Bullish
 
The market is bullish,
   but the lonely pony died.
       A cockatoo rides a rainbow
           to the end of the line.

A yellow duck is chiseled
    in stone, it's bill is
         made up mud.

Why isn't the fire went?
    Because the eagles eyes
          are blind.

        The road to nowhere is
being repaved.








Serenade 
 
Lonely red hills bleached white,
scalded by the sun.
Early settlers rested here,
eating purple daisies. They
drank dark red wine,
made of brick.
Wolverines sleep well tonight.

Breakers pound orange shoals;
wind sings lilting melodies.
An old owl now chants, "Why." 
The follies of men hide under 
arid red rock. The world is 
a drunk raven.
 
The sky rains fire,
igniting purple sand. 
The cunning kangaroo,
is a jester in disguise.
The rose's sweet perfume,
stinks of oregano.

I wish the drunk orangutans would 
leave me alone. A chorus of old ladies
sing of what might have been.


 
 
 
Non-Euclidean

Low rumblings pierced the
sanguin sky.

Sleek and silken.

2+2 = 11.

Time has taken its toll, but
the grapes remain sweet.

Lilies of the field
flash grotesque smiles.

The wishing well reveals
broken coins and
stillborn wishes.

Purple cliffs cries sad laments;
they bay at the moon.

The lighthouse is
computer-generated.

Euclid would not approve.