Lady Tinkerbell has pixie dust and hides in a cage of trust

only those who she allows in does she barter her powder of gust.  

Let the fairy be as she may, her work is never done in a day

she can’t help but be of her own beautiful and curious way.  

She has so much love trapped under the scars in her heart

and with the lessons of her past much wisdom to impart. 

So open her locked trust chart by navigating dashing cove

to gain her words and remember as you wonder life’s grove.

Her peace is vital, to her soul’s true survival as it is for all fey

little as a fairy or as big as a mermaid to hear what you say.  

Her words get jumbled when jitters keep her emitters jammed 

if mind space relay’s small static cache becomes fully crammed.  

Loud noises and hostilities are modifiers to her anxieties activities 

start with dimming lights and find pacifiers to calm her frequencies.

Walk soft and whisper, disable things noise cutting in air divides 

and practice gliding through her world on your feets and strides.

She too is a native creature, immeasurably wise in this place you see

the woods grew around her people securing her connection to the tree.  

With years your elder and time chasing the flee, respect her land 

as she has learned to see deep into the footsteps of hearts strand.

Soft eyes of fey and magic tree tie, she sees fractals like a honey bee 

buzzing into the hearts of us wild ones and who we are meant to be.  

So, boggling mis-angled truths not or she will loose faith in plan 

avoid loosing her trust at all cost as she is there to help if she can.

She opens up her precious fairy world and will offer you her hand

under her own will, in trust, outstretched, but not under command. 

So fill it with respectful requests only when you have needs of urgency 

and she will do her best to fill your world and heart with detergency.  

Stress her tiny busy and unbelievably thin fragile wings not, as they 

currently hold too much always buzzing away and can easily fray.  

They are busy keeping her world beautiful and clean so remember

the strain they are under is her’s a lone, she needs no defender.

Her wings cary a load of yesterday’s strain and may struggle to convey 

that even though those burdens are great she managed to fly today. 

Follow her lead, those vibrant, dark; determined wings reach great speed 

so keep up wild thing, respect and listen for her caution; take heed.  

She knows about the pirates, Captain Hook, Mr. Smee, and of their band 

she will tell you the amazing story how Peter Pan took Hook’s hand.

She will tell you of their ship that they hide their rum in, turned about 

tucked, in a racing, rock shard vein, under this island’s bloody snout. 

Tales of the frightening bangs of its guns, and the pirates toll, 

all birthed dirty again to Hook’s control, as he consumed their soul.  

His power…always more to fill their bowl. 

Related:

https://theprose.com/post/218878/lost-boy-boo-s-blue-dancing-shoes

Welcome, you have arrived

Art Soul Procrastination Station

Neverland Inspiration Authority

Now arriving: Word World

Now departing: Paint Planet

Warning, all departures final

It was the sunset and the rolling whooshing sound of the waves that returned me to those beaches.  I imagine my footprints are left in the sand strata showing my growth into a boy, later into a young man, and finally, one day, an old man suddenly veering off into the sea. My story will run that following friday in the local paper--a story about a man not deceased but now swimming with the mermaids that bathed upon the sandy shores of his fantastical beach world.

She wore her dark long hair like that of a island mare, flowing freely in the wind.

Her skin was an impenetrable silk coat, polished perfect, shining magnificent bronze.

She had glowing eyes promising to reflect forever in sunsets and hang the moon.

Her smile, was a pure moon beam that illuminated my dreams, singing giggling waves.

I knew immediately this girl, with feathers in her hair, was the wild girl known by crows.

I challenged her hatchet smile stare mounted atop rainbow horned mare; love if you dare.

There was once a boy who found no where to be and no where to go 

so he locked himself away in his dreams forever a boy in his Neverland.

He got lost and found some new friends, chasing fairies with his hair in the wind

as he learned how to stand listening to the jams of the Lost Boy Band.

A war cry may echo and boom

from a green boy flying by singing like a loon.  

His boys are wild and his monster will not tame,

but be warned his is not a child friendly game.  

