Most hyenas are not predictable but Squirrely was the weirdest of all
So strange, he was thrown out of the pack when he was a cub
He’s just so unusually and blatantly odd, said his sister, Maul
Squirrely is beyond the realm of fantasy said his brother Chub
They did not like his smile and his laugh bordered on the insane.
He gallops around like a goat, a donkey, a llama and a horse
He had hair so messy, it was brushy too like a lion’s mane
His family did not like him, but his grandma took him in of course.
Squirrely had a marvelous life with his loving Gran.
Until she died and went to the promised land.
Staring onto the blanks of skin depths,
I might as well fake for forsake.
Bright eyed and brushy tailed,
Hidden in the mask of despair.
Abandoned quiets of youthfulness,
juggling with lives apse.
"Hush, speak no more.
You ain't my reign,
nor am I interested in lame."
A beginner's mind, which I am not aware of.
Thinking of rainbow vivid and lush greens,
carving forced passions of strangers beliefs.
Bright sleeked while the sharp of shadows go un-noticed.
"I do not fear the dark"
So I say.
While my eyes were coved to mantic sounds of silences.
'Youth' it was someone said.
Bipolar I corrected.
The orient rays through the tree tops
Illuminating the foliage,shades of green
Sieving through the mist, hallowing land.
My mind wakes to an soothing breeze
Meadows crowned by myriad dews
Glittering to welcome the morning sun-
That tickles the hillside limpid stream-
Giggling through the lea to the fields.
A stork waiting stealthily calm
While crabs shelter under pebbles
A snowy swan swims across
Making ripples by its webbed feet.
The ridges far off in the canvas
A silhouette of a sleeping giant
Nonchalant of its murky feet-
As the sun peeps through its side.
Parrots in pairs flying thru the golden ray
Spotted far off in the sky waxing blue
The calves sprinting curiously away
with careful care their mothers graze.
The squirrels swift on the branches
wagging brushy tails sniffing for nuts
we haven’t lost the paradise yet,I vouch
But gone miles away on our own choice
blue death
stalks Brushy Creek
heron is back
My fragrances have guided you to my colourful winter gardenia
A cobbled pathway will walk you to a vanilla mushroom house
Atop with a fireman's helmet of red riding hood flower wine
Bee loved sunshine daisies spread their wax petals on the crimson rooftop
Clusters of blue lotuses float in my faded old bathtub in close vicinity
The small wooden well with an overhanging planked bucket sheltered above
Houses red geraniums and ruffled peonies in the backyard
My skin peeled timber wheelbarrow rests being tired of traying
Blooming pink roses, green brushy ferns and purple asters
A pathway of coloured mandalas to step upon with sweeping skirts
Encircle around small earthen-pot fountains dripping lazily
From one clay vessel to another to ripple over creamy pebbles
Leisure around the hibiscus bushes and you'll find a log table with stumps
Rest a while and watch the the stone swans resting their beaks on breasts
Pleased to carry their petunia backs to dwell in your warm arbours
I'm a paradisiacal retreat for a photographic memory to paint me in words
April 4, 2016
Majestic blue mountain tops with their
head's high above it all. Hundreds of
brilliantly, bright yellow maples that are
aligned at the foot of the blue hue
mountains, standing tall.
Golden hay lying, brushy at their feet as
topaz colored grass surrounds the hilly
water's edge, so artistically complete.
In the evening's glow the amber sunset
dances off the water so divine.
A master piece painted canvas of nature
that has with stood the test of time.
A Wolf’s Paradise
A place, where once the wolves of time, shook off their godly shields,
To come to Earth eternally, where only seasons yield.
They fashioned then, a godly place, of wood and shade and stone,
to rest their souls and bide awhile. A heavenly, earthly home.
All have tried to sing of thee, the Human, Nymph and Muse.
Of your verdant halls of ochren shades, which golden lights suffuse.
These wolves of time, have erelong passed from memory, thought and deed
And left this for humanity, a place for those in need.
A heady place, of mossen scent, this place of liquid time,
Where peace and joy, yet still abound and all this can be thine.
A fastness free, from troubles real, a place to soothe thy soul.
A drink of serendipity, true tastes of life, your goal.
Come, walk with me within these walls of wood and shade and stone.
Come, lay with me in spirit’s rest, this one true wolfenholme.
Brushy
Brown, whiskey
brushy tail who jumps
from the roof top
to the tree just as
easy as can be.
Round and round
mister squirrel goes
onto the tree trunk.
Not a worry or care
has he.
He sits on the branch
looking down at
the bird feeder and
those silly cats
who watch him through
their window each day.
Higher he goes, with
a nut held tightly
to be hidden so when
winter comes he
can have him a snack.
Sitting proudly making
his tail go into a curl
form, so bushy, brown
as he shows of for the
cats he is teasing,
letting them know they
will never get him.
Bushy, Furry, he is quit
amazing as he sits
on the branch, jumping
to the roof top down he
hops and off to new
adventures.
A cold-blooded killer or a kind hearted man,
Searching for justice with a gun in his hand
He escaped many times indeed he did,
He is known as Billy the Kid
A charming young man, with a heart-breaking smile,
He rode across the desert, he rode many miles.
He is known for the things that he did,
He is known as Billy the Kid
Chased by lawmen, bandits, and thieves,
Billy is dead now and many are relieved,
Shot by Pat Garrrett, his so-called friend
Murdered and betrayed, enemies in the end
Could history be wrong?
A lie have been told,
Could Billy have died at ninety years old,
In a small town in Texas, a place called Hico
Brushy Bill Roberts,
A man growing old,
Stories of his life,
Many have been told
He claims a life of killing,
A life of revenge,
He wants to be pardoned,
He is nearing his end
"Do you have any proof that you are who you say?"
Does Billy the Kid still live today?
These questions were asked,
By an attorney of law,
Then Brushy revealed his scars,
Many wounds he saw
The truth has been told,
It's finally out,
Was Brushy "The Kid?"
I have no doubt
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