“White Thing,” they call you or
Sheepsquatch on account of
your dirty, woolly hair.
genetic anomaly or just
some lumberjack’s idea of fun?
Your shriek would surely curl paint
and makes the faint of heart
immediately bolt their doors.
Don’t hear tell of human
though you’ve been spotted scarfing
mushroom tops. Magic mushrooms?
We’ll never know. You beat a
whenever anyone spots you in a glen
or sloggin’ through bayou or fen.
So you’ve got a malocclusion
nothing a vet dentist couldn’t fix.
Why don’t you let us take a few
“Selfie with Sheepsquatch”
(October 2017, Boone County, VA)—
Man, you could have the Honeymoon
in any modern zoo in any city you
Folks would pay a bundle just to
Seriously, dude. And
they’d lay on the food!
Think about it. No more
the shrubbery to root for roots and
No one tryin’ to fill yer narra
butt with lead.
Somethin’ to be said for yer urban
Temperature-controlled—or you can
indoors in winter! Pretty
girls given’ you perms…
Whaddaya say? Hop in the back
of my Dodge Ram on that blanket—
you’ve got a canopy to keep off the
You can snore to your heart’s
the canopy is cross-vented.
You’ll be comfortable. An hour or
Slam, bam, you’re in the city,
in capacious new digs. Get to
Ain’t that any Sheepsquatch fam-damily’s
Snallygasters in the Rafters
Snallygasters in the rafters!
Hoop Snakes in the hills!
Whirling Whoompasses whoopin’ ass—
especially those attached to little
Grab your blanky. Snag your
It could get chilly. Will get
Take your Star Wars sabre sword;
crawl under your down comforter.
It’s gonna be a cold winter night.
Hidebehinds got nothin’ to hide
Wood boogers are huddlin’ in caves.
All God’s chillen—even the unwillin’—are
No ‘squatches are windin’ their
No Loups Garou are slappin’ on the
to shave. Ain’t a wolf or
even the Sandman has sifted away.
What you gotta do, mon petit chou,
is take all yer heffalumps and
yer no-nose potato head dudes,
yer Transformers and Transducers …
Have a last juice, get yer guys in
brush yer teeth; have a piddle ‘n’
wipe flush, and wash up. Put out
and settle in for the night. Easy
I’ve zapped the creachas under the
evicted the closet
Sent ‘em packin’. Ain’t nothin’
or bore its way through the dark to
It’s ALL CLEAR—and waitin’ needs
to get the blankets warm, a warm
to make the right dent in the
A dream to calculate the thread
count of Nod.
You’ve got flannel jammies to do
Hop in and radiate, son. The
day is done.
Got all yer chores done and choices
It’s time to make a
chrysalis—tomorrow, a butterfly.
The Burrunjor of Australia
Deep, deep, deep into the Outback,
where few people have ever been,
I leave huge three-toed prints.
Scientists still scratch their
Some think I’m a relative of T.
maybe even a surviving therapod!
Well, why not? The coelacanth
just some boney fish fishermen off
the Comoros tossed overboard for
Think I want human hunters
traipsin’ in hordes through the
tryin’ to take me down to prove I
exist? As if!
Tell Spielberg to stick to
I ain’t interested in stompin’
the silver screen or posin’ for
Would as soon eat as greet you
Homo-sape dweebs. Burrunjor don’t
no soup du jour or salad, son.
I want giblets, hearts, heads—
Heck, I could even go for human
right about now. Or…I could eat
Cattle, camels, kangaroos—
whatever’s on the hoof is fine.
A nice fluffy lamb’d be nice...
Bein’ bipedal with wimpy arms
means I gotta clamp my jaws
around whatever’s on the platter,
But that’s fine. One strong
and I can cradle a critter in my
and eat it like a cob of corn.
Stevenson, email@example.com, of
Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada, wrote BP #88’s poems, “Sheepsquatch,” “Snallygasters in the Rafters,” and
Burrunjor of Australia” (+
BP #86’s poem quartet—“Saucer, Schmosser,” “Storsjoodjuret,” “Stronsay
Beast,” & “Teggie of Lake Bala” (+ BP #83’s poems, “El Cuero,” “La
Llorona,” “Penelope,” and “Pope Lick Monster”; BP #82’s poems, “Killer Clowns,” “Queensland Tiger,” “The Turtle
Lake Monster,” and “Vermont Pig Man”; BP #80’s
poems, “Bondegezu…”, “Donkey
Woman,” “Napes,” and “The Yeren’s Complaint”; BP #76’s poems, “Honey Island
Monster,” “Skin Walker,” and “Ucu.”) From a series called Cryptid Shindig,
these collected poems concern cryptid encounters, ET lore, or unexplained
phenomena; others have appeared in three published volumes in the series: Why
Were All the Werewolves Men? (Thistledown Press, 1994), Nothing Definite Yeti
(Ekstasis Editions, 1999), Take Me to Your Leader! (Bayeux Arts Inc., 2003),
and in a New & Selected volume called Bigfoot Boogie. Retired from a
thirty-year gig teaching English and Creative Writing at Lethbridge College,
the poet has published thirty books in that time. His most-recently
published books are haikai poetry collections: Fruit Wedge Moon (Hidden Brook
Press, 2015), The Heiligen Effect (Ekstasis Editions, 2015), Rock, Scissors, Paper: The Clifford
Olson Murders (a long poem from Dreaming Big Publications, 2017) and A Gaggle
of Geese (haiku, senryu, tanka, kyoka, zappai, and haikai sequences from Alba
Publishing in the U.K.). Other poems from the cryptid critter series have
appeared in Aphelion, The Literary Hatchet, On Spec, Liquid Imagination Online,
etc. (25+ mags so far) besides the 3 previously published collections