Jake, The Omnipresent Pheasant

Though knowledge of Him is not common,

Yes He is something of a phenomenon,

He is believed in by those,

Whose lives He has touched,

And to them,

His amazing deeds mean much.

He is often in the Amazon Rainforest,

Perched upon a branch,

At the very top of an old kapok tree,

From there,

There is nothing His eyes cannot see.

There are two sides to Him,

He changes faces on a whim,

Depending upon,

What He sees from that limb.

His good side is sweet,

This Him is one of the bestest creatures you could meet,

But rub Him on His bad side,

And you will surely meet,

Death by His beak,

No never again,

Will you rise to your feet.

When bored on His branch,

He will gallivant around,

Going from place to place,

He once found a bad guy and gave chase,

Ending his life,

Then helped out a homeless vagrant to save face.

Flying above you,

Wherever you are,

There is a Bird,

You don’t know it,

He’s invisible,

And has made sure He isn’t heard,

He likes to scope things out,

There’s always someone who can be watched,

Just in case it chances to be you,

You’d be wise to not do anything absurd,

But maybe if harm befalls you,

You’ll get lucky and be rescued by this Bird.

Ha! There’s been an accident,

Along Highway 95,

Help has not even had time yet to arrive,

But here comes judgement,

In the form of a Bird,

The one whose drunken fault it was,

He makes sure to leave him maimed without a word,

The innocent has died,

Secretly He sprinkles them with Living Dust,

To make sure they actually survive.

Jake could be compared to Karma,

The effects of your life affecting you,

No good deed is too virtuous,

No means of ridding evil too immoral,

If He sees something that needs fixing,

He will be there,

It shall be done,

No never has He not been victorious.

Short But Sweet: A Night Owl’s Point Of View

Lovers of the graveyard shift,

People whose light,

Is at night,

Nine-to-fivers,

Call us not right.

We can sleep the day away,

And wake in the late afternoon,

We don’t rise with the sun,

But instead are more in tune,

With the moon.

Morning birds call us peculiar,

Because our way of life,

To them is unfamiliar,

But let me tell you,

Navigating the world,

Without all their traffic,

Makes our life,

Go so much smoother.

Many of us are introverts,

When we try to mix with others,

It most times just ends in hurt,

We are not though,

Drawn to all things infernal,

Just because we happen,

To be nocturnal.

We are a group of rebels,

Such special little devils,

Our perspective of life,

Is sharp as a knife,

We are smart,

And we are fun,

If you consider yourself normal,

It’s from your kind we run.

New England Pony/Southern Horse: A Barn Conversation

“Where is the cold?

And where is the fluffy, powdery snow?

I’m only a pony,

So maybe I don’t know,

But it seems to me,

It’s been warm and sunny,

For long enough,

That something is funny”.

“Just what in the hell is snow?

I mean,

Not to sound like an ass,

But all I’ve ever seen,

Is this here green grass,

I’m only a horse,

And I’d not accuse you of lying,

Of course,

But snow is something,

That does not sound believable,

And so I just don’t know”.

“It falls silently,

Not making a sound,

And covers the ground,

For miles and miles around,

When a lot comes at once,

It’s at times up to my chest,

The whole field is slippery,

If I’m lucky and get out of my stall,

I must hope not to fall,

And that’s at best,

As I may not get out that day at all,

I may be stuck inside,

Bored all day,

Staring at the wall”.

“Are you telling me that There,

White powder falls in place of rain?

And instead of making bothersome noises,

Like splashing on the ground,

Or pounding on the roof,

The only sounds are silence,

And this fluffy, powdery substance,

Is cold and there to stay”?

“Absolutely,

Though it’s not around forever,

Just when I get to thinking,

That it is leaving never,

Warmer days begin,

Then for awhile there is rain and mud,

But after a few weeks of that crud,

The weather’s just like Here,

There’s hot and humid air,

And green grass that beats yours,

Is again everywhere”.

“I’m having trouble,

Conjuring in my mind a picture,

Of such a weather mixture,

Excuse me if I snicker,

It’s not that I don’t take your word,

But this sounds absurd,

And in truth it leaves me puzzled”.

“It’s really no big deal,

I merely wondered where it was,

I love that there’s no snow,

I just didn’t know,

This year-round summertime,

Could truly be for real”.

“Even though,

We’ve gone our separate ways,

I vividly remember,

Our conversation that day,

Now I’m living in a place,

That gets cold like She described,

And what do you know,

There really is a thing called snow,

The first time I experienced it,

It caught me by surprise,

I could not believe my eyes,

That pony had not lied”.

A Cupcake Is Born

Early one Saturday morning,

An old London Lady,

Was deciding what to make,

“I know”, said she,

“I think I will bake,

I’ll bake me a big batch of cupcakes”!

So she got busy,

And worked herself into a tizzy,

Fast she wanted them done,

Because she had,

An errand to run.

After they were cooled,

She got out things to make them pretty,

As she liked eye-appealing food.

Little did she know,

The sprinkles would set one free,

One sprinkle had magic ability,

That made that cupcake,

Able to flee.

Out into London’s streets he wandered,

Where exactly he was headed,

He hadn’t really pondered.

He rounded one last bend,

Ending up in the West End,

Near the Covent Garden,

On a street called Drury Lane.

Outside of an enormous structure,

Was a sign for a bakery,

And on the stairs,

Leading in there,

Sat the famous Gingerbread Man,

Petting a cat with a loud purr.

Standing up to shake hands,

And greet the Cupcake,

He said “Hello, I’m the Gingerbread Man,

Who are you?

You look fresh-baked”.

“I’m Clyde The Cupcake,

And yes,

You are correct,

I am a fresh bake”,

Replied the runaway Cupcake.

As conversation kept on,

The hours flew past,

And soon the night was over,

They had talked until dawn.

That was some time ago,

Still they are the best of friends,

They remain close,

Enjoying the fine shopping in that area,

And going to the theatre,

But working for the Muffin Man,

Is what delights them most.

Among their most loyal clientele,

Is that old London Lady,

That Clyde knows well,

She now buys their treats,

Because she’s scared to bake,

Ever since her sprinkles,

Put her Cupcake,

Under a spell.