A hiker and a grizzly bear
Meet on a trail ‘tixt Here and There.
The hiker knows that flight would trigger
Aggression in the one who’s bigger,
And to avoid becoming fare,
He now assumes a statue’s air.
The bear, a trained behaviorist,
Thinks, Ha, a story with a twist!
This species with bipedal stride
And ever-changing floppy hide
May yet, as I seem to detect,
Posses a basic intellect.
I’ll dance around it, raise my paw,
And see if I can shock and awe
It into lowering its jaw.
But there is no response whate’er,
And after three long hours, the bear
Goes home to write about this caper
To his dear psychiatric paper.
Another hour after that
Light breezes blow the statue flat.
I thought, why are you digging up my bones?
He thought, I do, because nobody owns
your poor remains, but I am glad to say
that they’ll be cleaned and soon put on display
in a transparent cabinet
where people saunter by and get
a look at them and will, no doubt,
be glad to be not in but out.
I thought,well, there you have it, Sir! Now be so kind,
and pick my neighbor’s bones. He wouldn’t mind.
He was a party animal and always rather
glad to be there where crowds would gather.
No one will witness if you do,
and I will not be haunting you.
He thought, okay! If this is how you feel,
I’ll go for it. You’ve got a deal.
I thought, I’m much obliged, my worthy friend.
My systems will shut down again till, in the end,
they will be bothered by that trumpet call
to wait and fear as one of one and all.
High verberates from peak to peak
The greater bongo’s angry shriek,
While down below from cave to cave
The lesser bongos rant and rave.
What has you so upset? I cried.
Turns out, they were reclassified
And forced into an interchange
Of adjective as well as range,
And since none really would be knowing
Much of the place where they’d be going,
They felt they’d soon become extinct
(Although the lesser bongo winked
And secretly felt quite elated
At being rightly elevated)
But most of all what got their goat
Was that the bureaucratic bloat
With its proverbial botch and bungle
Now reaches far into the jungle.
In the Sundaban’s great jungle,
In the hot and steaming jungle,
A male tiger puts his paws on,
His immense, claw-fitted claws on
A poor honey seeker’s body,
His slim, undernourished body,
And he holds him down securely
So it cannot move a muscle.
And the honey man is crying,
Crying many tears of sorrow,
And he says, “Please, Mr. Tiger,
Do not kill me nor consume me,
I have many, many children,
Some of them still very little,
Who would starve if I went missing.
By the way, how are your children?”
Now the tiger starts his crying,
Crying even bigger tear drops,
And he says, “I never see them!
If I did, I wouldn’t know them.”
And he lifts his great, big paw now,
His immense, claw-fitted paw now,
And he says, “Your words have moved me,
Moved my cruel, inner tiger.
Take your honey pot and join them,
Join your many, many children,
Some of them still very little,
Take a picture of the darlings
Showing all their smiling faces
And attach it to your shoulder
Where I see it when patrolling,
When patrolling this, my jungle,
It will calm my tigrous nature,
My deep, elemental nature,
Give me pause until forgotten,
Till forgotten is my weakness
And my hunger once more drives me,
My enormous, tigrous hunger
Which henceforth you will be safe from,
With your picture you’ll be safe from -
Just as long as you’re not running,
Are not running from my shadow!”
A little house mouse, called Wee Joe,
Looks from the window toward the back
And, as will happen, ere you know,
Sustains a wanderlust attack.
Wee Joe says to his sister Jill,
Dear Jill, I feel that I must go,
Cross many a river, dale and hill
And visit sunny Mexico.
Says sister Jill, Believe you me,
You live in a much larger nation
That what you see on our TV.
You would require transportation.
And, furthermore, there’re many dangers.
The river’s flood may drown you soon,
And many mouse consuming strangers
Will only see in you their boon.
We’re lucky that our cat is lazy,
But many aren’t, like the feral;
And lynx and bobcat are not crazy
To let you pass without great peril.
There is the weasel and the mink,
There is the marten and the stoat,
Who hate to see you in the pink
And seek to eat you in your coat.
There is the fox - red, gray, and kit -
There is the wolf, the wolverine,
The coyote thinks that you are it,
The badger’s senses are so keen.
And should you think that underground
Should be a safer place for you,
It won’t be long and you’d be found
By rattlesnake and cruel shrew.
And don’t forget to be aware
Of goshawk, harrier, and kite,
And others coming through the air
To give just any mouse a fright.
The owl - gray, barn, and barred,
And tawny, burrowing, and screech -
Are forcing you to be on guard
Against a careless safety breach.
