"In forests soft with whispers, where quiet mountains sleep,
A gentle voice begins to paint the dreams that nature keeps.
He talks of happy little trees that never feel alone,
And shows the world that every brush can carve a world of its own.

He teaches calm and courage when colours choose to stray,
No panic in the chaos, just a new path on the way.
A stroke becomes a river, a dab becomes the sky,
And any little smudge can be a chance to let hope try.

He paints with gentle laughter, with kindness in his art,
Proving every masterpiece begins inside the heart.
And though the canvas changes with every line and gloss,
The peace within the painter lasts, a gift from Bob Ross.

So here stands this creation, where pixels meet the stream,
A mix of old and playful made from calm and childhood dream.
A tribute in bright colours to a soul who taught us this
That art is just a moment where the world feels filled with bliss."

"In Endor’s fields where blossoms grew in gentle, glowing dew,
Young Poppy Flumplewhiff skipped lightly as the morning grew.
Her basket brimmed with colours as she wandered calm and bright,
A drifting piece of quiet in the forest’s dappled light.

Then suddenly the treeline shook, the woodland peace betrayed,
As thrashing ferns announced the sort of chaos flowers hate.
A scout trooper came roaring past in blur and frantic streak,
Pursuing one lone rebel through the underbrush and teak.

They tore across her meadow like two hurricanes on wheels,
Leaving flattened daisies swirling in their wake of churned-up feels.
But Poppy, ever patient in her floral-fancy place,
Just plucked a fresher bouquet with a slightly raised eyebrow face"

"There once was a family at noon,

Who admired a “lovely bright moon.”

Till a laser beam flashed,

And the pavement was smashed,

As they embraced their impending Doom"

"In the hush of a hallway where families tread slow,
A painting hung proudly with warm golden glow.
Inside it stood Lara, mid–stride with her aim,
Till one quiet evening… she stepped from the frame.

No words, no announcement, no dramatic cue,
Just the soft tap of boots on the carpeted view.
She surveyed the surroundings, all homely and neat,
Then dashed down the stairs with her pixelled swift feet.

She vaulted toy boxes and dodged Lego pits,
Slid under a table that wobbled in fits.
She tiptoed past trainers left strewn by the door,
And clambered up bookshelves like cliffs to explore.

She scaled the tall laundry (a mountain of socks),
Tamed a wild Roomba who guarded the box.
She leapt from the banister, flawless and clean,
Landing right next to the washing machine.

Through bedrooms she travelled with nimble finesse,
Leaving footprints of crumbs in her pixelled distress.
She unearthed old treasure beneath someone’s bed,
A half-eaten biscuit and Barbie’s lost head.

She battled the hoover, a beast in its lair,
Rode the dog briefly who didn’t much care.
She found ancient relics in drawers left ajar,
Like hair ties, odd coins, and a plushy guitar.

But adventures grow heavy on tea-time’s soft wind,
And Lara knew well where her journey must end.
So back to the study she crept, calm and small,
Climbed into her painting and blended with all.

The owner walks past, unaware of the stray,
Entered the room at the end of the day.
They noticed faint footprints then muttered a sigh,
And straightened the painting as they wandered by.

Lara stood silent, returning their glance,
Not a whisper or nod… but a hint of mischance.
For though she’d explored every corner with glee,
She was back in her frame for her ritual tea.

The village match was finely poised, the scoreline tight and neat,
The bowler strutted down the run with victory at his feet.
The batsman braced, the crowd leaned in, the moment growing grave,
When suddenly the sky lit up like someone misbehaved.

A saucer dipped above the pitch, its beam a glaring streak,
And up went Terry, finest fielder, mid-catch of the week.
He vanished with a startled yelp, his cap left on the grass,
While players cried that losing him was frankly bang out of class.

The umpire paused, then calmly said with quintessential grace,
That play must carry on at once despite the missing face.
And though the match resumed that day with ten men on the rover,
No soul forgot the fateful beam in that unforgettable final over.