Hunter K Oct 2014

Chipmunk, Chipmunk,
Where could you be?
Maybe in this pretty little tree?
I wish to meet you,
And become your friend.
Maybe I could crush to your little head.
Just promise me you won't scream,
If your blood travels downstream.
So come out little Chipmunk,
If you dare.
Ill be waiting,
Right here,
I sware.

have you  seen the chipmunk climbing up a tree
with  his stripey coat as fast as fast can be
looking for his food a nut than he can chew
with his chipmunk teeth so he can bite through
jumping branch to branch an acrobat his he
a creature of the forest and a life so free
he has big long tail and stripes along his back
running up and down along the forest track
living in a burrow in the ground so deep
this where he goes when its time to sleep

have you  seen the chipmunk climbing up a tree
with  his stripey coat as fast as fast can be.

looking for his food a nut than he can chew
with his chipmunk teeth so he can bite through.

jumping branch to branch an acrobat his he
a creature of the forest with a life so free.

he has big long tail and stripes along his back
running up and down along the forest track.

living in a burrow in the ground so deep
this where he goes when its time to sleep.

TM Wood Apr 2014

Like a chipmunk, my cheeks are stuffed
with chunks of you, little acorns
I’ve stashed and hoarded, clung to,
planted praying for fruit.

If (once) our bodies collide
like two stars sucking in one another,
I will trace your freckles, your scars,
your every limbs' meanderings,
with the gifts that have slipped from your lips,
glimpses of the gears
that keep you crunching.

You love books with rough pages,
thick fabric you can touch with fingertips calloused
and still feel the words beating blood on the page.

For the Chipmunk in My Yard
By Robert Gibb
I think he knows I’m alive, having come down
The three steps of the back porch
And given me a good once over. All afternoon
He’s been moving back and forth,
Gathering odd bits of walnut shells and twigs,
While all about him the great fields tumble
To the blades of the thresher. He’s lucky
To be where he is, wild with all that happens.
He’s lucky he’s not one of the shadows
Living in the blond heart of the wheat.
This autumn when trees bolt, dark with the fires
Of starlight, he’ll curl among their roots,
Wanting nothing but the slow burn of matter
On which he fastens like a small, brown flame.

From What the Heart Can Bear by Robert Gibb. Poem copyright ©2009 by Robert Gibb. Reprinted by permission of the author and Autumn House Press.
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Lucey Snyder Jan 2010

Owl listened to Goose's secrets
Fishy could always use a smile
Duckie flew into many a dream
Cat lurked when the sun was high
Bear always gave the best hugs
Giraffe knew the summer's joys
Chipmunk shared in equal annoyances
Yet, Goose befriended them all

Owl was wise
Fishy was mellow
Duckie was comforting
Cat was kind
Bear was understanding
Giraffe was a laugh
Chipmunk was encouraging
And Goose loved them all

Duckie, Cat, Bear and Giraffe all
frequent the same little niche
Fishy swims down the street
from Chipmunk's tree
Owl and Goose fly in similar circles

And where would each be,
without the other
Our animal friends,
Or one another

mybarefootdrive Apr 2014

You liked him before he grew
that innocent chipmunk face
totally oblivious to all that lay ahead.
When a cuddle needn't linger.
And hands failed to wander.
The female form
A place of solace and warmth.
Before puberty struck-
Before his actions were led
with the piece of flesh that swung between his legs.

These same actions warranted grave discussions.
Whereby women would spur other women
to eye him with disapproval.
Yet happily delivering mixed signals
intently holding his gaze.  
It's a woman's prerogative
to remain mysterious.
He soon learnt.
This would take precedence.

There would be no easy answers or finds.

It started with self control.
It ended with self control.

Martin Prado Jul 2014


the river
like sun white
horses galloping,
shimmering, glistening

the gallop a harmony
of cacophony
to my listening eyes

what an idyllic
                           sky pink-azure
bringing excellence to rest.
tomorrow the white river
horses will fly like jazz
to my listening eyes


half stuttered premonitions ease
at sight of indigo accented flowers.
                  in goat land, clouds turn
                  to white wisps of doves.
the mountain
                                   with us
a chipmunk at the summit
makes waves through the landscape
dancing like a tambourine

wishes and hopes curl
around my face enveloping
me in Washington air

I see you looking at the chipmunk
and smile like

          really nice,
          really really


Arson Nick Sep 2013

With heavy sigh
A single leaf falls
The first I've caught in the act

It slides down my right shoulder
Kissing my skin with parched lips
'Save me,'
It whispers
I sing

A single, skittering chipmunk
Bounds across the soggy banks
Of Lake Fred
Unafraid and nearly near enough to touch
But keenly and instinctually aware
Of my innate barbarism
He keeps his distance

"Did you see that?"
I call to him
Pointing to the crumpled leaf beside me
"Summer is dying."

