#opossum
In day's prime, in summer's sweet eyelids,
Two lives arc, their eyes struggling to break a stare, sharing trysts through dulciloquent exchange,
After the deep blue blossoming lake. To avenge time, we sought it and drove our pupils
Down through the bluff and the green trees, limping past the arenose and albicant sands
Into it's quivering- I must say.
Hey fancy. You make me smile regularly,
I need you to know, because I don't always say so,
but if I didn't read what you write about
your interactions with life,
I'd definitely be not the half that I am of alive.
So thank you, from the perfume of my heart,
and the plastic that is my legs,
the opossum hair that makes me who I am,
and the light of my malaise.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Old Mr. ‘Possum and the Moon
Old Mr. ‘Possum is a garbageman
Who quietly works his appointed nightly rounds
Unappreciated as he tidies this
And cleans up that, all without any fuss
The other animals don’t seem to like him much
For his wobbling, waddling walk, his untidiness
His pointy nose, his all-draggledy tail
And his awkward shape like a loaf of oaf
But when he lifts his eyes to the queen of the skies
He knows that to her he is a knight in disguise
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 10:46 AM UTC
My world is measured, inch by silver inch,
I do not leap, I do not even flinch.
My home, a spiral, rides upon my back,
I travel slowly on a glistening track.
Tonight, I climbed the tallest hosta leaf,
A journey that defied all disbelief,
To watch the party from my verdant spire,
And fill my tiny heart with secret fire.
I saw the Flower-Cat, so bold and grand,
The undisputed master of the land.
He dug for treasures with a happy sound,
And spread a sense of comfort all around.
His stripe, a beacon in the moon's soft light,
A slash of white against the dark of night.
I wished I had his confidence and grace,
To feel so perfectly at home in any place.
And then the Queen, the Silver-Faced and wise,
Appeared with ancient knowledge in her eyes.
She moved as if the garden were her soul,
And knew the secret name of every vole.
Her tail, a marvel, held her in the air,
A silent anchor, free of every care.
I watched her gentle, slow, and knowing smile,
And wished that I could be that wise, for just a while.
Then, from the stars, a velvet shadow fell,
And cast a truly captivating spell.
The Sky-Puppy, a dancer in the dark,
Who bore upon his wings a joyful spark.
He spoke in clicks, he laughed a silken sound,
And saw the world while hanging upside down.
He flew! He soared! A feat I'll never know,
Confined to my deliberate path below.
They gathered there, a trio of the night,
And shared their friendship in the pale moonlight.
They spoke of things I'll never understand,
Of sky and earth and all the hidden land.
I was not jealous, only filled with awe,
That I was there to witness nature's law—
The law that states that even in the dark,
A friendship can ignite a hopeful spark.
My view, a single leaf. My speed, a crawl.
And yet, tonight, I felt I saw it all.
The grandest party, not of pomp or sound,
But of the quiet love that they had found.
And as I start my journey, slow and deep,
Down the slick leaf, while all the world's asleep,
My silver trail will shine beneath the moon,
A silent poem, a forgotten tune.
A tiny testament that I was there,
A secret that the garden lets me share.
Dec 4, 2025
Dec 4, 2025 at 11:28 AM UTC
The moon was a perfect, polished pearl, hung high in the inky sky. It was the kind of night when the world held its breath, and secrets felt safe to wander. In a quiet, sprawling backyard, behind a house where the humans slept soundly, a grand event was about to unfold. This was the night of the Annual Garden Gala, a tradition known only to a select few.
Our first guest arrived with a confident, bouncy trundle. It was Bartholomew, a Flower-Cat of distinguished stripe and exceptional fluff. He carried his invitation, a single, perfect maple leaf, which he placed ceremoniously on a flat stone before nudging it with his pink button nose. His duty done, he made a beeline for the catering section—a patch of overturned earth where the grubs were rumored to be particularly plump this year. He began his happy digging, his little paws working with intense, gourmet focus.
The second guest made no sound at all. A whisper of movement, a flicker of silver, and Penelope the Silver-Faced Snuggler was there. She had come via the "high road," her marvelous pink tail wrapped securely around a low-hanging branch of the old oak tree. She descended with the slow, deliberate grace of a queen. Penelope was the party's hostess and social chair. It was her garden, after all, and she knew every root and stone.
"Bartholomew, darling," she sighed, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "Straight to the buffet, as always. Do try to leave some for the others.
"Bartholomew looked up, a smudge of dirt on his nose. "Penelope! A fine evening for a gala! These are exquisite," he mumbled around a mouthful. "My compliments to the chef—which is the dirt, I suppose.
