I wrote a little 'solo poem'

[Francis Meyrick]

I am NOT a fruit cake.

 

(yells loudly)

 

And THAT GOES FOR ME TOO!!!!

 

Dear, dear. I have this Walmart check out effect on threads. I join, and everything stops. Maybe it's my deodorant. I just wonder.

 

(sigh)

 

I did some "Roses are red, Violets are blue" rhymes.... anybody interested? I'm feeling shy now.

 

I think I'll go away and hide.

 

[tradford]

We don't need no stinking peace!!

 

The Knife

A missile-flash, a chopper-crash,
a field of charred debris –
A team of five are burned alive
and that leaves only me.

 

A stranded man in hostile land,
a radio that’s cracked,
a uniform that’s soiled and torn –
at least I’m still intact.

 

A dire strait – I’ll lie in wait
until it’s safe to go,
a star-less night, no moon in sight –
the clouds are hanging low.

 

I take a fix – it’s twenty clicks
from here to friendly ground,
the path I take is one I’ll make –
there’s danger all around.

 

The woods are dense – my warrior’s sense
will help me stay aware,
each step I take, I leave no wake –
it’s like I wasn’t there.

 

I reach the ledge at river’s edge –
I think I’ll cross it here,
the dogs will fail to find my trail –
my scent will disappear.

 

I’m tired and sore, but distant shore
is not beyond my reach,
a current-flow that’s smooth and slow –
I crest the muddy beach.

 

It’s just my luck, I clear the muck
and there – a border post,
a band of men who’ve settled in –
a dozen at the most.

 

Their numbers show by ember’s glow –
a fire they failed to keep,
I pan the scene and all’s serene –
the sentry’s fast asleep.

 

The coast is clear, I’m leaving here –
I’ll keep my head down low,
but in the midst – a sordid twist
I notice as I go.

 

While sneaking by, I realize
there are fewer than I thought –
just four at best and all the rest
are women that they caught.

 

I’ll change my plan – no decent man
could leave this group of slaves –
a forced consort, secured for sport
and surely bound for graves.

 

Like napping cats on woven mats
and each beside a gun,
I’ll take each life with just my knife –
I’ll kill them one by one.

 

I hug the ground and make no sound,
I’m one with shadows – still,
a deadly storm in human form –
a viper trained to kill.

 

The ground is damp around their camp –
the brush is soft with dew,
it’s sure to mask my pending task –
by methods tried and true.

 

The first I reach – I have to teach
him what it’s like to die,
I move behind and slice his spine –
make sure he doesn’t cry.

 

I feel him tense, the pain immense –
he takes his final breath,
without a peep, eternal sleep –
the peacefulness of death.

 

The second one is just a son,
no bigger than a speck –
I know my cause, but still I pause
before I break his neck.

 

Despite his size, I rationalize
that what I do is right,
a brief remorse, then back on course –
I can’t afford a fight.

 

I stay discreet for twenty feet –
I’m poised to make my play,
no need to hide, he’s on his side
and faced the other way.

 

I cup his mouth and flip him south –
I’ve caught him by surprise,
my painted face and foreign race
put terror in his eyes.

 

I have my blade already laid
an inch below his ear,
he tries to move – I have to prove
the reason why I’m here.

 

A sudden twitch and like a switch,
his blood begins to flow –
I hold him close in still repose,
when limp – I let him go.

 

The last to kill is lying still –
no longer prone to snore,
a chance I take, perhaps awake –
less movement than before.

 

A dozen feet before we meet –
it may be no surprise,
I move in haste, no time to waste –
and then I see his eyes!

 

He grabs his gun – I can’t just run
or he’ll surely cut me down,
without my knife, he’ll own my life –
but I drop it on the ground.

 

Before he stands – with gun in hands,
he sends me to my knees,
the muzzle placed against my face –
his trigger gets a squeeze.

 

I’m almost sick when I hear a “click” –
and that’s all the time I need
to grab my knife and end his life –
I watch him fall and bleed.

 

I’ve won the fight, but now the night
has changed to light of day –
a welcome sound, we’ve all been found –
a Huey’s on the way!

[Francis Meyrick]

awesome. But all of a sudden, my "Roses are red, and violets are blue" offerings wish to quietly slink out of sight...

[aeroscout]

Negotiating is best done

with your knee

on your foe's chest

and your knife

at his throat.