The demon in his eyes stands at the end of bed frames

measuring the scope of their sleeping maims.

His friends grew old and forgot all their names and sit waiting to fill holes of the bowls that pirates chew like jerk in rue.  

Bangarang! is his cry and it will ripple through the sky

as his taunts and laughs rain coy sly.

With threats that playfully challenge as they attempt to say bye

to the catcher of a metaphorical rye.  

He is there to harden your resolve, to help you evolve,

encourage you to solve, all that you are as you reach for the why.

So when you hear his thundering presence above

look for the boy wearing green flying like a dove.

Peter Pan is his name and his role is not for you,

your destiny is different than what he must do. 

His freedom comes at a price that is not new,

something that pulls at his smiles and twists his time through and through.

There was a wild girl who ran free here once upon a time, 

she too knew how to rhyme.  

The price of his crow call wry, the wail of his war cry,

and his ability to fly.

She paid in flesh of bust and musk

as ashes were shared with wind and dust.

And now his lonely frozen heart is filling with rust

as his pen finds words with lust.  

It's the pain he carries within; a gift she gave to him,

and that which he is trying to convey to you. 

She was the girl those crow feathers

and hatchet once belonged to.

Sharpened and cleaned these rarities

reflect teamed solidarities in their similarities.  

With crow feathers perched in hair - a warning to those who dare,

you too are wild thing of crow; screaming beware.  

Their memory will still know the laugh and smile stair

of the wild girl who rode a rainbow horned mare.  

A girl with blood of the natives and soul trying to get through,

a wild thing like you. 

She was packed with courage and always asking who;

you must carry these items now, so you may make it too.  

With the hatchet in hand no obstacle will stand

against a graceful demand it's rumored in the tales of dry land.. 

She moved mountains back then and told stories firsthand

of giant ancients kneeling on command.

She will remain forever precious in the hearts of Neverland,

especially that of Peter Pan and the Lost Boy Band.

The girl of crow if you must know -

was none other than the one from which his stories grow.  

She was Tiger Lily: princess to be and source of his happy thought's shiny glow.

Now you know of Peter Pan and received his gift of feathers for hair and hatchet in hand. 

Turn on your shine's glow and know this is his Neverland -

it's time you find your own spat of dry land. 

It's only when the city sleeps

and I can feel quite alone

that my jams can take me

by the wrist and let my

heart slow just a little bit.

They take me to a place

where my art soul is freed

to sing with it's heart open

as it plays words and paints

pretty things me just being me.

This place is my own Neverland

where I imagine I'm Peter Pan

and it's a time before Wendy

where I'm always chasing Tiger Lily

and forever stuck at twenty two.

I don't have to adult there

playing my games of make believe

painting what I want to see

and writing who I want to be

often thinking about my Tiger Lily.

My greatest works come at night

when the city is fast asleep

it's almost a feeling of peace

that resonates deep in my heart

some how it knows it's alone.

That's when it sends out beautiful

as my mind is not distracted

and my guard is under foot

while I play dance and sing

just being young wild and free.

There is a band of boys here that will seem quite out of place;

as lost as you, like a wrong turn in a race. 

These lost boys are as welcome as rats in vats;

claimed by none, known for their spats, like feral cats.

Beware their enchanting ballads of entrancing bass,

as they will melt your face and invade brain space.

They come strewing showers of caws and croos:

sounds of shrieks and shrills like roosters with blues. 

They spit with slight and slink from sight like a monster moves:

roaming the woods at night hunting hidden truths. 

Nimble their feet dance wearing no shoes,

their bare callused feet tough as hooves. 

Their attitudes resemble rebels during ruse,

calibrating an ensemble of pebble sized treble chanting Boos. 

They covet the shine of true walking spine like yours and mine

and agitate at it’s gait prodding you like bait with hook and twine. 

They wish to pull with trite and bump you left to right

a long a rigged bog shrouded in fog of spite and blight.

Wry creatures, watching from shadows like bandits drunk on grog,

often obstructing the river’s bridge with club of log.

