Sometimes I wish that I wasn’t born with a tall, magnificent, towering horn
Because I might be killed soon while my horn were torn.
Every 8 hours, one of us is dreadfully killed,
Only to make their dream fulfilled?

If I were to say we’re nothing special, we’re just like you it’s just not fair.
And if I say our horns are made like your nails and your hair.
Would people still **** us or let us be free?
Maybe they’ll laugh, as you can see.

We’re neither for sale, nor for medicine or as your house souvenirs.
I don’t want to be a display and stay there for years!
How can it be a work that they’re so proud of?
Then does that mean we’re just “stuff”?

There are not many of us now, only 5 species left and yes it is true.
White, Black, Greater one- horned, Sumatran and Javan too.
However, I’m afraid that one day we’ll be gone,
And by then whom will they look upon?

I know by far that many of you had protected us, and gave us support.
Though is it not enough to reach the hunter’s heart?
Don’t you think that we’ve had enough?
We have to stay strong and tough.

This is why we need your help, to spread the word and show us you care.
Help us make a difference, since we are considered as rare.
I want us to all get together and to be a part of this.
For a happy future that you’ll never miss!

1
We're not in darkest Africa
and jungles don't adorn,
this little bit of overgrown
that wraps around our lawn,

2
Plants of pretty colors
sit comfortable in there bed,
and about two dozen footsteps
find us at the potting shed.

3
Our potting shed has seen better days,
some parts have been rebuilt
and it's suffering from subsidence
for it's slightly on a tilt.

4
The walls desperately need painting
because the wood has got some rot
but a boring place to come and sit
it definitely is not.

5
Odds and ends adorn the shelves
and the places spiders tread
where the dust has piled on the weight
and the woodworm may have spread.

6
Smells that we first come across
carry the scent of damp,
foul stinks from half empty sacks,
paint tins that have gone rank.

7
An old oil lamp expel the rust
like dandruff from my head
reigning down golden crumbs
that looks like toasted bread.

8
We think that we have found some proof
of what might linger around
footprints so large and evident
that a Tigers walked upon this ground.

9
So while we have been sleeping
and resting through the night
there's been a Tiger in our shed
but he keeps out of sight.

10
We've sorted through many boxes
we've moved some things aside,
looked into shadows with a torch
but we can't find where he hides.

11
Perhaps he's gone out hunting
for an evening meal,
eyeing up the neighbors dog
with energetic zeal.

12
Perhaps he's out sunbathing,
sitting somewhere in a tree
camouflaged with all those stripes,
that's the reason we can't see.

13
I don't know if he's Sumatran,
Siberian or Bengal
and he doesn't ever show himself
or come to me when I call.

14
I believe he stays outside all day
and only hides in here at night
but I won't come down here when its dark
only in the light.

15
He is a wild animal so
one must take the some care
for he could be stalking us as prey
he could spring from anywhere.

16
But we leave the door unlocked for him
and we've made a comfy bed,
and a sign that just reads "WELCOME"
to the Tiger in our shed

The Sumatran orangutan, gardening her spot  
comfortable in the canopy and lush tree top,
nursing her young month-old,
fell fiery below, seventy-four holes
in her when the shooting stopped.

Four air gun pellets pierced her left eye,
two her right, leaving her darkly blind,
a howling Homer, Milton in orange pain,
bereaved, childless, now a wild-less refrain
scratching the earth for any hopeful frame..

Her collar broken, lacerations from sharp objects
on her upright arm and leg, one left finger a socket.
Her fiery camouflage that hid her in the canopy light
is singed in the clearing flame, her skin turned night    
just another victim of human slight.

She will suckle her ghost child five years until mature
for the pain she has there is no real animal cure.
Use to solitude she is now truly truly alone,
even as the human rescuers reset her broken bones.
For in the war between good and bad man she is the lure.

Spared the ignominy of being a rich Clint Eastwood’s pet,
she will live out her life in sanctuary and uneasy stress
away from those who fear a Planet of Apes,
a refugee of the Air Gun War with her own tamed space,
PTSD, therapy, rehabilitation and very high tree state.

We move
to our early
morning
lullaby

of the
moon
surrendering
itself
down
to rest.

whispers
between us
shared,

with no
one else.

cats at
our feet
making
pillows of
our toes.

Sumatran
coffee
brewing
unattended
in the next
room.

and all
I can do
is look at
you in
amazement
while
you
sleep.

and guard
your dreams
from broken
places.

and time at
this moment

at this
heartbeat

at this
breath

in the

sum of

all things

my love


is you.

We move
to our early
morning
lullaby

of the
moon
surrendering
itself
down
to rest.

whispers
between us
shared,

with no
one else.

cats at
our feet
making
pillows of
our toes.

Sumatran
coffee
brewing
unattended
in the next
room.

and all
I can do
is look at
you in
amazement
while
you
sleep.

and guard
your dreams
from broken
places.

time at
this moment

at this
heartbeat

at this
breath

in the

sum of

all things

I dream.


is you.

We move
to our early
morning
lullaby

of the
moon
surrendering
itself
down to
it's celestial
bed.

whispers
between us
shared,

with no
one else.

cats at
our feet
making
pillows of
our toes.

Sumatran
coffee
brewing
unattended
in the next
room.

and all
I can do
is look at
you in
amazement
while
you
sleep.

and guard
your dreams
from broken
places.

time at
this moment

at this
heartbeat

at this
breath

in the

sum of

all things

I dream.


is you.