Never surrender

and always demand

unconditional surrender

[Francis Meyrick]

Hummmm..... (talk about a bloodthirsty lot...)

 

For what it's worth (hell, not-a-lot), whilst you guys were screaming and hollering and stomping on your foes, holding knives to their throats, gouging their eye balls out, and never surrendering, this poor dufus here was away trying to write a "roses are red, and violets are blue" poetic art work. Which was a challenge, believe me. Now I feel like a gibbering idiot. But, dammit, I scribbled 'em, obedient to the challenge, and I'm posting 'em. Go on, laugh if you like. I IS AN ARTIST++++

 

(sumbitch...)

 

"Noses are red

and extremities blue

That’s what you get

In an Eskimo loo."

 

(okay, I feel ridiculous...)

 

 

how about:

 

"Roses are red,

and Violets are blue

The spinny side up,

is healthy for you."

 

??

 

(No, I didn't think so. Can't compete with eye stomping, throat slashing, and Arnold Schwarzeggy on steroids...)

 

Well, hell, my final try:

 

"Roses are red

And violets are blue

I’ll piss ‘em all off

If you do too…??"

 

okay, Okay, I give up. I tried.

 

Need to work on the eye gouging, throat slashing bit.

 

I was practicing with a deadly foe just now, trying to be tough and mean, an'..an'..... but it didn't work out. See the next dialog box....

 

Humbly yours

 

Moggy

Edited June 8, 2014 by Francis Meyrick

[Francis Meyrick]

[tradford]

Hey Francis, this is the only one I've got that includes references to flowers - even a rose!

 

Amber Rae

 

Amber Rae was born that way,
with eyes so big and blue,
with golden hair and skin so fair –
as soft as morning dew.

 

Painted toes of scarlet-rose,
her sandals couldn’t hide –
behind would sail the ponytail
her older sister tied.

 

Amber liked to ride her bike
the mile or so to school
when traffic flow was fairly slow –
on mornings dry and cool.

 

Before her trip, she’d stop to clip
some blooms for Mrs. Berne,
the small bouquet was Amber’s way –
her thanks for all she’d learned.

 

Off she went, a brief descent
and then a hill to climb –
a steady pace – no need to race,
she’d get there just in time.

 

But half-way there – between a pair
of trees that lined the street
was Orville Wells – just tossing shells
of peanuts at his feet.

 

He’d learned about this common route
that children took to school –
he’d stand and wait in hopes that fate
would send a precious jewel.

 

A prior charge, but still at large –
he’d fallen off the grid
and thought it best to travel west,
where he grew up as a kid.

 

A broken home was all he’d known,
and raised more like a pet –
there came the day he ran away,
but swore he’d not forget.

 

Thoughts he’d keep were buried deep,
but spoke from time to time –
he’d follow suite and execute
a truly heinous crime.

 

He had no choice but feed the voice
that raged inside his head,
with little girls in bows and curls –
he’d rape and leave for dead.

 

His twisted mind could always find
a rational excuse,
despite the tears that came from years
of torment and abuse.

 

Poised to strike – he’d spot a bike,
an angel on her steed –
a treat to clinch, that’s sure to quench
the beast he had to feed.

 

Amber Rae was on her way
and now in Orville’s view –
he’d grab the lass before she passed,
and down the road he flew.

 

Left behind, the search would find
a bike – out in the street,
a basket filled with daffodils
and the sandals from her feet.

 

But passersby had heard her cry
and glanced at Orville’s plate
that cops would trace by database
to the home of a prior mate.

 

They reached the site by dark of night –
a cabin on a hill
where Orville brought the girls he caught
when he got the urge to kill.

 

The subtle hue a candle threw
suggested he was near –
a team of SWAT would comb the lot,
all dressed in special gear.

 

The stark abode was off the road
and far from neighbors’ view,
where scent of death would take their breath –
like a nightmare coming true.

 

They stepped through waves of shallow graves
in freshly-harrowed ground –
where each contained what still remained
of children never found.

 

They’d softly trek to reach the deck,
and when they first arrived –
they paused to pray that Amber Rae
would still be found alive.

 

Then the team would hear a scream,
and crashing through the door –
a muzzle placed at Amber’s face
would even up the score.

 

They tried to bait, negotiate,
do anything they could –
but nothing said would lend a shred
of doing any good.

