Oh, Moonshiner, man of the mountains high,
Where whispers of wind and wildcats' cry.
Your heart a kiln, your soul aflame,
With the secret of white lightning's name.
In hollows deep, your still does hum,
A symphony of steam, a hidden drum.
From fields of corn, a golden juice,
To fiery spirit, in silver cruse.
They call it 'stump water,' 'skullcracker,' too,
This potent elixir, born of dew,
A 'ruckus juice,' for joy and strife,
A taste of freedom, a taste of life.
You're a craftsman skilled, a master bold,
In the art of alchemy, stories untold.
With fire and patience, you coax it forth,
A spirit potent, of the mountain's worth.
So, raise a glass, to the moonshiner's art,
A rebel's brew, to stir the heart,
A taste of freedom, a whisper in the night,
A lightning flash, a fiery light.
Wildcats and hyenas will hunt together, demons will scream to demons, [the lilith also shall settle there...] and creatures of the night will live among the ruins [of Edom]. ~Isaiah 34:14 CEV, Darby
Evil lies,
for Lilith you are
a demon's
dire device,
sent straight from the devil's pit
to beguile fair Eve
and Adam;
the fools of Eden
fast succumbed
to the lure
of your beauty, ignoring
the tongue of the snake
speaking God-
damned words of deceit;
Did God not
say you can
be like us if you eat from
the tree? So eat, know
and follow
us, gain all knowledge
and wisdom;
beautiful
Lilith will be your one guide~
straight into hellfire
if only
they'd known it, if ears
had listened
and heard it,
that God's pre-given love gift
was kinship with Him.
Once upon a time there were two jesters,
they didn’t survive but produced the storm;
Wildcats need to roam and will not reform
adding their potency to disasters;
Crazy to caress a wild tornado
try to level it to fall and lay flat;
As lethal as a swinging baseball bat
running through the streets a desperado;
Nothing felt better than a combined purr,
cluster bombs exploding with a climax;
Pranksters prowl along undiscovered tracks,
and the madness came tumbling after.
Wind within their fur
In jungles, Savannah’s, nowhere mediocre
Lazy they are not, for sure
Dragons of their own right
Cats crave the WildThing fight
At night these angels hardly sleep
Tread during day, the feline will creep
Such is the WildCat a’neat.
What a beauty I felt at dawn...
when touching your being
With the gentle warmth of the sun...
successive and deep dreams
fantasies spread around
of my being...
She has the holy fire of heaven
in the hair...fireworks
dancing like wildcats
loving like wild moons.
Her hair as black as a star,
her lips, fruits of Heaven,
her eyes, dark flames,
your round curves,
pure rapture...
Her full wet love
of primal fantasies and dreams...
And she hot like Amazonian sun,
flows the boundless river...
PS ... transcription of the poem O what a beauty i knew at dawn with interacao
and version Tim Clodsey, world poet
boy alkas poetry
When like a sullen miser, the dark skies relent
unleashing rain to pummel a parched, dry land
grey soaked clouds press forward, a grand event
whipping wind wildly like gusts of lashing strands.
The clash and clamor of a restless storm excites
ignites imagination to great heights of wonder
as lightning streaks and cracks the fragile sky
and thunder presses pounding fists to plunder.
Without reserve, wildlife gather and take cover
motherly trees engulf them with leafy arms
wildcats seek caves, foxes burrow down under
farmers herd their livestock into wooden barns.
Each day God directs His drama in the skies
He orchestrates every movement under the sun
His glory unfolds as we witness with our eyes
for He is Lord over all, He is the Mighty One.
12/28/2021
Updated on 3/23/2023
The Wildcats was the mascot,
The elementary school just a couple of blocks away
I would walk to school hand in hand with my mother,
Waving goodbye as I disappeared through the gates.
The playground was huge,
Blacktop for miles and miles,
The swing set was my favorite,
Named it Henry, I would
Talk to Henry in my head,
He was always interested in what I had to say,
Whatever classroom tidbit I had to offer.
If someone cut their hand with a scissor,
Or if that kid made that teacher go red in the face again.
Henry would sit there, willingly,
As I tried to touch the sky with my tip-toes.
