TIGER THE SQUIRREL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a golf-loving squirrel named Tiger
In a golf cart, he was never a rider.
He chipped acorns with flair
Through the crisp autumn air
Sinking putts while his tail waved ever higher!
At Augusta he drove from the tee with a crack
Sending pinecones far down the fairway track
With one paw on his hip
He'd adjust for the slip
Of wet leaves—never missing a shot back!
His hole-in-one made the ‘woods’ cheer
As blue jays swooped down to draw near
With his green jacket Tiger bowed, twitching his nose
He practiced from dawn till night, for his fame arose.
Tiger, the Masters golf champion all creatures did revere!
Are you listening out in Wood-wood' in Balranald do you hear in the Hunter and
Newcastle all round Maitland ix it clear?
From Jamestown, in Burra-Burra and from
Port Augusta too will they stand? speak
Out? Unite..Just do whats right, its time for such to do.' In Wonthaggi and Killarny
Ballarat and Bendigo, across to Geelong town
Get out be strong 'for that is what best' the Aussies do' in Geraldton and Bunbury past Perth and
Up to Broome, at Hobatt Emerald and Coolgardie be
No longer fooled.' In Forbes and Parkes and
Dubbo, in and Coleraine, Kiama too; Crookwell and
Coffs Harbour Australia calls to you.' If
You are asleep in Tumut, awaken' ask A man Johnny
Larter, our everyday Hero just whats on.' Then tell all your mates too.' in
Yass and also Wagga.' I'm sure they'll come along.'
And in coming then will realise, that mateship
Is key; is strong ' let your flags fly high till 'bye and
Bye' you are heard and your villans fall, once again all your women and man will be free, Now will you respond..To your nations call.'
I'm a small street,
big street,
narrow,
wide...
down street,
top street...
Important,
imposing,
left,
right...
Street of the dream, street of suffering,
streets of the lost
whores...
Rua do Sol
at noon,
moon street
at night...
abandoned dirty street
kid lying on the sidewalk,
intriguing dark street
robber...dangerous street...
river street,
beach street
passers-by street
passersby
hurried
elegant...
Augusta Street,
Florida...Fifity
Avenue...
Avenue, Gasse
alley without teeth
Old Town...
street of creatures
night, lovers...
Car streets and
of coaches...streets
parallel walkways
fashion...
street from anywhere
streets that lead
to failure or to
success...street
of people who live
in it and of those
pass her...
shopping street,
fairs, circuses...
Street of Memories and
forgetfulness...
Street, street...!
Entombed in the winter
to burst forth in April;
their petals bear shadows
of crosses and nails.
Some think Augusta;
I image Golgatha:
bread of life broken
and all that entails.
Gloried reminder of
what comes right after,
the dogwoods in springtime
burst into full bloom.
Moriah spared Isaac,
rejoicing with laughter,
Abraham’s seed springs forth,
prepares a room.
The house on a hill
Augusta to Atlanta
Aim is to build men
Year 1867
Forever, Dear Old Morehouse
Bestow on me an incorrect
3 leafed clover ephigy of
buttercup due early spring May
With I meandering through a maze
of cotton wool field lost
Trying best to avert the gaze of
the virile bull's with Horn's poised
Whilst listening to the joy of piercing
ringing mandolin string's and trooping
drum's in both left and right ear's on
my head
Eminating from the Yee Grand Old
Antebellum Plantation guard house
Adorned with a lushious overhanging
archway on either side of it's giant's
causeway
If you dare imagine with Jacaranda Blue
and Cherry blossom infused on a sunset
pink hue nude muse
Instantaneously ushering forth a vision
of Scarlett O'Hara vivacious locks
Gone with the wind like a kite upon a
hazy shimmering warm summer up draft
Augusta Georgia R.E.M night-swimming
aftermath
Lord Byron poet extraordinaire
lived life& loved sans a care
His daughter Augusta Ada King
programming Babbage Engines was her thing
A story about my Sylvester,
Should yield a booster,
Every honest sentence defying a duster
His preferred designation, “A father” not Master.
Thirty-five years in an office
That smelt of telephone and letter
But he wouldn’t telephone the police,
Relationships patching up for better
My own Sylvester
Never bowed to any harvester,
Himself, a green finger,
Whose farm jobs didn’t linger.
My own Sylvester
Would rather he chose polyester
In lieu of Esther
Or Augusta,
The unlikeliest womanizer
And as unlikelier rabble rouser.
My own Sylvester
Would’ve accepted a multitude’s lord
And just ended up a landlord,
Which little dropped him he might hoard
For infrequently paid rent
By tenants, on money matters, no Gent.
My own Sylvester
Had sought to be a star
But rather won its scar,
Which one could still celebrate in a bar
Over his uncertainty I pine
On his being nearly Eighty Nine.
Sorry for losing your wife twenty four years ago
On 19th Nov. 1997, letting go.
I'm a small street,
a big street,
narrow,
wide ...
Street,
top street ...
Important,
imposing,
left,
right ...
Street of the dream, street suffered,
streets of the lost
prostitutes ...
Rua do Sol
at noon,
Moon Street
in the evening...
Abandoned dirty street
chit lying on the sidewalk,
intriguing gloomy street
burglar ... dangerous street ...
Street,
beach street
passers-by street
wanderers
hurried
elegant ...
Augusta Street,
Florida ... Farm
Avenue...
Avenue, Gasse
toothless alley
Vilha Velha ...