 

Orville’s choice would quell the voice
he’d heard for quite a while –
his pistol-lead would strike instead,
a tortured pedophile.

 

He hit the floor, a threat no more,
a killer now at peace –
a fatal blow would cause a flow
his body would release.

 

The pool would meet with Amber’s feet
and touch her painted toes –
a startled-glint of matching-tint,
a shade of scarlet-rose.

[aeroscout]

An eskimo loo.

That imagery is genius.

I can only compare it to the same kind of imagery that is evoked when what a bear does in the woods is mentioned !

[tradford]

Did you say "Eskimo"?

 

Dead Horse Creek

Based on a story by
Rick Eskew

 

In nineteen and ten, five adventurous men
headed out to the treacherous cold –
and propelled by their hope, would engage the North Slope
in pursuit of their fortunes in gold.

 

So ‘Big Bill’ was there with his buddy ‘Sinclair’
and a guy they referred to as ‘Slick’ –
there was ‘Roger McCoy’ and another old boy
that his buddies would call ‘Yukon Dick’.

 

But none of the five were discovered alive
when they failed to return from their trek –
one could only surmise how they met their demise,
because no one was left to suspect.

 

The weather was grand when their journey began
and the first forty miles were a breeze –
but their failure to dread any hardships ahead
only put their minds falsely at ease.

 

They felt the first blast up at Atigun Pass
when a blizzard blew up from below –
so they burrowed in tight to stay warm for the night
and awoke ‘neath a mountain of snow.

 

Their visions of gold helped them cope with the cold,
but their strength had begun to decline –
and their long arctic stroll would be taking its toll
by the time they hit week number nine.

 

They were aching and damp when they got to a camp
at a place where the trail seemed to end –
where the path they endured was completely obscured
by the drifts from the snow and the wind.

 

So they followed a tune to a canvas saloon
where a man on a banjo would play –
and they shuffled inside in their search for a guide
who would take them the rest of the way.

 

They walked to the bar and behind a cigar
was a man they called Eskimo Joe –
he was covered with hair and looked more like a bear
that was dressed for a hundred-below.

 

They stated their need and when Joseph agreed,
they would all celebrate with a beer –
and then after some rest, they continued their quest,
adding Eskimo Joe and his gear.

 

The creek at Dead Horse marked the end of their course –
where they’d chosen to stake out their claim,
and soon every man would be wielding a pan
as he searched for his fortune and fame.

 

But Joe took his pay and was off on his way
on a path that would take him due south –
so he yelled a goodbye with a gleam in his eye
and a half a cigar in his mouth.

 

The five would aspire for the chance to acquire
little traces of glittering dust –
though the water that flowed never yielded a lode,
the reward would be far from a bust.

 

At the end of each day, they would measure their pay
with a scale that kept everything fair –
so that each one would know, as their fortune would grow,
the amount that each member would share.

 

Then one day, McCoy – up from south Illinois,
was found lying face-down in the creek –
though he hadn’t been done by a knife or a gun,
he was felled by some other technique.

 

The five was now four and the aggregate score
would be shared by the ones that remained –
but they couldn’t relax from the fear of attacks,
‘till the death of their friend was explained.

 

Their work would resume and the profits would bloom
as they took what the creek had to give –
and the share of McCoy brought them bittersweet joy
‘cause they all would prefer that he’d lived.

 

To make matters worse, their indigenous curse
once again brought the reaper around –
and their friend, Yukon Dick, who’d been hit with a stick,
was found lying there dead on the ground.

 

They each grabbed a pick and they buried old Dick
then divided his bounty by three –
and the added largesse made it anyone’s guess
as to who the next victim would be.

 

The angst and the spite caused the trio to fight
when the stress became too much to bear –
and the sight of Big Bill being ready to kill
gave the others a sobering scare.

 

Some words would be tossed and the light would be lost
when the lantern was knocked to the dirt –
by the time it returned, the remaining two learned
that Big Bill had been fatally hurt.

 

He was lying in mud that was formed from his blood,
with his bowie knife stuck in his gut –
and since both would deny having caused him to die,
the discussion was open and shut.

 

So, now that the crew was reduced to just two,
they would take all the gold that he had
and the tundra became his eternal domain –
was an ending both tragic and sad.

