"hi there, folks!
that's you at home!
i'm up on the oaks,
my place to roam.

to remember my stores
my memory matches yours
to hide all my nuts
best food for my guts

while you're lazing the autumn
i'm burying amounts awesome
though i forget where i put half
i find the rest, so don't laugh

i'm a squirrel, 'case you hadn't noticed,
though i always look so focused,
upbeat, sanguine, that's me all over,
love to frolic through grass 'n clover

so next time you spy an intelligent lookin' male
with winsome grin and bushy tail
hoppin' around or walkin' a strut
it's likely me, so throw me a nut!"

a flame, a light
longs to ignite
secret desire
one with its sire

pushed into darkness
happy and innocent
cried in the starkness
of soul imprisonment

forever a dance
whether to seek advance
to shine and speak
or remain shadow weak

to play hide-and-seek
with the loud and the crass
ignore public clique
to be tread like the grass

and through it attain
soul's secret desire
in earthly plane
be one with the Sire.

what does it feel like
to be victim of abuse?
pushed 'gainst ****
life-story to lose
not recognising self
one's own gravity
no floor 'neath one's feet
self-identity
sense of perception
up in the air
sense of connection
reduced to a scare
nothing positive
save other's narrative
forget meritorious,
you think no-one's worse,

trampled 'n suffocated,
stir-crazy, deflated,
lose desire to live
no goodness to give.
go tell your mother
your sister, your brother
no-one believes
what you go through
everyone's deceived
perhaps even you
all looks so nice
on the surface
jam-cake with ice
and lip-service
but there's little on earth
that's more bitter
than to be constant mirth
'n no strength to quit her
that's the story
of emotional abuse
i'd tell you more
but there's no real use.

tome of my life
with wrinkled page
torn at the sides
brown with age
thirty years
gone and flown
gone in tears
gone in moan

a tome trampled
by troubled feet
pages tangled
by hands of deceit
scrambled words
in blood-red stain
'cos no-one heard
the crying pain

though saints there are and holy men too
beware of the priest that bows too low
for his overt servility makes fool of you
as he treads upon unwary foe

for in his eyes, the layman and laic
are way beneath his dignity
just placed there to create mosaic
'gainst which to display his divinity

beware the affable smile and charm
the silken manners and finesse
for oft-times snake that seeks to harm
will in finery dress