Jokers, demanding a troll toll of gold and raising tattered scroll

threatening to cast a fairy spell that consumes mortal soul.

Spark your flame, girl known by crows, and light your way

or these wicked things of woes will regard you as prey. 

Keep out of sight and your future bright with head of iron lined rind,

as these tricksters will attempt to bind and grind your minds eye blind.

Tune out The Lost Boy Band’s strum of lyrical madness’ note’s hum;

verses loose in rhyme, no meter or measure, at half broken thrum.

https://theprose.com/post/218641/lady-tinkerbell

Bugs in jugs and toads nailed to roads, 

deformed birds with no feather, and some creatures wrapped in leather.

Beasts that bite and sting; some even sing 

as you swat and swing, duck and dive, juke and jive!! 

Learn to dance, bounce as you go, 

keep tune with a hum and fashion a bow. 

Not all is as it seems with the new moon rise 

as it screams, “Sky Eaters play nice but the Bog Dwellers carry lice.” 

“They will catch you and cut you, 

slay you and flay you, boil you and eat you!”  

Run fast and true, loose arrows of bark and bamboo;

may they fly straight unto those who mean to undo.  

You are not a snack but a feast of fury whence flint fastened fletching frame flew 

You are a wild one with aim that can be trained true.

Learn to stalk and tiptoe at night, 

especially when your shadow is not in sight.

A trickster with no name it’s anything but tame, 

shenanigans are his game none ever the same.  

Like a dance in the rain or a run through thick cain 

it’s presence is disruptive if not vain.

Always looking to displace, wanting it’s own base 

your shadow will try to set the pace.

In the dark it finds it’s own spark and roams about like a lark 

trying to find a way to disembark.

With sure footing and practice sewing shoe 

I’m sure a bit of glue and twine will do.

If it get’s away just catch it by toe or two, 

wrestle it and sew it right back on to you.

Shadow’s of moons past need not have control, the monsters it’ll lead you to take a toll; 

change your direction and leave that shadow behind with your face full of shine.

Related:

https://theprose.com/post/218878/lost-boy-boo-s-blue-dancing-shoes

Image:

Pirate Hunter Tiger Lily - By OgawaBurukku

This place is alive with all manner of horrors that poke and pry, 

feast and fry, my oh my, you will surely die if you do not learn to fly.

The woods within contain mysteries and sin, 

shrouded by canopies filtering little light in.  

The dense forest is wicked and awful, wriggling with life,

 vines attack with vengeful strife.  

Narrow pathways full of briars and burs, 

thickets and thorns, spines and spurs. 

So watch your step as they wrap and weave, tentacles that grab 

tendrils of gnarl snag and scrape, catch and nab.

Even the flora continues to thrive in this murky creep hive, 

it doesn’t want you to leave here alive.  

So, do what you must to survive, the roots want your blood, 

they will drag your knees to the mud. 

Wrenching limb keep you within where the light is dim, the dank is grim, 

and the muck wears endurance thin, pulling at entangled hem.  

Do lighten your pack my dear, I fear this fen of swamps: the bogs of squish, 

poison dirk mere will not tolerate all you carry, all you need is a wish..  

Dump your purse and get it out of stifling grasp 

it’s weight is an anchor in your clasp.

Theres no need for non essential things, makeup, hand slings, 

these napkin puffy rings, these bundles of strings. 

Loose those shiny blings that sparkle on a strand, 

they will only draw a thief’s stitch close to vital gland.  

Draw only what you need into a pack with load fanned 

on shoulders across back and straps to expand.  

Choose carefully here you may only take two, 

go for versatility when picking your shoe.  

You are almost ready to get back on the trail, 

just pull out your cell phone and let it sail.  

I watched from my perch on the moon scratching feather capped crown with dirty hand;

who was this beautiful, long dark locked wild girl, I have found lost in my Neverland?

Related:

https://theprose.com/post/218878/lost-boy-boo-s-blue-dancing-shoes

On a late night flight somewhere between a now new and a once past then he heard the late night call of a woman who was obviously enthralled by the shifting shadows of the night and fresh to woke.