 

Since they had all the gold they could possibly hold,
it was time to leave Dead Horse behind –
so they packed up their gear while the weather was clear
and the trail was still easy to find.

 

They walked by the space where the markers were placed
on the mounds that were covered with snow –
and the thought of the men who were buried within
only caused their resentment to grow.

 

‘Cause each one believed that the other deceived
and was planning to go for the rest –
that he’d silently creep while the other would sleep,
just to bury a knife in his chest.

 

Slick was in back and was on the attack
with some words that would anger Sinclair –
there was no way he’d wait for an uncertain fate,
so they’d settle things right then and there.

 

He pulled out a gun as Sinclair tried to run,
and a bullet went right through his thigh,
but he got off a round as he fell to the ground
and hit slick in the white of his eye.

 

Slick would be dead from a shot to the head
and Sinclair would just bleed in the snow –
he could only hang on ‘till the following dawn,
for a death that was painful and slow.

 

Now, one might contend that the story should end
like so many ill-fated campaigns,
since the last of the five was no longer alive –
just the silence of frozen remains.

 

But a native cadet from the Barrow Gazette
was intrigued by a tale being told
by a local tycoon with a fancy saloon
that he’d purchased with ounces of gold.

 

His tale would begin with a group of five men
who had sailed from the mainland below –
and to settle an itch to be terribly-rich,
they would challenge the ice and the snow.

 

But they died one-by-one, from a knife, stick or gun,
by a killer who’d never be placed –
no record or facts of who’d planned the attacks
and no clues that could ever be traced.

 

Though he loved the suspense, he was less than convinced,
but the owner would swear it was so,
as he sat at the bar with his Cuban cigar –
“or my name isn’t Eskimo Joe!”

[Francis Meyrick]

"This crazy old duck from Nantucket

Decided one day to chuck it

He'd march to the beat

of his own happy feet,

and anyone else go f...."

 

 

[aeroscout]

The writing and poetic talent of Moggy goes largely unnoticed.

 

What is it going to take for this guy to get the recognition and accolades he so richly deserves ?

[Pohi]

You two should date, there is obviously a man crush that should be explored to its fullest.

[tradford]

Did you say "date"?

 

Cyber-Date

A fellow named Stan was a real homely man,
but was also a kind, decent guy,
a true social drone who lived all alone
and was known for his being quite shy.

 

“A real boring life”, said a friend to his wife,
“the man’s never been on a date,
he keeps to himself with his heart on a shelf,
what the man really needs is a mate!”

 

His one greatest fear – the rejection he’d hear,
was a fact he was certain about,
his appearance was bleak so his chances were weak
that a lady would ever go out.

 

His laugh had a sound like an old basset hound
that was howling so loud at the moon,
and his high-pitchy voice was an excellent choice
for a character in a cartoon.

 

It didn’t look good that he’d date like he should,
he was always self-conscious of looks,
but he handled his tears and his deep-seated fears
by immersing himself in his books.

 

An ad that he’d seen in a sports magazine
touted services wrought with success,
for a fairly small bill and a form he would fill
with some details he’d have to confess.

 

His big chance at last and a way he could cast
a new image that no one could see,
some traits he would list with a very slight twist
using keys on his office PC.

 

His own profile page would then set the stage
to serve as the finest of bait,
a bright shiny lure and bound, he was sure,
to find him the most perfect mate.

 

A real painful task, the questionnaire asked
for some details that didn’t feel right,
it seemed pretty clear that if he was sincere,
he wouldn’t get one single bite.

 

The last thing he’d want was a picture in front,
a mug shot was too hard to hide,
for most in a dress, it would only distress
and could even make small children cry.

 

They wanted to know of his shape – head to toe,
not the best light that he could be in,
but he used lots of Nair to remove all the hair
from his knuckles, back, belly and chin.

 

A bit plump and bald, he wasn’t that tall,
but in text he’d embellish a bit,
an inch here and there, after all – who would care?
The uglier parts he’d omit.

 

His big Hobbit feet were a bit less than sheik
in the open-toed sandals he wore,
when he tried to secure a complete pedicure,
they hurriedly showed him the door.

 

His skin – pale and white, like he came out at night,
he would edit a bit to enhance,
some others he’d bend, then he’d hit the word “send” –
was his last step to finding romance.

 

Days would go by and he’d get no reply
from the message containing his boast,
then when surfing one day, some good luck came his way
in the form of an interesting post.

