Dragon
The mystical dragon pictured in today’s print and movies never existed.
Many mystical creatures are based on exaggerations of a creature that did exist.
Possibly, a medium sized tree lizard with the ability to jump from tree to tree in search of food.
It had very strong stomach acids laced with biological silicone gas. The gas slowly rose from tubes to fill pouches on both sides of its mouth.
When confronted by a predator, it hissed releasing the silicone gas toward the predator.
The gas was self-igniting in air, and the flames burned the predator.
Over centuries, seeing fire in very tall trees and telling and retelling of the story with additions,
Give us descriptions of the mythical Dragon we see today.
A large flying reptile with wings and the ability to release huge flames at will.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The reindeer folded their hooves in protest
demanding no more rooftop dashes,
no hauling toys in winter’s blustery blast.
Picket signs read: No More Sleigh!
Dasher, his loyal and faithful reindeer servant,
even burned his harness! What should Santa do?
A desperate Santa, opened ZipRecruiter with a click~
Urgent: Sleigh Team, No Flight Experience Okay.
The squirrels showed up with acorn résumés,
gnawing the reins and forgetting the route.
Team Squirrel was speedy, but slightly unkempt,
cheek pouches bulging with ill-gotten tempt.
They zigzagged the skyline, dropping acorns like coal.
Even Santa’s sleigh wobbled left, then right~
At dawn, the squirrels parked crooked on a power line,
cheeks stuffed with stolen candy canes, utterly divine.
Sparrows enjoy a certain reputation
For intimacy and hope
Crosby Stills and Nash sang of them
In Suite: Judy Blue Eyes
As compatriots to the morning
Air
With guitar strums and high notes
Truth be told
Sparrows are bulkier than the normal song bird
And not particularly
Pretty
Brown and gray as a mound of dirt
Chirpy jerky punk band
And they have no problem with crowding out
From a bush or bird feeder
Finches and chick-a-dees
They’re kind of a bully
Push around those that are smaller
Who carry pouches of yellow and pink
And tiny symphonies
They clog up my eavestroughs with nests
Right now
I watch one sparrow land on top of another
And the tree branch bends down
Under their heft
Bounces up and down
To their sex
Again
The limb
Seemingly
Waving them off
Or so it tries
As if it’s saying
Get off me you animals.
there twasn't lights breaking
embarrassment
no, there is illusions of daybreak
i sieve knowing seas, lasting songs
columned bridges dangling low
on lustless ships
deserting grips
guilty spectacles, hived
crustaceous criminals
devouring sadness
bells fasting to rebuild glowing hours casting
italian imperialists
hunting burning forests with wine
liberated toddlers taunting grandfathers
inside of ticking guillotines
burning pouches of mothers milk
She might be a hoarder we guessed that day.
When she came gliding by what else could we say?
Attached to her somewhere was a plethora of stuff.
Books, gifts, purses, pouches, satchels all rough.
Her elaborate vest had been constructed from ties.
There must be a seamstress in her life said McDyes.
I bet her house is horrible, said his cousin, Ms. Farr.
I doubt it I told her, she lives in her car.
A moral question,
How do you know hunger?
Some people don't know about
these terrible words in their lives:
A) Hunger,
B) Sorrow,
C) Problems,
D) Tears,
E) Pain,
If you meet with a person who
Did not experience one of those words
In his " her" life,
Don't bowl over.
Some people were born
And grew up in bourgeoisie,
They don't have emotions,
They don't real know the real
Meaning of
Suffering.
Some people seem bamboozled
Because of living luxury life,
Sleeping on golds and
diamonds
And others are real stumped
by poverty stricken
not having a cent in
their pouches,
Bloody life,
Living like hell.
A blind can not see the street,
But he "she" can see hunger,
And scream loudly,
"I feel hungry,
My belly vibrating awfully,
Trembilling so dreadfully,
So hungry "
" Anger always follows hunger"
Don't ever laugh at a person
who is starving,
As you can not put up with the
heavy vibration of hunger.
March 11/2023
By Alfonso Warally Ngengethe Mussabwa Chris
I open their ketchup pouches.
I open their milks.
I open their napkins
Until the mama girls make themselves known.
Then they do all the opening for the tables.
Amazing their kindergarten classmates.
It happens over there,
a suburb, a state or half a world
or more away from where I live
in a quiet street with roses and hedges
hanging over front fences
with newly planted trees spaced
along a footpath the council truck
waters once a week.
For anything to get past
and make it to here must be filtered,
sanitised and packed in biodegradable
pouches and come with conditions
clearly stated in print bold enough
to see at arms length and most
important of all, have an off switch
that can be activated by an app
on a phone or a remote control.
