Ogle Inn at There-&-Back

 Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is where it’s at—

the galactic mysteries, magic, and a bit of mayhem.

If I yearn for inspiration, teleportation,

or release from my human soul,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is my habitat.

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is on the flat

between dimensions, cosmic strings, and spatial warps.

If I want to brave the flow, a black hole’s abyss,

or the next step in evolution,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back has all of that.

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is a place to chat

with Spartans, spacemen, spirits, sprites, and spidermen.

If I desire conversation, motivation,

or directions to immortality,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back gives tit for tat.

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is all of that—

it’s Limbo, Hogwarts, Xanadu, and Jurassic Park.

If I seek its location, make it a destination 

 that’ll inspire my imagination,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is where it’s at.

Living Room (a lachesis)

They say I’m wily as a fox.
I am one hiding in the phlox
Bordering a black mailbox.

Long gone are the fertile fields and wood
My parents hunted.  This is no good.

I’m forced to hunt a vast suburbs.
Instead of leaping streams, it’s curbs—
Yes me, the subject of proverbs.

But where else can I possibly go?
I cannot fly off like a crow.

Those humans work with machine speed
Bulldozing land to gorge their greed.
They never ask us what we need.

I hear a mousy squeak up there
Under the hosta.  Do I dare?

I see a chipmunk scratching seed.
I smell a road-killed skunk’s last deed.
There are so many of us in need.

Red Fox
by Jan Haffley

Misfit Bird

Fluttering frantically, circling high,
racing, chasing, going nowhere.
Lost.  Trapped.  Separated from her nest.
Lost.  Alone.  No mate to be found.
Misfit bird, what are you doing in here
inside this place where
winds are driven by fans,
sunlight suffused by glass,
concrete fouled by shoes?

Fluttering frantically, circling high,
racing, chasing, going nowhere.
Fear.  Panic.  Caged by prison walls.
Fear.  Fatigue.  Driven by needs.
Misfit bird, you cannot fly forever.
Freedom is through those doors where
winds are forged by fronts,
sunlight filtered by clouds,
concrete scrubbed by storms.

Fluttering frantically, circling high,
racing, chasing, going nowhere.
Wings.  Wings so powerful.
Wings to do what I cannot.
Misfit bird, over there is the exit.
Come, follow me.
I have learned the way
out of this manmade world
into the natural one.

Chipping Sparrows
by Jan Haffley