this is probably one of two or three homes

A bright bear lounged along a river
where berries would burst and stain grass
and stone were they any riper.
Our bear’s brightness resided within
though he knew to avoid the flesh

composing the dwelling place of the nut
that had to go and develop a fetish
for singing horrid folk songs to the earth,
thinking that because a tree does not speak
that it won’t mind at all if that nasty

folk song singer rubs its foul jewels
against the helpless tree’s naked trunk.
Our bright bear never personally
sampled such an example. Buddy bears
did and he had to watch them suffer

unnatural agonies; watched them roll
in a meadow the gods painted for fun
– fun meaning a scene of not only green
but whites and blues and butterflies and bees
where the plethora of critters may play

though should a critter prefer the term
Frolic in reference, Frolic
was the term for that critter – and insects
could consider themselves included
in the great critter family though

most of the insects politely declined,
perfectly happy in the classes
they rubbed antenna or thorax with;
tried to warn them, our bright bear did,
“if the snack bug is nagging bad,

you’ll be much better off if you snag
a trout out of the rushing rapids
than to go messing with toxic creatures
that actually sing horrid folk songs
to the earth and rub their privates on trees.”

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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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