berries mystical and magical and picky

Butterfly tried to float away
but the berries sent from their bush
a bunch of mystical, magical,
vibrations – pretty white berry
vibrations, shimmering with those
famous rustles like breezes do
universally to bushes;

wings faltered and the leader berry
of all the berries advised what a shame
it would be if a pair of wings breathing
the beauty of stained glass would freeze and force
one poor butterfly to topple to this ground
where frogs living for gluttony
often patrolled, that is, when not in sloppy

stagger grips from the lily pad
parties; granules piled in mounds
and teeming with angry, ravenous,
ants, need not be invoked. So, to save
further wing twisting, Butterfly,
sobbing a momentary lamentation
about putting off the trip to the lakeside

dragonfly monument christening,
had no real option but compliance.
Leader of the berries nodded as best
a berry is able to nod, saying
that was more like it, wise, obedient,
butterfly, good, good, then directed
Butterfly’s eyes to the little plastic placard

near the berry bush’s feet. “See that
little plastic placard? We berries
wish it removed. Written terribly.
Needs written better. It’s written
like we berries wrote it. The longer
we must endure that little plastic placard
written as it is, the closer this place

they call paradise will become
a poisoned
paradise. You will fly
and find
the paradise beautification
and upkeep offices. You will tell them
what it is we berries wish. Tell them!
We will not tolerate such a terribly
written little plastic placard!”

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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