Stumpy

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I lift, I try, I try to fly
My wings I flex to do those tricks
My mother does, my father does
But I’m still just a ball of fuzz.

I know you’re s’posed to flap a bit
To work those muscles, not just sit
But here I stay, feet on the ground
My wings I think must be unsound.

They’re stumpy, there’s no doubting it
They’ve no real feathers I admit
But maybe if I flex them lots
My wings will grow and you’ll see what’s

The outcome when I grow  so tall
With feathers  great and neck so long
I’ll be a fine fellow with a honking call
And you’ll look at me and be enthralled

And we won’t recall this little bit
When wings are wrong and just don’t fit
Will we?

Verse and photo copyright Englepip©

Daily Prompt: Game Ranger

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The bush creaks with the sounds of dryness.

The dust rises beneath our feet.

It seems impossible in this desert

That any animals can survive

And yes we have seen them;

The browsing giraffes and the

Klipspringer, mountain antelope,

And if there are ungulates, there are

Carnivores.

How many times have you seen

Lion in this remote location of

Mapungubwe? Many.

Right here where we are standing?

Right here? Where you are standing.

The rifle is real. It is for

protection from wild creatures

And more especially wild

Poachers,

The scourge of the bush,

The lame human beings persuaded

To kill for a pittance

So that the rich corruptors can

‘Make a kill’ at their expense

And at the cost of a life

The life of a dying out beast.

I carry a rifle.

You feel safe.

We gain courage.

We watch carefully

Every movement in the bush

And our eyes never rest for long

Between the rifle and the trees

And even the stones

Which have a habit of turning

Into something else if you do not yet

Know how to look.

The heat pervades our skin;

We feel malaise.

It is time to retreat from this

Ancient, rocky outcrop

And seek the breeze of a

Moving Land Rover.

 

Words and photo copyright to Englepip ©

 

 

 

via Daily Prompt: Courage

Daily Prompt: Rubes versus city slickers

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noun, Informal.

1.

an unsophisticated person from a rural area; hick.
I don’t know if poverty produces rubes
Or if they just exist because they are
Unaffected, innocent, not classy
Living in the country.
Perhaps there are no rubes in Africa
Perhaps there is just
Money and no money.
Food and no food.
Clothes and making do.
Perhaps the unsophistication
Is borne out of hard physical labour
With no time to loll about
As wastrels laughing at others
And tricking them out of the little they have.
In the country living is hard
Transport is little and you must
Walk and carry and work to exist
Trusting others to help
Because your survival
Depends upon it.
Perhaps the city slickers
Are scarred, damaged and hard
Replacing the  warmth of village life
With meanness and materialism.
But perhaps their sophistication
Is enviable; perhaps not.
Perhaps innocence is praiseworthy;
Perhaps not.
Maybe we just have to exist separately.
And try not to insult each other.
It is the first time I have come across the word rube. I immediately thought which pictures I might have of unsophisticated people from a rural area and I found this shot from my time in Africa. There is poverty everywhere in Africa but the difference between city slickers and countryside dwellers is most noticeable when country people move to the city and get taken advantage of.
Words and photo by Englepip copyright ©

via Daily Prompt: Rube

Daily Prompt: White Rose

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A winter’s day

And already the sun is low on the horizon

A chill creeps through the air

As the light sinks.

The graveyard settles into shadow

And night.

At my feet lie the dead.

Buried beneath the cold clods

Stones at their heads that read

Of poetic loss and grief at their passing.

“Beloved son”, “Loving mother,”

“Sacred to the memory.”

The once living

Now lie inanimate,

Six feet under.

Waiting: for what?

For eternity, for heaven or for hell?

Certainly, their release from this life passed,

Is there death, new life, resurrection?

For this is a Christian place.

As I turn to go,

I retrieve a discarded rose,

White and innocent in the dewy grass

And I place it on the moss-covered  wall

Between the sacred land and the unconsecrated.

Is it for me to sympathise in death or

To celebrate of the life to come?

 

We shall all find out in time.

 

Words and photo copyright to Englepip©

via Daily Prompt: Sympathize

Daily Prompt: Omniscient eye

 

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Your eye catches mine

And in an instant I am drawn

To your unblinking stare

Which digs deep into

My soul.

That eye drills

Into my very being

And holds me

To account.

Who could surmise

That such innocence

Was so omniscient.

 

I was travelling by bus when this child – no more than 18 months and sitting on its mother’s knee in front me, captured my attention, staring unblinking into my own eye. Seemingly the toddler could see my very thoughts. It was an eerie experience which I have remembered for years. I had to look away to break the spell. The title in the daily prompts brought it all back to me, now.

Photo and poem copyright Englepip ©

via Daily Prompt: Blink