the rabbits

rabbit watercolor sc

says an orange cat
one clear June day
the clover is sweet
do you want to play?

I do says a rabbit
me too! say two
but one little rabbit
from the burrow below
squeaks no!

why not? says the cat
twitching his tail
together we’ll go
where the crisp carrots grow

yes! says a rabbit
oh let’s! say two
but one little rabbit
from the burrow below
squeaks no!

you lie! says the rabbit
we’ll die if we go!
you’ll greet us with teeth
and eat us I know!

don’t go! chirp the sparrows
who agree from the trees
those sharp pointy teeth!
to him you’ll be meat
we know!

but says a rabbit
carrots! say two
we’re so very hungry
what harm could it do?

no harm purrs the cat
I’m no beast of that ilk
my round belly is full
with the farmer’s sweet milk
come go!

up goes a rabbit
close followed by two
at last! grins the cat
no carrots for you!

egad! cry the sparrows
as the cat shakes the brake
sweet tender rabbits
are much better than cake
oh no!

eep! says a rabbit
we’re done! say two
and from way down in the burrow
tucked safely below
one rabbit says
I told you so!

© Sarah Whiteley

Originally posted in 2010. Had a blast with the little rabbit watercolor and then remembered I’d written something about rabbits a few years back. Hopefully this little guy survived that nasty cat!

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The Dictionary Fairy

at night while I lie sleeping
tucked quietly in bed
his tiny feet come creeping
as quiet as the dead

he’s a wingéd little being
smaller than a mouse
he sneaks with no one seeing
through the darkened house

his little wings are dusty
like the books he holds
his breath’s a little musty
and reeks of damp and mold

the Dictionary Fairy
creeps across my bed
and whispers rather scary
things into my head

your vocabulary’s awful,
he hisses in my ear
they ought to be unlawful,
those words that you revere

you sound just like a nitwit
when you say “aiight”
nothing but a dimwit
when you say “that’s tight”

“wicked” means bad morals
and isn’t something “cool”
you’re an insult to the laurels
of your most esteeméd school

what’s become of decent grammar?
have we seen its sad demise?
crushed beneath the hammer
of listening to “yous guys”

then the Dictionary Fairy
opening up his tome,
reads words like “ablutionary”
and “heterochromosome”

all night the wee fiend chatters
foul words into my ears
as if it really matters
if high school takes eight years

© Sarah Whiteley

A re-post from 2011. Attempting to get myself into the mood to write another humorous piece – I have such fun with them once I get into it!

mermaid hair

you have mermaid hair,
as he pours my coffee
and the scent of salt and sea
surprises earthy café
as if just now
I recall the slide
into the quiet cool beneath
the languid lying
amidst the silver flashes
of fishes, the surge and sway
of sea and kelp and calm
the forgotten fins
and hidden dens
in the deepest corners
of deep blue bays
I feel the float
and drift
and the measure
of time in the tides
just as surely
as if I’d never
slipped to shore

© Sarah Whiteley

The Dictionary Fairy

at night while I lie sleeping
tucked quietly in bed
his tiny feet come creeping
as quiet as the dead

he’s a wingéd little being
smaller than a mouse
he sneaks with no one seeing
through the darkened house

his little wings are dusty
like the books he holds
his breath’s a little musty
and reeks of damp and mold

the Dictionary Fairy
creeps across my bed
and whispers rather scary
things into my head

your vocabulary’s awful,
he hisses in my ear
they ought to be unlawful,
those words that you revere

you sound just like a nitwit
when you say “aiight”
nothing but a dimwit
when you say “that’s tight”

“wicked” means bad morals
and isn’t something “cool”
you’re an insult to the laurels
of your most esteeméd school

what’s become of decent grammar?
have we seen its sad demise?
crushed beneath the hammer
of listening to “yous guys”

then the Dictionary Fairy
opening up his tome,
reads words like “ablutionary”
and “heterochromosome”

all night the wee fiend chatters
foul words into my ears
as if it really matters
if high school takes eight years

© Sarah Whiteley