The chipmunk stops
Cranes its neck and twitches its whiskers in consideration
And replies
'Of course it is,
What else would it do?'

stéphane noir Dec 2013

Billy got a shovel.
Chipmunk sat on his shoulder.
They wandered away from town,
away from the businesses and restaurants,
far from the counting and court houses,
past the auto service stations,
until even the roads were gone.

Chipmunk said, Stop here.
"This spot looks good?" Billy asked.
The ground is soft.
"It's too soft. It won't do."
Billy stamped his foot down onto the flesh of the earth
and his brand-spanking-new boots caked themselves in mud.
"No no, this won't do."
We're far enough, now. You can dig here.
So, Billy dug.

At first the digging was easy
and shovelful after shovelful flew behind them both.
Then, Bill struck a pipe
and clean water geysered straight up for a hundred and fifty feet in the air
and splashed down all around them, but they were in the eye of it
so neither of them got wet, and Chipmunk hated water.
"Not the place- I told you."

Three and a half miles later, the pair stopped for a slice of rhubarb pie they brought with them.
What time do you have?
"I don't have a watch."
I bet it's forty minutes past the hour. And this place looks perfect.
Billy sunk his shovel into the ground, again.
He dug and dug and dug and dug and dug
[and eventually found an old brass sheriff's star, which he discarded,
but not before Chipmunk sunk teeth into it and deemed it to be
"antique-trash that belongs next to a green glass Coke bottle and a dirty skull"]
and dug and dug and dug and dug and dug and-


One more shovelful and we'll be in Colorado,
and we'll never make it back from that cold.

"What should I do?"
Put down the shovel, Billy Boy.

People had started to gather
because a tabloid published
a picture of Billy shirtless,
[he gets sweaty while digging],
and they wanted to know what
all the fuss was about.
So, Chipmunk got a hold of a megaphone
and addressed the seemingly-ever-increasing crowd:

If a wild beast sleeps under a poisoned tree,
and all night the tree poisons the thoughts of the dreamer,
do you blame the beast or the tree when the dreams come true?

Nobody answered.
If your heart is held together by very tight stitches,
and one of those stitches starts coming loose, and you feel it,
will a cold glass of cognac, and a warm hand to hold put it back together?

The crowd was dead silent.
An elderly man in the back stroked a long white beard
and a child standing next to him looked up at him stroking his beard
and the mother of that child looked down at the child looking at the man
and the light struck her glasses just so that the stars saw her light years away

and nobody noticed Billy, eyes closed at the bottom of the pit.

sara May 2013

i like to look in the mirror
and dissect the person staring back
until features are just jagged lines
and stolen shapes
protruding chin
witchy nose
curved into a long slope
a beard of pimples
surrounding small lips
and a mustache to strike envy into any man
caterpillar eyebrows
darker than the hair on my head
which is dry and flat and falls into my face
chipmunk cheeks
practically falling out of wide cheekbones
long legs
too skinny
knobby knees
hairy white tree trunks
that i suppose pass for legs
spider fingers
no curves
just a pale board
with eyes and skin covered in mold
and red
always red
always tears
society's worst fear stares back at me
my own words
i say them to myself now
i see your point

i wrote this on the back of my math homework and then forgot about it
but listen to me now
if you're reading this
you're fucking beautiful
don't let anybody ever tell you otherwise
and if they try to tell you otherwise
eat them.
Scary Teen Jun 2014

my cat curled into my lap then brought a
chipmunk into the house and I
had to lure him outside with
treats and he dropped the chipmunk and
it lived

I went casual hoping you'd
drop by because I felt
lonely and I wanted an
adventure but you
don't even know where I live so
I put on dark eye shadow and
winged eye liner
now if you come
by I'll look like a slut

good good

I went walking and it started to rain and
the wind blew your image into my
mind and I swear to god you were
talking to me and I
started to cry

licorrrriiceee maaaaakees meeee bloooaateddddddddddd



If ever there was a time to stop breathing I chose a clearing at dawn.
A deer appeared right as the gleam of the sun touched the top of the forest line.  
I heard a chipmunk scurrying across the oak roots rising from the ground.
A cardinal group begins to sing in the distance--as their sounds reaches me,  I realized I have been distracted and turn my attention back to the fourteen point, white-tailed buck in the clearing.
I slowly lift my weapon.
I set my aim,  positioning the cross (in the scope) at the shoulder of this magnificent creature, and I catch my breath.
The situation itself is far beyond a man simply taking the life of an animal--exceeds   the thrill of a firing pin striking, creating an explosion that builds pressure, sending a six centimeter long,  one and a half centimeter wide copper-coated bullet through the rifling pattern and into a target one hundred and fifty yards away.
I believe that Destiny brought us together based on the choices we both made.
I can only guess the animal's intentions (running away from a predator, looking for a mate, etc)
Myself?  I am here because I argued with my wife of 25 years.
The deer drops to the ground.
We all make choices.

I am not a hunter!!!  I just wanted to try writing from a different perspective!
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