 

A lady named Joyce would be seeking a choice
and used the same service as Stan,
a sexy young lass who was known to have class –
she was searching the Net for a man.

 

The profile she sent, though sincerity meant,
just promoted her positive traits –
she’d made her own list, though some details were missed,
like Stan – she was casting out bait.

 

The photo she chose simply failed to disclose
many features except for her smile,
but he wouldn’t reject what he couldn’t inspect –
at the meeting he’d just reconcile.

 

Some help from the Net, now his date was all set
with the girl he was anxious to meet,
so he mustered the nerve – got a table reserved
at a little café down the street

He raced for the place at a spirited pace
while not knowing if she’d even show,
for maybe a bloke was just playing a joke,
with email you don’t really know.

 

The first to arrive, he would sashay inside
and secure them a table for two –
then he stared at the door with the hopes he would score,
he didn’t know what else to do.

 

An image prepared from the emails they shared
was his vision of for how she should look,
he checked every trait as he searched for his date –
he’d be there as long as it took.

 

He sat in his chair with a most anxious stare
as the single young ladies appeared –
not one did he miss but not one matched his list,
a no-show was just what he feared.

 

From his seat he could see that the head Maître d'
had a guest who was looking his way,
a woman of sorts wearing Bermuda shorts –
but it couldn’t be her! Oh! No way!”

 

Her profile would state she had low body-weight
and a head full of lovely red hair,
but what now met his eye looked a bit like a guy
who could likely use some of his Nair.

 

She’d not give him fits, but her legs and her pits
showed she favored a “natural” style,
and so short was she – eye-to-eye they would be,
but she did have a beautiful smile.

 

Her “tiny physique” was a tad bit unique,
a model she never would be –
she hadn’t been graced with a beautiful face,
but then again – neither had he.

 

Her “baby blue eyes” were a bit large in size
or maybe they just looked that way
through glasses so thick that she couldn’t see Dick
who was standing a few feet away.

 

He rose to his feet with a gentleman’s greet
and he thanked her for joining him there –
some small-talk to make as they waited for steak,
while neither could help but to stare.

 

Was then they could see, things purported to be
were not necessarily fact –
that guilty were they, neither willing to say
what was true – but to put on an act.

 

Both would confess as the lunch date progressed
until very few secrets remained,
and so it did seem that the hopes and the dreams
of the two were exactly the same.

 

Chewing his meat, Stan had started to speak
when a big piece got stuck in his throat,
and his failure to clear led to panic and fear –
he was sure that was all that she wrote.

 

His look of despair as he struggled for air
would convince her she needed to act –
the choice that she made was to jump to his aid
and to get him the air that he lacked.

 

As Stanley would wheeze, she would give him a squeeze
just until the obstruction was clear –
when still headed south, she would give mouth to mouth
until danger was no longer near.

 

Stan was impressed and was feeling so blessed
that he thanked her for saving his life –
then down on one knee like he’d seen on TV,
he would ask her if she’d be his wife.

 

Of course, she’d accept while both of them wept –
a moment that Hallmark would treasure,
and neither would miss living life filled with bliss –
and joy that no mortal could measure.

 

A bond that began with an Internet plan
would result in a grand wedding day
and a honeymoon night that would turn out just right,
because – beauty’s a light switch away!

[Francis Meyrick]

6 hours 4 minutes in the sky today, so only just spotted this...

 

 

I tend to think the world is over full, choc full, breaking point, of people running around seeing recognition, accolades, publicity, book deals, la-di-dah, and whatever. Who cares. Look at all these silly politicians, who don't understand Free Enterprise Economics, don't read History, but arrogantly presume they know what is best for you and I. And are willing to dictate what is best for you and I... Duh? Narcissism elevated to an Olympic event.

 

I'm happy just blogging away. Perfect freedom is seeking no reward. People like reading my stuff - great! People don't like it - great! Hopefully they like something else, and are not all negative about everything in this world. (as some people are) I get a lot of really nice, encouraging emails and messages, and that's nice. Kind of spurs you on. But it's not the main deal. Recognition? Amigo. Who cares.

 

If you sit back and ponder this silly world, and the fundamental Absurdity of Man, you soon realize we know nothing. We might just discover some of the questions, but the answers?

