( Sonnet )

Good deer are gracing the trees,
Take communion in handed leaf,
Touch the soils with loving hoof,
In the tabernacles of the wood.

The owl cries for all souls eternal,
Deep in the shrouds of the vernal
That drape the newly born dying,
Beneath the solemn owls' crying.

And songbird has a psalm unread,
A parable in the twining branches,
Gifts of song foist lanyards of crop
Dear in old forest, this offered sup.

As blood seeping deep in the wood,
Sky washes away those who stood.
.

Welcome to gorilla garden.
King Lions roam like lone wolves,
Some wolves are crowned like the head of their pride.
Few bears are curios, like your common cat.
Some giant killer kats are kind,
Some giant kats aren't killers.
A bear can sound like a dog barking, a cat purring, or you might barely hear a crow craw before you're mauled for being far to close to the cubs.
There's ants the size of pizza pockets.
And garfield hates lasanga because he got his name from never leaving the
feild he was born in; such a stubborn
Gar; born in a pond in the middle of a field, refusing to be carried to freshwaters in America.

Welcome to Gorilla Garden.

In here, family is king.
Not pride, not packs, not flocks no colonies.
Snakes are welcome, as long as they don't cause twinge.

Twig by twig,
living a hollow,
dreaming a nest for the nestlings...
Chirpy screeching voices,
like lullaby to her ears
Awakening her sole purpose
A mother as well as a father figure
To protect
Nothing is too much
She'd feed herself to the tiger if she must
...
Breaking of a new dawn
another day to break
Until her nestlings can leave her nest
But never...
ever...
even so...
They are her own little royals,
forever ...
the only rulers of her life...

.
A lone, lorn traveler
In silence and memory,
Writes to one flame at night
In a room where no answering
Appears, only shadows speak
With out lips to endear.  A lone
Traveler has time sutured to will
Cast in a tomb of what might have
Been.  He scrawls on chalky sheets
In the mausoleum of murk and dream,
His flame was once a face, real as now,
Filled with light unlike the later seasons
Of split rooms crowding.  So much of life
There once was to be lived, her flesh, burnt
Fertile, her eyes knowing promise, her blood
Red rains of hair, endless sojourns beyond myth
Or fable, a thousand barks, her swains over ocean
Silenced by her lips of love for you, only, a lone traveler,
Captain of all oaring ships launched from the plain shores
Of loss under a cliff so high, where his once long devoted
Before wrote a vow of love to all his follies, fates, travails
And gave her hand, to bloom of youths so glorious.
.

As a lemon is laurel and a grove near a bay only
that lies trees with the cherry blossom seeds
in these seasons of bliss where splendor was wind
and resplendency now accord with the crabgrass
while lust sublime in these orchards of time.

.
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,

Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,

For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.

.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'

Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'

Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,                                    
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,

Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'

Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'