What's more, it must be kept short
not taking too much time for it to clash
with commitments I previously made
over a coffee at the gym or make
me feel bad by its content or tax
my nerves by taking me to a place
which I have no desire to go.
So, I would be pleased if you kept it
over there, housed within the confines
of a television screen and sandwiched
between ads and promos for the latest
"Reality" show. And to keep
my conscience pristine, provide
an address I can send
a small donation to on my credit card
with a receipt so I can claim
the expense on my next
income tax return. Thank you.
Whole countries abide in my pockets.
Places that live in closets of cloth,
pokes, pouches, and nests hid darkly
as the cloistered and inert.
Mossy dens and dimples of lint they are,
until hands fumble for a castle,
a temple or even derelict homes;
then as fingers recall their shape
they reform to places
that can be entered again.
Once I was in a prison
I strode many lands
climbed horizons, journeyed by the light
of waymarking moons.
yet I was a prison within a prison.
I live in a small plot now,
it can be counted in feet not acres,
yet I own the whole sky,
I can only be measured
in expanding circles.
There are worlds in my pockets,
each one represents
a pebble picked from one beach
to take to another.
That other shore is not far now,
there I will empty those pockets,
all thoughts of time and place.
Peter’s pesky Pekinese Pepe
produced puddles of pee
proceeded by piles of pernicious pongy poop
Pauline's plimsolls got plastered!
PLEASE use plastic pooper pouches Peter
Pick up your pestilent pets' pooh!
Fiction poem - but my 'pet hate' is folks who don't clean up after their pooch and for now Pauline's plimsoll's are poop free!
2/16/19
https://m.soundcloud.com/user-921599710/due-season
Vertebrates with feathers and tails
Reptiles with their shiny scales
Birds of which that range in size
Returning cycles that comprise
Solid seal, protective shell
Danger near, seek to repel
Contained therein with varied roles
Porous eggs of tiny holes
Nest of twigs, eggs to hide
Incubate the birds inside
Predators across the land
Hiding place beneath the sand
Born to hunt, equipped with age
Acquired mate, there to engage
Age’s grand of which to reach
Return journey to their beach
Storks upon the solid sticks
Within the nest of feeding chicks
Frozen wasteland of no nest
Penguin pouches, eggs to rest
Giant fans attract a mate
Tail feathers, peacocks shake
Birds of tropics, colours bright
Such a ray of sheer delight
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
.
I
bet
there are
some kangaroos
out there that get drunk
& wake up with some ridiculous
stuff inside their pouches
the following
day
.
A pouch is where a joey
Of a kangaroo resides
And pouches are the bulges
'Neath your eyes that make-up hides.
Another type of pouch is one
We carry 'round the waist
And baby food's in pouches now.
(The jars have been replaced.)
It fascinates me when a word
Adds meanings through the years.
I guess that compensates for every
Word that disappears.
i watch the sunrise
unbuttoning the stuffed pouches
of thunderclouds
soaking
imagination
with dry-drunk dewdrops
becoming bubbles
blown through
ringbarked
jewelry
worn
by the roots
of rhinestone rapids
growing in
spider
webs
trying to catch
a flying_fox
there has always
been a silent
soft echoed
beauty
dancing on the tides
from down
under
perfect pirouettes
showing ligneous dustdevils
proper form
forming
Dead-Sea
chiseled
respect
healing ones
inner folds
unfolding miracles
tucked away in moonpedicured
moments missing myriad music
marching in eucalyptustars
shining smiles upon licorice
chainlinkisses
in my minds eye
blackroom sound-proofed
in blacklighted boughs
creating windframed
wisdom
seen with the hearts
meshed monocle
revealing purity into
eternaluminum sliced skies
painting
memories
throughout dimensions
of a multi-faceted
prism
watched
from verandas
of velcro vicidreamt
sand
waking
up the sleeper
still
nowhere
near you
but
closer
than we've
ever
been
Hovering, eyes so keen they see
the imprint of DNA run through
its unsuspecting quarry
Muscles ache, the wait unbearable.
Each crystallised moment of time is
a chapter, wrapped around a scented
taste of cloudless sky
On the ground a cautious proboscis,
bristles and explores, its owner the
protector of tight young bellies
demanding their next meal.
These incentives, become the lure for a
short foray into the outside larder. And
tendons help stretch half-filled pouches
of seeds, packaged ready for the table
Hovering above, nature's instinctive neurons
release a calculated dive. Casting a Centre-point
shadow of increasing consequence. Followed by a
swift snatch, the chapter closes and normal time resumes
In talloned grasp and on winged journey,
the struggling proboscis has time to make
peace with herself, empty her pouches and
gorge one final meal
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