 

The boundary between poetry and writing blurs sometimes, and some of my bloggies are on the edge I guess between the two. Writing silly is fun, like the old Duck from Nantucket, and sometimes you put a lot more feeling into it. I don't have an agenda, or a plan, or an objective. I just... blog. People laugh at my writing, I laugh right along. It's no big deal.

 

Of the more 'feeling' efforts, some of my favorites -for some reason- are these ones below. Kind of poetry I'm told, kind of prose. I came close there to expressing something that I think is important for me.

 

I offer it, not as some world shattering Pultizer Prize winning bravissimo ('cos it's not) but just as a blog. Some will think it's Art. Some will mock it. Again, who cares? Mock away. I know I'm really not fussed.

 

Enjoy, if you can, and if not, no biggie, I hope you find other writers, or other outlets, that you DO enjoy.

 

Peace...

 

 

"Over the Waves, Alone"

 

"Starry, starry Night"

 

"The Road of Light"

 

"I am flying"

 

The Little Bird off Slea Head (1)

 

Exile

 

I hope some of you might enjoy those.

 

And just to balance it up, I did blog a silly last night!

 

"At the peak of his haughty career,

He looked at the world with a sneer

Then he simply forgot

Carb heat to HOT,

And now he's no longer here..."

 

[aeroscout]

You two should date, there is obviously a man crush that should be explored to its fullest.

Don't be jelly.

[Flying Pig]

maybe some KY jelly......

[Francis Meyrick]

Caution - Small Man Rhyming

 

[Francis Meyrick]

I enjoy poetry. It's the ability of somebody to "suggest": with very few words, and I get to fill in the blanks, and let my tiny mind roam.

 

May I put in a plug for a poetry book I've recently really enjoyed. It's called:

 

"The Mountain Poems of Stonehouse" translated by Red Pine. Copper Canyon Press.

 

Stonehouse was a 14th century Buddhist monk who became a mountain hermit. He never knew helicopters, but -close- he knew Nature real well. If he came to visit today, in a Time Warp, he'd be tickled pink at the chance of a helicopter ride. When I read his stuff, I'm always struck by how, in essence, nothing has changed. The human quest is still the Great Mystery, the Awesome Journey. The Ticket to Ride, the ticket to the Movie in which you star.

 

Here's one he wrote, that merits a second read:

 

"A human life lasts one hundred years

but which of us gets them all

precarious as a hut made of hatch

or a leaking boat in a storm

mediocre monks are pathetic

would-be masters are sadder still

the world's empty ways aren't new

some days I shut my old door tight."

 

(and I wrote "My hut in the sky" after reading his...)

 

[cburg]

To move, to breathe, to fly, to float,
To gain all while you give,
To roam the roads of lands remote,
To travel is to live.

Hans Christian Andersen

[Francis Meyrick]

I am the pin ball

[Francis Meyrick]

 

 

You two should date, there is obviously a man crush that should be explored to its fullest.

 

Pooh-EE...

 

Are there those in whom we sense

A certain haughty, cold pretense?

The oozing out of every pore

The vitriol of a forum bore?

 

I marvel when an ego soars

Racing up so many floors

When, magnificent in his mind

He heaps his judgment on Mankind.

 

When he stoops down to the potty

When his talk is simply snotty

I guess he thinks he’s mighty funny

unaware his nose is runny.

 

Toilet talk is kinda fooey

Even if your name is Pooey

Groveling in a turgid gutter

Is not the way we earn our butter...

 

 

Edited July 4, 2014 by Francis Meyrick

[Francis Meyrick]

 

 

maybe some KY jelly......

To Little Piggies

 

 

Little Piggy, flying or not

Kindergarten taught you a lot?

I guess you think you’re kinda witty

But isn't your humor kinda shitty?

 

When you passed the second grade

did you think you had it made?

perhaps it's time to turn the page

consider acting up your age?.

 

A little kindness and good cheer

Really trumps a snide cruel jeer

IF... you’re professional in your days

Be less bullying in your ways.

 

These words are meant in mellow riposte

Free of charge and zero cost

I am your simple servant throughout

Francis Meyrick, humbly devout.

 

 

[tradford]

Veeeeerrry cleaver!

[aeroscout]

Good stuff Moggy !

[cburg]

by Karen Ravn:

Only as high as I reach can I grow,
Only as far as I seek can I go,
Only as deep as I look can I see,
Only as much as I dream can I be.