"Penelope smiled her slow, wise smile. "The earth provides. Now, do behave. Our guest of honor is about to arrive.
"Right on cue, a new sound joined the gentle chirping of the crickets. It was a series of tiny, high-pitched clicks and chirps from above. Bartholomew and Penelope both looked up. A dark shape detached itself from the night, swooping in a joyful, looping dance before making a perfect, whisper-soft landing, hanging upside down from the trellis arching over the rose bushes.
It was Pip, the Velvet-Winged Sky-Puppy. He blinked his bright, intelligent eyes, adjusting to the view.
"Pip! You made it!" Penelope said warmly.
"Wouldn't miss it!" Pip chirped, his voice like tiny bells. "The mosquitos by the pond were an absolute nightmare tonight, but I cleared them out for you. Think of it as my party gift."
"A true hero!" Bartholomew declared, trotting over to the trellis. He looked up at the inverted Sky-Puppy with genuine admiration. "I don't know how you do that. If I tried to hang by my tail, I'd get a head rush and need a nap for a week.
"Pip giggled, a sound like rustling silk. "It's all in the toes! You just have to relax. Speaking of which..." With a little shuffle, he reached into a fold of his wing and produced a single, perfectly ripe, wild strawberry. He dropped it neatly, and it landed on a soft patch of moss right in front of Penelope.
Penelope’s eyes widened. "Oh, Pip! You shouldn't have. This is a top-shelf berry!" She picked it up delicately and took a small, appreciative bite.
The three friends gathered in the moonlight. Bartholomew, grounded and content, shared his discovery of a particularly delicious beetle. Penelope, ever the gracious host, pointed out which night-blooming flowers had the sweetest scent. Pip, from his upside-down perch, recounted his aerial adventures, describing the world as a beautiful, dark quilt patched with lights.
They were an unlikely trio: the stoic Flower-Cat who found joy in the earth, the serene Silver-Faced Snuggler who knew the secrets of the quiet places, and the exuberant Sky-Puppy who danced with the stars. But here, in the secret safety of the midnight garden, their differences melted away. They were simply three friends, sharing a perfect moment of peace, proving that the most wonderful friendships often bloom in the most unexpected corners of the world.
Dec 4, 2025
Dec 4, 2025 at 11:24 AM UTC
You see a flash of white beneath the moon,
And think, "A giant rat has come too soon!"
You back away, you've heard the scary tales,
Of vicious teeth and long, unpleasant tails.
But clear your mind of all that silly fright,
And see the creature in a different light.
He's not a monster, not a ghoul or fiend,
He's a Silver-Faced Snuggler, a brand-new friend!
His fur is spun from moonlight, soft and deep,
A cozy cloud in which your secrets sleep.
His face, a mask of sweet and snowy white,
With ears like petals, delicate and slight.
His eyes aren't beady, they're two drops of jet,
The most soul-searching eyes you've ever met.
They gaze at you with wisdom, calm and old,
A gentle story waiting to be told.
And oh, that tail! It isn't gross or weird,
It's a prehensile marvel, engineered!
A fifth and helping hand, a perfect hook,
To steady him while he just stops to look.
He'll hang from branches, upside-down and slow,
Just watching all the little flowers grow.
He's nature's acrobat, a graceful wiz,
There is no better, pinker tail than his!
He doesn't hiss to scare you from your spot,
He's just a walking, talking teapot!
A gentle "psssst" that simply means, "Hello!
"I'm just out walking, putting on a show."
And when he's scared, he doesn't bite or claw,
He faints! He faints! And that should be a law!
He plays pretend, a drama king so grand,
The most dramatic creature in the land.
He flops right over, still as any stone,
"Alas," he cries, "Just leave me here alone!"
He is the garden's janitor and knight,
Who tidies up the messes of the night.
He eats the ticks, the slugs, the fallen fruit,
In his adorable, all-purpose fuzzy suit.
He asks for nothing but a place to be,
This tiny, helpful, shy marsupial, see?
He's full of babies! Pockets full of beans!
A walking nursery, fulfilling all your dreams!
So next you see that flash of silver fur,
Don't let your old, mistaken fears recur.
Go out and offer him a strawberry, sweet,
A tiny, juicy, much-deserved treat.
You need this hero, with his pointy nose,
To teach you how to faint and strike a pose.
A Silver-Faced Snuggler, gentle, shy, and true,
Is waiting to be understood by you!
Dec 4, 2025
Dec 4, 2025 at 11:20 AM UTC