Chameleon,
You are the master
of disguise with
all the colors sent
to save our grey world.

You with your
empty hands and
knowing smile,
fighting this battle
for individuality,
with your coat
of many colors.

O' Chameleon
how you do change,
too
~but none like you,
to weather beaten blue
when the rain comes,
only to disappear
as suddenly
and as quietly
as it came,
there but unseen,
stealthily,
as a jungle net
on the screen
of camo brown
and lizard green.

I want to see you
shocking in neon
lights pressed
against the
Northern stars.

The Grand Mind* produces Thoughts.
Thoughts are born within Millions of Minds.
It's upon You, which Thoughts You'll receive, create or adopt;
Whether you cling to positive or negative Thoughts ~ *it's up to You!

A poet is A Poet

when A Will to Write

Another one is Mightier

then A real work to be Done.

Once there was a man who had only one friend.
Every day, just before the demise of a cyclamen orange burning ball on the horizon ~ he swam to the shore, waving with a magnificent tail, blowing bubbles and bundles of water and air into the wide open skies.

Under the darkening heavens, he sang the muffled song. Tempting his beloved. . .reaching magic, farther then any sonar's ability. Abnormal coldness froze Icelandic Beauty. But beneath the surface, life was warmer without wars. Dwarf seals were jumping into the laced ocean; trying to cry each time they were cut off the Earth's gravity.

This Mighty friend of an old man, was his only link to the global world. The man was old-fashioned; had no telecommunication facilities, his radio were gulls, stray cats, shepherd dogs and sheep on a green hill, behind his wooden hut.

Sometimes he looked over his shoulder, only to determine whether his elderly donkey is able to follow. . . or do they both need a little rest, just to postpone the books from the saddle for later and spread the beautifully ornamented Indian carpet under the great great grand olive tree ~ to take a reviving little nap in the shade.

When he woke up, the old man lit his wooden pipe, puffed few beautiful rings of indigo smoke, smirked to a buzzing bee and found that the air is still pure enough. The pressure was normal, the wind was playing with wave foams in the neighbouring bay.

Under the olives, hanging from the tree canopy, the quietness was fulfilling the old man's heart. Motionless peace was heard. Tranquility.
And the motion of a Humpback Whale. Leaving.