Scottish Wildcats are listed as, critically endangered
Once found throughout Britain, now only found in northwest Scotland
living in wooded areas, near the edges of forests and shrublands
and the Scottish Wildcat is a subspecies, of the European Wildcat
Domestic cats pose a great threat, for these Scottish Wildcats
as there are very few genetically pure populations left, of this Wildcat
and deforestation has left them confined, to the Scottish Highlands
and snares and traps are have accounted for many of their deaths
Cat Angel in Incheon
Walking down the park at night
In my suburban Incheon Korean town
I encounter yet again
the mysterious Korean woman
dressed in white feeding
eight cats who surround her
eating their dinner in silent communion
She is feeding them
as she does every single night
she is the cat angel of Incheon
she takes care of the cats
every night
there are hundreds of cats
all over Incheon who are alive
because the cat lady Angel
took care of them
I don't understand the cat angel
because I don't understand cats
As far as I can tell
cats are alien creatures
from another universe
who are here spying on us
perhaps preparing for the ultimate invasion
they are very strange creatures
and why some people spend so much time
taking care of Wildcats
almost worshiping these strange creatures
well that is beyond me
because I'm not a cat person
Writing poetry makes no sense at all
It springs out of nowhere and travels into nothing ness
Lemons are nines and wildcats are chickens
Metaphoric twists have my stomach in knots
Iambic pentameter makes me want yell
Dammit ‘er!
I fling things onto a page on Monday
That I do not recognize myself on Tuesday
Not sure which personality wrote it
Sometimes it is impeccably bad, and none claim it
Abecedarian is fun for me,
But makes no sense in any way
Still I do it.
Why?
Why not?
I have this high energy waiting to
run, bounce, jump, slap and play.
So I read flowery sonnets, and they give me pause
I have tried to write prissy, Shakespearean but it does not like me.
I don’t even like to read that crap.
Yes, some poetry is crap.
Some of it is marvelous, witty, funny, cheery and gay.
You can take that both ways
I do.
Poetry is something I fling onto a page
Some of my writing I eat for breakfast
and some of it eats me.
It is as simple as that.
Well-established wonder-stricken wayfarers will work with wizards,
who worry worm-eating warblers will wander by with Wyandottes.
Witchdoctors wallowing with Weiss beer will widen willowy wonky
widow’s walks. Who? What? When? Why? Why not?
Wonderful wearisome woolly Willies whose wrinkly wiggly whatchamacallits will weigh whizzing wingfish whipped wildly within Widow Williams’s whirlybird’s window wells. Who? What? When? Why? Why not?
Why wayfarers? Witches? Wizards, Wolverines? Witchdoctors? Well, woks, workbenches, wobbly wickiups, were wildly wanting whiffle ball’s wishful wildcats, which is why we were willing to wind up wolves, women, and worst-case woodcocks into worthy wayfarer’s winter wineglass widgets within wonderful, wise-cracking
woodland’s wee-folk who reside within wizardly wigwams.
Who? What? When? Where? Why? Why not?
Warm whoopee wayfarers welcome willing witchdoctor's whizzing whatchamcallits on Wednesdays with wonderfulness.
Once On A Festive, Golden Afternoon
Once on a festive, golden afternoon,
Trailing slow through forests primeval green;
Setting sun was low, eager to leave soon,
Its orange rays giving radiant sheen;
Images coming of stars and forested nights
Moonbeams bouncing into beautiful glow;
Such majestic earthen natural sights,
Nature preening up with its nighttime show
Yellow-eyed owls to call with hoot, hoot hoot,
Wildcats gliding through foliage unseen;
Quietly clomping forth in hiking boots,
Admiring shadowed beauty, Nature's screen
Heart felt glee in future imagined moon
Hiking forth festive, golden afternoon.
Robert Lindley,
Sonnet, (Forest and Nature's beauty A'calling)
http://www.lindleypoetry.com/
“If I Were an Elephant”
Too many people look past my beauty,
Look too intently at my ivory.
The huntsmen I fear,
Of wildcats I steer clear.
They all want what I am made of,
Not what I am - not my wisdom, my peaceful demeanor.
I stand tall, I stand proud
I am closer to the stars, I admire each passing cloud.
My young I shall teach to be strong,
Though many look at us all wrong.
I am tall, I am proud,
I will not tilt my head, you will not see me bowed.
Mike is a Glaswegian who trains with the Wildcats,
The wheelchair rugby team who like taking centre,
He was born on the 13th December 1982, the stats,
But had a diving accident in 2000 which did batter.
He was studying at college in health and fitness,
But during his rehab he was introduced to rugby,
The GB Development squad took him on, address,
Until in 2006 he was selected for the elite, as lucky.
The GB team took silver, 2011, at the Europeans,
And in London they came 5th to boast the place,
He became captain of the British team, had ions,
And at the Euros 2015 won gold, Rio to embrace.
Will That Music Sing Sweetly To Us Forever
Out there comes music from the emerald hills,
Where rabbits, foxes and wildcats roam,
And great scenic views that a sad heart thrills
When seeking Nature far from sweet home
Summer morns the forest sings to be so alive
And meadow flowers dance as they are blown
Busy bees go about making honey for the hive
While snakes crawl through the brush overgrown
Will that music sing sweetly to us forever,
Or fall to cutting axe with a sharp blade,
God forbid! Pray we that comes true never!
As our hearts find the beauty Nature hath made!
R.J. Lindley
June 9th, 1974
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