He took note to answer as strong as ever squak box voice taking approach to her plight like a pilot in flight calling the ball but drifting a bit off to the right. Confident and true but suppressing a rattled croo of rooster wry echoing mall; forgetting too the new battle call of bangarang!

Turning into a decent sprawl pattern of curious matters pondered upon approach he remembered you! A wild woman with mirrored monster mural girl knee high as to fit the size of the playscape moon tower thier friendship first passed through. You were a mermaid back then but the proximity of the encounter enlightened the hour of your maimed beach crawl.

The waves of Neverland rolled lapping at the carnage trailing your recent battle’s maw and cawl. 

No longer possessing your glittering tail that once fanned in tow of your command; its removal obviously over time and finally severing to necessary demand.

As his feet found land and their conversation began he could hear the pain of a girl, once a woman of mermaid kin bend on voice of clenched teeth subdued by the sand in night’s beverage within hand.

 He outstretched his band of friendship fingered hand and listened to story of a dashed mermaid parade in which the protagonist took form of a juvenile squire of poor form fight stuck in a spindled casing of rueful man.

The ending no shock was of flayed tail painting crimson sand; its bone structure now erecting posture into a stand. With new legs never possessed and stumbling on dry land he welcomed her to this magical place of Neverland. He noted she needs a new monster to embody her nature as she once again learns how to play and thew new challenge of dancing upon running feet arriving to once glittering tails stay.



With a new monster kind and the mermaids past of pain packaged and stowed away he offered the words of a fantastical world and advized as to say: Once you find your new monster who he’d suggest Hylarose to provide her with a name an ode to Hylonome of Ovid’s epic of old. 

Hylarose is a woman of Sagittarius; half goddess of sapian seed and matched whole as creature of thunderous locomotion with a flowing tail different to care in hair trailing determination toned thundering legs of a battle steed.

A beautiful centaur kin of old is the wild thing he could now see in your soul with a determined new view from dry land braced with a patiently crafted bow strapped to back and ornate javelin lancing in new body’s strand of hand. Your new erect posture holding position of charging composure with goddess mounted motion of four battle painted hooves and a javelin poised and target system manned.

A creature of metamorphosis now reigning the direction of your little mirror’s reflection: strong, radiant, and wholly without grasp of a petty man. 
Your hooves and strength now rooted to the soil of Neverland; your environment no longer poses threat of juvenile hand holding you under the shores beyond the sand. And, with javelin poised and little wild one trailing at side you adorn the skins of your past prizes of battle and ride up on the fresh strides and write your story in the sand of Neverland.



Paint yourself as he would see: a fierce warrior woman who now navigates across this world stronger reborn a modest goddess coming to reign a new world and promised the stars if she chooses pegasus wings; they will grow and elevate this new woman into the heavens of her own epic of old as an ode to Ovid and the story of Metamorphosis he told.

 Write a story as great as an epic and tell your story of an insect man who while admiring a picture of the fur clad woman. Transform that hidden wild thing into a woman as great as the one admired by Gregor in the novella written by Franz Kafka also named Metamorphosis. 



A woman admired for her beautiful outer form, wrapped in decadent fur skins, and posture lingering upon the mind’s eye’s memory. Leaving a view staggered upon the woman beneath the skins and the story untold by her pose. Here are two tickets to Neverland Inspiration Station; a place between two realms. World World in one hand and Paint Planet in the other.

 Good luck during your adventures on dry land and call if you ever need a friend or help unlocking that new presance bounding within.

Choose the destination and render ticket in savage slay soaked hand. A warning of departure is a note posted to all along the station tunnels domed grandstand. Choose your destination quickly as inspiration is in short demand. Departures are final but return trips linking these worlds are available once talent of ink or pigmented paint has been spilled from soul hole and your inner artist who hides under a blank canvas of fresh skins wrapped upon parchment of soul’s pages, blank awaiting a new chapter to begin.



These two worlds are just suggested locations to begin - I’m excited to hear where your journey takes you in the end!