

As fruit, I guess they’re powered by solar.

With long, thin, black things super, super sharp,

Mat, furless black that’ll go through a carp.

I looked closer and one pawed at me,

Startled I yanked my babyface free.

All of them seemed to have come to life,

A treeful of them waving, sharp as a knife.

One of them fell, I guess it was ripe.

It didn’t move and I poked it with my pipe.

My poke made a hole and jam oozed out,

It was a pastry, I had no doubt.

A bear claw tree, isn’t that wonder,

I tasted it, and it made me ponder:

“What is the filling? Tastes like vanilla.

Whatever it is, it’s one tasty filler.”

A bear claw tree almost next to my home,

I guess my sweet tooth won’t have to roam.

Impersonating a tree

I like to pretend that I am a tree,

Dropping yellow leaves on people I see.

They think it’s fall but it really is not,

The summer is still going and it’s pretty darn hot.

It makes their mind do a triple double take,

It won’t break but it might just shake.

That’s why, during the rest of the day,

Their head now travels a different way.

They might see things they normally don’t,

Might say yes when they normally won’t.

Their day might not necessarily be better,

Different, though, like getting a letter.

That’s all you sometimes might just need,

If your brain is drowning in tweed.

Do they feel dull, as everything’s the same?

Midsummer fall puts them in a new frame.

(Doing this it’s good to be sure,)

To use just leaves to help ensure,

No one’s hurt with this little trick,

It might just sting if you do it with a stick.)

Hickory trickery

Today I was tricked by a tree,

It set all my carrier pigeons free.

I had a box full of feathery friends,

It asked to hold it with its barky branch ends,

Lifted it high and opened the lid,

The sky started cooing; as if the sun hid.

Getting the box back I was a bit peeved,

With no pigeons, my cunning plan sieved.

The tree said I should really not worry,

I could still catch them if I hurry.

Just lick the bark and get way wiser;

I’m known to be no information-miser.

My tongue-tip grazed the bark quite quickly,

One hot second I was dazed and sickly.

The boughs of the tree heaved high and low,

It laughed and laughed berating me so:

“Fooled you twice you bag of meat,

Go back home, I got you beat!”

I went home on familiar tracks,

Thinking hard where I laid my axe.

This day contained deceit and tree-lickery;

I guess today’s theme is hickory trickery.

Tree mitten

I wonder who left the mitten?


Today I saw a branch. That’s pretty normal.

Wearing only a mitten, quite informal.

Had disrobed its leaves weeks ago.

And now it had started to knit or to sew.

Imagine if trees learned how to knit,

Making mittens that heat with good fit.

I would try a sock made by an elm,

Or a woolly, warm birch-made helm.

A forest that wove would be pretty useful

Just wait a night and your wardrobe’s too full.

There’s thousands of trees in one small thicket;

Child sweatshops in Thailand could go and lick it.

I have a spruce that’s faster than your kids,

It doesn’t sleep and nothing forbids,

Me from exploiting my dendro-slaves.

They’re only trees, no one cares or saves.

My only worry is the catty wool thieves

Thieving the mittens from the trees with no leaves.

Those furry felons don’t even need it to wear

Because they have fur, so they’re not bare.

Maybe they sell it to the feared mouse mob,

The one who handles this kind of job.

They, in turn, launder the clothes

And their money, who knows where it goes.

I wish the police would get off their bums,

Do 1+1 and other such sums,

Find all the clues and then get the crooks,

And leave me with my accounting books.

Very fruitful, the tree mitten trade.

I can soon afford a tree maid!

Trees’ footsteps

Taking walks is pretty fun in Autumn as well.

Autumn came and the leaves are falling.

The birches know that the winter’s calling.

When a leaf falls, there’s a soft tap.

That fun sound makes me a happy chap.

It’s like the footsteps of our branchy friends.

It’s their dance after summer finally ends.

I’m just walking with my eyes tightly closed,

Imagining a waltz, by the trees composed.

Step, step, turn, with my friend so twiggy.

A misstep here, oh well, no biggie.

I’d like to see the trees do like birds:

Move far south in great big herds.

Dancing their way to Morocco or Ghana.

Staying away for the season of Santa.

Throngs of birches with not a single leaf.

Might make you stare in superdisbelief.

Doubly so if, instead of marching,

They did a dance with jumping and arching.

I bet tourists would jump at the chance;

“Running with the trees” in the south of France.

If you get trampled, it’s pretty bad;

The sound of trees shuffling will cure the mad.

It’d be fun if this was real,

But my tree house just might keel.