Street of the creatures
night lovers ...
Streets of cars and
of coaches ... streets
parallel, walkways
of fashion ...
Street from anywhere
streets that lead
to failure or to
success ... street
of people who live
in it and those
go through it ...
Street of shops,
fairs, circuses ...
Street of souvenirs and
forgetfulness...
Street, street ...!
She survived the attack
Of the turpentine man
When she was just a kid
He had her pinned
To the ground
She ends up in shock
But it was a hoax
From a young adult
Trying to stop
After school fights
As a teen
She met and danced
With the legendary
James Brown at a
Social event in Augusta, Georgia
As an adult
She marched with Hosea Williams
Head of a civil rights group
She was sprayed with water
And had to run away
From vicious dogs
Years later she met
The lead singer of
R&B group called Brick
And took pictures with
Jimmy Lord Brown
My mom is my hero
earth
peace
give it a chance
tie-dye t-shirts
modern dance
macrame
and beaded chokers
woodstock
and pot smokers
flower power
zpg
alfalfa sprouts
herbal tea
burning draft cards
American flags
Vietnam bodies
coming home in bags
Kent
Augusta
Jackson state
Detroit Black Panthers
waking up too late
Oh Angela
Oh Beatles
Oh Martin Luther King
gratitude to all of you
for this special thing
Mare Nostrum
On the coast of Augusta, in Cecilia this wonderful sea,
the bluest of turquoise, transparent and I saw fish play.
Blood and bloated corpses have made the sea less pretty
and fish nibbles on cadavers of those who tried to cross
the sea to escape the lunacy we created in Libya.
A president short of stature but with inflated ego plus
philosopher idiot, two men were responsible this disaster
of a war just to get rid of a dictator one of them had lent
money of the other who should not be left out of his confine
of academia, he should have in hidden in a university writing
books only historians take a passing interest in.
As it is the impossible vain man get feted, all because he is
an intellectual and wears a velvet jacket and clean collars.
My old Mafia friend Thomas the knife, has invited me to
Augusta, I will go there but not swim the hazy sea, but we
will eat langouste, drink child wine and talk about the days
when philosophers and presidents left us alone to kill only
when needed and never the innocent.
I knew it was going to happen,
it was preordained,
so went in my living room,
the furniture I rearranged,
tried a new italian recipe,
on my kitchen range,
hopped on the bathroom scale,
worried about weight gain,
wonder if I'll ever have to walk,
using a cane,
have to start working out again,
to Richard Simmons
and Jack Lalane,
will I start to drive,
like the little old lady
from Pasadena,
with all that road rage,
and get so hot
from the hot flashes,
have to move to Augusta, Maine,
and by the way,
don't you think
they should call it
womenopause for a change?
Mare Nostrum
On the coast of Augusta, in Cecilia this wonderful sea,
the bluest of turquoise, transparent and I saw fish play.
Blood and bloated corpses have made the sea less pretty
and fish nibbles on cadavers of those who tried to cross
the sea to escape the lunacy we created in Libya.
A president short of stature but with inflated ego plus
philosopher idiot, two men were responsible this disaster
of a war just to get rid of a dictator one of them had lent
money of the other who should not be left out of his confine
of academia, he should have in hidden in a university writing
books only historians take a passing interest in.
As it is the impossible vain man get feted, all because he is
an intellectual and wears a velvet jacket and clean collars.
My old Mafia friend Thomas the knife, has invited me to
Augusta, I will go there but not swim the hazy sea, but we
will eat langouste, drink child wine and talk about the days
when philosophers and presidents left us alone to kill only
when needed and never the innocent.
BY LISA AUGUSTA (LADYOFHORROR380)
ALWAYS MIND BOGGLING WITH WHAT I WILL LAY ON OLD TREE.
UNLIMITED ARE MY THOUGHTS FROM A MIND OF CREATIVITY.
THE WAY I MOVE MY PEN AND HOW MUCH THE DARKEST INK FLOWS.
HEAVEN ON LY KNOWS AND WITH MY KNOWLEDGE OF POETRY WILL SHOW.
EVEN THE HEAVIEST THOUGHTS CROSS MY MIND BUT I AM READY FOR THE CHALLENGE.
NOW TOTAL ADDICTION I HAVE FROM THE POISONS OF A WRITERS EMPTY PEN.
TIMELESS IS THE WRITERS THOUGHTS AND ALL OF THE IDEAS ARE INFINITY.
I MUST KEEP EXPRESSING MY MANUSCRIPTS SO I DO SO DAILY AND NIGHTLY.
CAREFULLY JOTTING DOWN DRAFTS UNTIL I AM SATISFIED COMPLETELY.
MAKING ART WITH WORDS IS THE GOAL AND HAS ALWAYS BEEN INSIDE OF ME.
YOUNG AT HEART AND BODY I CONTINUE TO BE WHILE POEMS/BOOKS I INK.
WORTHY OF RESPECT AND THE MANY COMPLIMENTS FROM WHAT OTHERS THINK.
ORGANIZED I AM WHICH IS ONE OF MY BETTER QUALITIES AND REASON FOR MY SUCCESS.
READY TO ACCOMPLISH AND THEN CONQUER ANY PAPER WITHOUT ANY KIND OF STRESS.
DOUBT ME NOT I GIVE MASSIVE POETRY I WRITE OF ANY GENRE NOTHING MORE OR LESS.
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