I looked about my windowsill,
and there a lovely whippoorwill,
stood and sang a lovely tune,
about my birthday coming June,

Out in the middle of a real nowhere,
where the light is gently falling,
dark come soon as night comes in,
as birds so sweetly calling,

Mosquitoes bite in summer time,
this place can be quite hot,
but staying in would be a crime,
while getting out is not,

For now the lovely whippoorwill,
who sings the lonesome way,
amidst the frozen earthly loam,
and branches in decay,

I sit alone to hear that song,
the whippoorwill, my heart,
take me back to yesterday,
I rise again to start,

Just like a cancer born in June,
the whippoorwill he loves the Moon
He calls her from a lovely perch,
a tall and sturdy silver birch,

I hope to hear him once come Spring
on his flight his love he bring,
so many songs he knows to sing,
on whippoorwill and tiny wing,
a sweet and soulful little thing,

I close my eyes as I applaud,
his lovely voice entrances me,
& in his voice I'm truly awed,
staring not a choice I see,

Endangered in this place I love,
the whippoorwill, a dearest bird,

Please do your part to save the Earth,
I hope his lovely voice is heard.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

Step with the rhythm you made
The daffodils are still dancing
With a flow, deep rays in between
Through the leaves landing on you
And blows, forcing the past to fade

I'll remember you, I'll be in you
But I can't force them to discontinue
They are strong, dumb sculptures
Yet, ready to put misery on you
To end, and test their ordeals on you

Rise, Oh, the empire of protectors
Mother, brighten the wild with intellect
They will reconquer and set the pace
Where never, we expected peace
Will enlighten on her shoulders

They should rename Common Sense
Endangered Sense
Since it's becoming more endangered by the hour
Knowledge is power
Trying to retain more by the hour
Before your brain goes ineptly sour

The first in over sixty years
The whooping cranes are living wild
Now one young pair has laid an egg
And, too, with luck, will raise their child

They near Kissimmee were released
Beating the odds, survived to breed
A ray of hope they might increase
And ***** the armor of human greed

But cranes need water as do we
As still we pump the wetlands dry
Our chains of lakes sprout fat resorts
The river of grass condemned to die

Yet dare we dream we might reverse
This harsh inflicted damage done
Still apathy is our nation's curse
Which battles none has ever won

Today I cheer the whooping cranes
Who still have hope that they might see
Upon some far and distant day
Their offspring's offspring flying free

Walked on the mud
Her reputation marred
Evading the bird

There he is,
between the Siberian Tiger and the Maui's Dolphin,
**** Mobilis Nullius.
She does not own a cellphone.
Text for her is the letters and words
that make up a book.
If he wants to take a picture,
he'll use a camera, thanks.
She doesn't want to download, upload,
freeload, overload,
girl, you've got to carry that load
of debt to the telco company.
He watches movies in the cinema
and he doesn't want to be hooked up
to the internet
or caught in the ever-widening net of commerce.
She's happy with the ancient ways,
songlines on the landline
lines on the land
where a woman can walk away
and hear only the ringing
of bird song,
lines on the land
a man can follow to the heart
of somewhere lost
and know only peace.

A timber night in a dark way can't stay for long
plowed down, scorched down  - must be torn down
kings of city pipes, dusty concrete heirlooms, read a bible to sleep

Wake in the morning, sun rays shine through dust ridden books
Morals, condoned in heart shaped smoke clouds

Greed's arms will swell rejecting midnights' hiss' "Where will they live?"
'Sirrrrrrrr' 'Homeeee'...... Floating like gas particles, words lost.
A stand alone will die to unknown prosperity
ropes straggle helpless branches
Clenching their last breathes, the weeping skies sit silently

Hateful hateful hunger, feeding the bodies thirst

Our midnight Cowboy song goes: Manufactured green, leaving scorched earth barren, unwritten torch, unseen

For we saw what we wanted to.

Light-years north of the purple, zephyr dome.
The saccharine amulet is like euphoria
Buried below the wet soil of Utopian plains,
An aura born of  visual brilliance like the aurora borealis
Is this the homely orphanage for poetic spirits and souls?
The intuitive life- forms worthy of sempiternal light?

Tyrant Ignoramus's army is multiplying,
And assembling more power,
Lascivious like an extreme *******.

Certainty of survival? No, there is not,
Nervous like claustrophobic Nibbana.
Life-forces forced to test
The stability of the precipice.
Can balance be maintained?
Only for so long....

Loping for miles,
Exhausting it must be,
Their hooves must go on and on,
Heedless of stopping.

Past Ignoramus's Fortress,
Past the Alchemist's Bridge over yonder,
Light-years north of the purple, zephyr dome.
The saccharine amulet is like euphoria
Buried below the wet soil of the Utopian plains,
An aura born of visual brilliance like the aurora borealis.
This is the homely orphanage for poetic spirits and souls,
The intuitive life-forms worthy of sempiternal light.

Originally written 7/30/11
Revised 10/17/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

As fierce as they can be,

Tigers hunt to survive.

They only do,

What they have to do.

Did you know,

If pray was in sight,

The tiger wouldn't even attack,

Unless it was hungry for a snack.

Tigers aren't all bad.

Not at all really.

They just find their way,

Trying to live.

There's a food chain,

You can't avoid that fact.

They need to eat meat,

So what can they do,

If they didn't ****?

They'd die of course!

Would you be happy then?

Because humans hunt them too.

We don't need them for food.

We don't HAVE to **** them for medicine,

Why do most of them **** tigers?

Only for their skin.

Yes, it is beautiful,

But it's not ours to take.

You shouldn't **** tigers,

Just for their stripes.

They would only **** you,

If they needed food.

Food of which,

Some struggle to find.

It's sad this isn't the only reason,

That most of them die.

Those cruel people,

Set up traps all their habitat.

When trapped,

All is painful.

The more that they struggle,

The tighter it gets.

If they're not dead,

By the time those people come,

They will surely **** them,

And all because they want to be rich.

Tigers need saving.

They need our help now.

They're already endangered,

But they have no good enough reason,

To die right out.

We don't need tiger skin.

Can't anyone see that,

It only looks nice on that tiger?

But no, tigers get killed.

It's not their fault,

That people want their beautiful skin.

They may be running out of food,

Because they're running out of trees.

Without the trees,

They don't have much to hide in.

But the poachers don't help.

In fact the truth is,

They make everything unfairly worse.

So please help them.

Donate to charity.

We can save the tigers,

From the cruelty of today.

At the same time as this,

We could help save the trees.

Without the trees,

There is no jungle.

Without the jungle,

There's no home for tigers.