Some hunt at night, some in the day,
Some hunt alone, some in a pack,
To some a mouse is an entree
To some it is a tasty snack.
So my advice is, brother dear,
Not to be outward bound.
You are much safer when you’re here
On your familiar ground.
But all these warnings do not please
The little wandering mouse.
He fills a pouch with bread and cheese
And boldly leaves the house.
He’s barely has begun his hike,
When he already comes to grief.
He meets up with a toddler’s bike
Which makes his sojourn brief.
They take him back to his own nest
And set his many broken bones.
He needs some weeks of steady rest
And utters many, many moans.
Oh sister, says he, on the whole
I see it’s wrong to roam.
The world’s not safe for mouse nor vole,
I think, I’ll just stay home.
A vegetarian walking along the Nile
Was nabbed at the ankle by a crocodile.
The vegetarian protested, saying, “Dear brother,
Before you proceed with your death-roll and smother,
Allow me to raise a cautionary voice
Regarding a perilous dietary choice
Indulged in by you to exclude any other.
It is high time to commence, my dear brother,
A regimen of veggies and plant matter that
Already thrives in your habitat.
Please, consider attending our meetings, where a wealth
Of info is on hand on the promotion of health.”
The crocodile answered, “You make sense, my friend!
When are your meetings, and how many attend?
My diet is usually like from ‘ish!’,
Consisting of hippo carcass and slimy fish.”
“Friend, a dozen of us meet Thursdays, talk recipes
And do calisthenic activities.”
“May I,” said the croc, “bring some buddies along?”
“We’ll welcome you all with banner and song!
We’’ll have a vegetarian buffet, hot and cold,
And cookies and pies something rare to behold.
We’ll have a reporter, too, if you don’t mind.”
“We should mind? Not at all! You are very kind.”
Next Thursday, thirteen crocodiles, no less,
Were greeted by twelve vegetarians and the press
Who hugged each one, but in the scene that followed
Were promptly chewed up and eagerly swallowed,
While the cookies, the pies,and the whole buffet
Were completely ignored in every way.
Returning to the river, each crocodile
Said, “Brothers, we don’t eat that well in the Nile!”
They all shed a tear, and one paused to state,
“Brothers, the fourth estate tasted just great.
“Well, now,” they all said. “That is probably so
And a good thing, but don’t let anyone know!”
A thought rose upward from the clay
In a fine and shiny bubble.
It thought of nature’s transitory way
And of humankind in deep trouble.
It saw that it was not alone
But in a congested space
With bubbles large and small, all prone
To ascend in a jostling race.
It saw, that their thoughts determined their size,
Some were small - about eating ice cream -
Some were medium - of winning a lottery prize -
Some as large as a philosopher’s dream.
It saw the cloudiness and the hue.
Some were opaque and made one wonder,
Some red with joy, some sorrow blue,
Some were clear which much to ponder.
It saw some thoughts expand by merging
Quite heedless of the risk therein,
As such intense, if gainful surging
Would stretch and strain a bubble’s skin.
It saw an upward welling tide,
It saw the smaller spheres soon burst
And as the air got more rarified,
I saw the thoughts now more dispersed.
And since itself was quite a thought,
It rose in an impressive sphere
And soon was thinking that it ought
To cool it, lest the end be near.
It looked on down on its earthbound station
And saw a kid there blowing bubbles.
“How cute!” it thought - lost concentration,
And 'Poof!’ and no more bubble troubles.
What was I thinking?
A rumor used its flapping wings
And like a great, big cackling bird
Flew over dales and mountain springs,
And everywhere its cry was heard,
In city, town, on lonely farm,
It broadcast on its own from there,
And spread its own kind of alarm,
So that no one remembered where
Within this overlapping maze,
Like waves and ripples on a pond,
Commenced this tack of fear and craze,
To which no one could now respond.
The fact soon followed in due course
And set the matter straight: no doozie.
It never spread beyond its source:
It wasn’t sufficiently newsy.
A turnip’s and a rutabagas
Love for each grows and grows.
They talk of going to Las Vegas
Across their separating rows.
They talk of going to the chapel
Beneath a shady apple tree
And an astute and licensed apple
To marry them for all to see.
They talk of living side by side
In one well-kept and cozy row
Where they could happily abide
And where their family could grow.
But their roots were deep,
And the road was steep,
And when they got going,
The farmer was towing.
He towed them where they’d never sprout,
And where their purpose was never in doubt.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Rudolf J. Wiemann. Published on e-Stories.org on 06/13/2005.