There was a witch of middle things
Who cared naught for the rest.
“The last are lost! The first are worse!
Sweet middles are the best!”

She may have been a middle child
Or middling in school.
But meddling in which was what
Is for the border fools.

To guess at what made her this way
Is dangerous, you know.
We might be right, we’re likely not,
And both put us opposed

To living in the middle way
The Middle Witch set out,
“May all the middles be well blessed
And fringes die in doubt!”

There’s something that the edges lack
For such a witch as she,
“What fools are they who flee their hearts
Out into strangest seas?”

What fear did she have of the ends
Where mysteries abound?
I wish someone had asked her that
When I was not around.

The odd have all trod
The withering ways
That lead to a need
For dithering days
Open to hopin’
For fluttering flights
Of songs to the wrongs
Gone muttering mights
All free to go flee
Through fountains of fine
Cool mist till they miss
These mountains of mine.

“Make the bed! Make the bed!”
Make it into what?
I tried it as a sandwich
Of banana – hazelnut –
Chocolate – honey – butter,
Then sealed that sucker shut.

“Make the bed! Make the bed!”
I did, I took a chance!
And now I’m nice and sticky
And rolling in the ants.
So I decided to go jungle,
Started trucking in the plants.

“Make the bed! Make the bed!”
My jungle bed had all!
Made with sloths and flowers,
Vines hanging from the walls,
Stocked with squawking birds
And stalking tigers out to maul.

Still the stickiest bed
In which I’ve ever laid.
Tigers are happy, full,
As they rest in jungle shade.
And I haven’t heard a word
Now that my bed is made.

Rem didn’t know.
He tried and tried,
He’d go and go
All bright-wide-eyed
But didn’t know.
He hopped and howled
And didn’t know,
Asked all the owls
And every crow
And all their pals
Who didn’t know.
He went and looked
Up high, down low,
Book after book
In heaps and rows,
On hill, in brook,
Still didn’t know.
He howled and hopped
And didn’t know,
Asked crooks and cops,
Both friend and foe
From depths to tops
And didn’t know
And didn’t stop
Until he knew
Enough not to.

Fragile went the Summer child,
Fragile down to plop and play,
Agile leapt the Winter wild,
Castles fell to make her way.

Winter went to join in games
When her chance to do so hit,
Entered into fortunes flames,
Winner mattered not a bit.

Summer fragile sat and smiled,
Summer loved her Winter friend,
From her oceans dark and riled
Swum her never meeting ends,

Drifting out to greet the old,
Swiftly pulling in her stores,
Lifting up the season’s gold,
Gifting all to poorer shores.

Happy went the Summer child,
Happy down to plop and play,
Clapping at her Winter wild,
Lapping up the falling days.

A mountain’s at its biggest from its bottom bare.
To think of mountain from the top is rare.
Birds aren’t much dazzled from the air.
And worms don’t know it’s there.

It’s a world of possibilities
That we all get to live in.
Of the folks who say what you can’t do,
All must be forgiven.

If you live life fully how can you lose?
So which choice to choose?
Pluck a hair from lion’s hide,
Go on a wildfire ride,
Dive off the tallest mountain top,
Do a lava belly flop,
Kiss a tiger on the nose,
Hug a cobra really close,
Swim through a killer hornet nest,
Go on the horseman’s headless quest,
Take a vampire on a date
To meet a werewolf who it hates –

You can do any one you wants!
But only one of them.
And only once.

The world is filled with many halls,
Warm, welcoming in many towns.

Wherever two or more are called
To meet they make warmth that abounds

Beyond the art of stars that fall
To splash the heat of hearts unwound,

However far, lost, cold or stalled –
A hall is open, to be found.

The world is filled with many walls,
On many hills, in many towns.
Great woods and mountains have been hauled
Off to be turned to borders, bounds.
However great, however tall,
However long they hold their ground –
All of them fall.
All
come
d
o
w
n.

Goblins all go
With hunger in tow
To sack and steal
And make a meal
Of long lost little toes.

And while I like their gobbling,
I find their cheffing wobbly,
They’ll eat a sock,
A toe-like rock
Will set those gobbles slobbering.

I’m all about
Fine food in snout,
But their taste
Long fled in haste –
I’m more of a goblout.