We lost the meaning of Mistake somehow
And only think it bad.
Ms. never gave us anything
But what we never had.
This never knowing what we’ll get
Is what we cannot stand.
There’s no history in Mystery,
No known glory in the unplanned.
Ms. keeps us moving forward,
Mr. does the same.
They’re the only way we’ll ever hit
Better than our aim.
Sticks and stones may break your bones,
Words can hurt your feelings.
The double danger is hearts are homes
And might even hold more parts unknown
That don’t come as easily to healing.
Sticks, stones and words all hurt when hurled –
War’s our very best way to waste.
They should instead be careful placed
With love and thought right tightly swirled
To build a better backward world.
There’s an old lady whose shoes,
Walk whichever direction they choose;
Her feet think it’s wrong,
She just tags along,
That compliant old lady in shoes.
There was a young lad with a map,
That led him to a baited mouse trap;
He couldn’t resist,
The poor boy will be missed,
He’s still stuck in that trap on his map.
There was an old lady of Sydney,
Who made the fair mayor look a ninny;
She painted his suit,
Pink, yellow and cute,
That anarchic old lady of Sydney.
When Dad says, “You have to bathe!”
I say take a good laughter bath.
Best to go where the laughs are at.
(Half the fun’s dealing with the aftermath.)
First, you’ll need a tub.
And then, whatever else.
The things that make you giggle, bub,
Will keep you in good health.
I start with chatty ears.
Then add a snob warthog.
You’ll laugh to cheerful tears, my dears,
‘Cause this bath’s a happy hug.
Fill it up with your guffaws.
Toss in plums that growl and bark.
Time to off your awful blahs
In your majestic chuckle ark.
Mine has tock ticking clocks.
Use whatever scrubs off troubles.
I like to soak in singing socks
And great gray gravy bubbles.
Forget a soapy shower.
Filth’s a state of mind!
Fill your tub with joyful power
And you’ll be shiny fine.
Drawn by Jennifer. More of her art here.
Flee, little one, flee.
Flee from anyone
Calling you “little one”.
You’d crush them.
You wouldn’t try.
Wouldn’t want to!
But if they lack
A working eye
Or love too much
This little lie
Of smallish you
And them up high…
What can you do
But fly, little one, fly.
If books were people I’d keep me closed,
A done tale is a safe one.
A done tale doesn’t bite.
This dovetails nice with my fear of foes –
The fierce fishmoth (both bug and fish?)
And the termite’s mighty blight.
I must protect my poemy prose
By trusting that no one can fight
A thing that no one knows.
Indeed I’d be forever closed
If need – yes need! – however slight,
Of knowing where the next tale goes
Had not been so polite as to impose.
But for that, I suppose,
I’d be forever closed.
Our train has left the track!
It hopped right off, it will not stop,
And it’s never going back!
Should I confess? It’s all my fault.
I wouldn’t sit, ran back and forth,
Rocked it out of balance and knocked us off our course,
And now this disastrain isn’t gonna halt!
It’s not that bad, I guess.
Where we were headed I didn’t really want to go,
Though I can’t recall just where it was
It must have been so bad I didn’t want to know,
So to our new course I say, “Yes and yes!”
Oh, no and no! We’ve gone over a cliff!
The ground is dropping off!
Dropping off? This here’s no train.
I’m pretty sure we’re on a plane.