"baloo" poems
There was a long vanished England
Of well-spoken presenters
Of the BBC Home Service,
Light Service, and Children’s Favourites,
Of coppers and tanners, and ten bob notes;
And jolly shopkeepers, and window cleaners.
I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack,
How I loved those Wednesday evenings,
The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps,
The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair
During the mass meetings,
The solemnity of my enrolment,
Being helped up a tree by an older boy,
Baloo, or Kim, or someone,
To win my Athletics badge,
Winning my first star, my two year badge,
And my swimming badge
With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
I've got the bare necessities
the simple bare necessities
Forgotten about my worries and my wife
I've got the bare necessities
the simple bare necessities
just strolling and swinging along with ease
enjoying the gentle sea breeze
I've got the bare necessities
the simple bare necessities
I know that life can be a tease
and sometimes brings you to your knees
but you know
just have faith and keep going
and see those troubles flee
and enjoy the naked truth
You can pull through
cos you've got the bare necessities
the bare necessities of life
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
His spots are the joy of the Leopard: his horns are
the Buffalo's pride.
Be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by
the gloss of his hide.
If you find that the bullock can toss you, or heavy-
browsed Sambhur con gore;
You need not stop work inform us: we knew it ten
seasons before.
Oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them
as Sister and Brother,
For though they are little and fubsy, it may be the
Bear is their mother.
"There is none like to me," says the Cub in the pride
of his earliest ****
But the Jungle is large and the Cub he is small. Let
him think and be still.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 7:15 AM UTC
A lifelong loner, with the dawn of each day, keeps one promise, more sadness & agony
Father abandoned me, mother too high to visit me, leaves me with an abuser, to show me their ways
To this day, I think of you & all you have taught me
How to live in fear, not being myself, become a character to please those that may fear me
People skills non-existent, however, I stayed resilient, through the insults & feeling unworthy
Surely, someone will see a light in me, or is it too dim? Oh, that's right, you view me as glib
Back in my place, with a lid put on it
Did I do something to offend? Merely being born in this world of sin, forgive me where is the gun?
That's what I should have done, many moons ago, end it all before I knew better
Since I know better, when will I become better? Never is the answer
I am a cancer, that has stricken two families
Cut me out, lump removed, it behooves you, but you knew this
Then there are the "friendships" I attempted to wedge myself in
Unknowing of how to be a friend, I'd watch, learn, mimic & pretend
Now I'll surely fit in?
Nah loser, another sad talespin, leaves me Baloo
I continue to watch & learn, this time from afar
With the bar set to a new low, by my own hand, I stand in a shadow, from the lights sight
Darkness is my home, the ground is my throne
I sit in a mess of my own making, quaking, with a handout
I am a man down & many days out
Yet, no one knows the depths of my pain
All the snickers, pushed me towards the snickers, elevating the bar
Inward scars become visible on the outside, stretched across my skin
Another attempt at a "normal" life in an abnormal society
Taking all the lessons learned to craft a new me
Authentically, unapologetically, me
Wishing you well, wayward son of no one
By Axton Rupp
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 2:54 AM UTC
I want you like hulla wants baloo,
like scared craves boo,
like the sky covets blue.
Like a pain thrives on ache,
like hail asks for compacted snowflakes,
like a creator seeks makes,
as a puddle dreams of lakes,
as a kleptomaniac reaches for takes,
as chilly buns call the bake;
I want you as wit wants woo,
you you
you,
tu whit tu whoo.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
❤
Since music is part of the headgear, most of the color of death in the air is about two amino acids, but it's Latin to the stars and other flags, golden gold from America. Changes are for the musicians in the sun, you are on your way. The Queen Marine Wind Zone is in the early morning hours. I lost in the cold war. The beauty of the British Anglo-Asian teen has lost his wife, John is in the heart of Sky Europe Baloo snooch blue spirit July goddess woman returned from Jesus devil evil rain in Russia If you are a friend of the food the garden radio satellite square series of titles called **** in French is full of fun games for kids, six and sixy, full of hope and Rs. The book is of concern but the old word is true. For example to the image of Russia with the power of the eagle under the stars. Igor is very tense. There is a ghost. There are many words about nature. Decorative jewelry and mouth and tongue and waist are salty, ***** crazy, cool in the mirror and acts as an outer wall stone. Find what we did not find. The purpose of the gods that you have is to say in the name of the image that you take half of the leaves of your feet to drink wine, even gay, up and down, and as smoke goes to your feet as you do from water, jelly materials in the Museum of Asian countries are bad news, my Charlotte Perkins of the Einstein tree and school boards are pictures of Einstein's users who were asked to sleep in the middle of the sun or burn in the middle of Los Angeles. The tsunami waves over the mountains came to the drunken Chinese prophet but the Goldman Sachs man was often wounded by the Alchemy of Bettie written by all the wars of the many who have met the General. Dog on the ground? taken ill and falling on his side; the shoulders of the preparation of grace we received is not to create a line of holy happiness, but in fact, is the latest sign for leading women.
