In celebration of Burns night 2026, the Tardy Explorers gathered and shared:
Ode to the Turkey
Curled at the foot of an ancient oak
On the slope of a wooded hill,
I wait.
For hours, I scan the edges of the trees,
Stare through the narrow tunnels of foliage into the farm field beyond
Until the layers of forest transform into strange shapes and my eyes grow tired.
Bird songs and gentle wind,
The occasional creak of a limb,
The dull, distant roar of the highway
All coax me into a pleasant daze.
A low, rhythmic thrum steps forward
To distinguish itself from
The general noise of the woods.
My uncle taught me how they will beat their wings
Like war drums, so I clumsily pinch off
A few yelps from my Quaker Boy.
The woods erupt behind me.
A resounding volley of guttural language
Peals around the trunks and off the valley walls,
Then silence returns.
Naive visions of how my adversary would emerge,
Clumsily and obviously,
At the end of the deer trail between my 10 and 12 O’clock
Swept away by the blunt realization
That I am being flanked.
A second staccato burst announces
That he is advancing
(hurdling branches, juking, rabid),
While I fall over myself moving my back
To the other side of this damn tree.
I wrack my panicked brain to remember the mechanics of
Chamberlain’s heroic wheel maneuver
At Little Round Top.
A flash of crimson through the brush
Sixty yards away,
So far to the right that my optic nerve is on the verge
Of snapping.
My heart, pounding, seems to have climbed into my throat.
My weapon feels inadequate
And unsteady in my arms.
Never have I felt more acutely observed
Than in the presence of this great beast.
A moment or an age passes
As I slouch here, shaking,
But the next outburst comes from far away,
The voice of my foe blending with the county road
As it wanders off to pursue
More interesting machinery.
The wind floats down the valley,
The electric adrenaline buzz fades away,
And leaves in its place
A shell of a man.
What hubris draws me into these woods
In pursuit of a god?
Ode to a Pissknife
Oh Mighty Pissknife, you glorious blade
you lay the freedom for the glade.
When nature calls, fury and fast
it’s you, that saves the day at last!
Held high, ye part the crowded way,
a biffy bound hero, bold and fey.
No crown nor sceptre has made more life,
than you; you bonny, bonny piss knife!
On the Carrot
The blooms of white
brought forth by spring
Beneath, a hearty taproot
Lacy and bright
with orange below;
Parsley’s massive offshoot.
Mighty carrot
colored by royals
on vegetables veranda.
Eat for better
optics spoils,
as said in propaganda.
Twa bunnies in the yard
(Chorus) Twa bunnies in the yard,
Twa bunnies in the yard,
Watching saunas heat and people’s feet,
Twa bunnies in the yard.
In the spring they came and made their home
Twa bunnies in the yard,
The yard with saunas big and warm,
Twa bunnies in the yard.
Good Peter, he watched over them,
Twa bunnies in the yard
In the mornings bright they’d talk to him
Twa bunnies in the yard.
When Summer did come, the bunnies they grew,
Twa bunnies in the yard
Eating boulevard grass and flowers few,
Twa bunnies in the yard
Watching steam rise from the saunas stoves
Twa bunnies in the yard
Funny people round with ner’ any clothes
Twa bunnies in the yard
Now winters here, it’s dark and cold
Twa bunnies in the yard
The snow is deep and the wind is bold,
Twa bunnies in the yard
The bunnies, in their warren dream
Twa bunnies in the yard
O’ the sweetest spring and summer’s green
Twa bunnies in the yard