❤
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 3:19 AM UTC
Mundus reality is Nigeria feminarum
amor albus mulieres in Civitatibus
Foederatis Americae Virgo Maria
has pneumonia and galaxy Grecka,
the mane in the joyful pretense
quaestio de regina et naturalis petra horti
hortulani in horto, aurantiaco et infantem
rex The wall frees artes diaboli, et diaboli
matris petita arboribus pretium, lux pluviam
in permanent ************ accessories,
expectations and list.defeated Gloria
Sky high socks gravida viverra, approved
by the state for the Japanese licentia
monstri insidiis foraminis C. C, confidens
in all animals, conversus ad indendum
mundi gelida Hills
Snooch black dress when we are asleep
the school of team play is over, a kind
of Secret for Oral Care. There are three
men in the darkness, and in the morning,
Baloo of the richest did not meet Marcus
Cato of England it is the right of the powder
must be fully. Listened at the door of the
republic, the powder must be determined
on socks. Car Simple would be stripped
of the seas, the lips of your noble seed shall
be cast up in mounds he may devour
to be taught and flourish by the walls
of ******* was of the fine linen of Satan,
the devil and the money in the price
and I understand the mother of the rain
in the summer and the wood, the age
of the table, the girl on the waiting list,
if a man is wearing a tie and broken
Sky's Glory Sky high socks pregnant
Japanese cartoon monster's license to
ambush drinking poison living in a state
run by the hole's completely frozen Hills.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
I remember when the world was a honey *** —
sweet and endless,
when the biggest worry was a blustery day
and whether Piglet would blow away.
The sky was wide, and the ground was soft,
and the trees whispered secrets if you listened long enough.
Back then, I knew the Bare Necessities by heart:
A river’s hum, the sun’s warm kiss,
feet splashing through a world that never asked for more
than laughter and a little bit of wonder.
Baloo taught me how to sway with the breeze,
to let life be easy —
but no one told me the breeze could turn cold.
They don’t warn you when the Hundred Acre Wood starts to shrink,
when the trees lose their magic
and just become trees.
One day, you wake up and Christopher Robin isn’t coming back —
and you realize you have to be him now.
You have to pack up the toys
and leave the forest behind.
But I miss the forest.
I miss the rustle of leaves that sounded like adventure,
the way a cardboard box was a pirate ship,
or a rocket,
or a house where everything made sense.
Now my ships sink in student loans,
and my rockets crash into expectations.
They said growing up was an adventure —
but no one said it was like Shere Khan waiting in the dark,
all teeth and waiting for you to fail.
No one told me the man-village had rules:
Wear this. Be that. Don’t dream too loud.
But sometimes, when the night is quiet,
I hear Baloo singing in the back of my head.
Sometimes, when the wind shakes the trees,
I swear I see Tigger bouncing through the branches.
And I hold on to those echoes,
those soft, honeyed memories,
because the world gets heavy,
but childhood taught me how to fly.
So maybe I’ll keep a little bit of the forest with me.
Maybe I’ll hum the Bare Necessities when the bills pile up.
Maybe I’ll remember that a blustery day
is just an excuse to hold on tighter to the ones you love.
And maybe, when the world says grow up,
I’ll whisper back —
“Oh, bother.”
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 9, 2025 at 7:07 PM UTC