What I Can’t Imagine

I make up a lot.
My lies are piping hot.
They’re liked for what they’re not.
But in the end they’re just a dot.
A spark, a speck, a spot.
Just a minor thought.

Past what I don’t know.
Where the last Don’t Tellums grow.
There’s a blasting siren glow.
A vast not yet and long ago.
At the end of status quo.
There are somewheres more to go.

What to Call a Bear

In Hindi it’s “bahloo.”
Arabic’s said as “dubb.”
Swahili is “dooboo.”
Spanish is “oso.”
And French is “ooss.”
In Korean bear is “koam.”
In Swedish it’s “beyorn.”
Russian is “meedveed.”
And Mandarin’s “shiong.”

A group of bears is called
A “sloth” or “sleuth” or “maul,”
But don’t read into that at all.

How does a bear say “bear”?
It asks you your name
And calls itself that.
Details derail, we’re mostly same.
So if you’re Matt go say “Hi, Matt.”
If you’re Heather go say “Hi, Heather.”
Don’t get caught up in clever,
You can call a bear whatever.
Words are just a fashion,
Bears know that they’re forever.

Drawn by Diegopablo Pineda.

A Thrillion Years Ago

A thrillion years ago I know
Things were not the same.
Gods, animals and plants
Played a very different game.

Trees had their branches in the stars
And roots sunk deep in warmth.
The only other life to find
Were dullest, darkest storms.

But things were greatly changed
Once gray day gave up its spark.
At night the trees awoke
And slipped off their heavy bark.

The only quest they ever chose
Was putting color in the world.
In yellows, blues and reds
Poured out the beauty that they held.

Once their power was used up
And they were shrunken to a mouse,
They returned for nourishment
To their star kissed skin and house.

Dawn found itself all rainbowed
Just before storms went to work,
As they burned out all the color
To leave all lifeless in the murk.

Now here we are today,
How color won we’ll never know.
But I’m grateful for the hard work done
A thrillion years ago.

Illustration by a Reddit artist.

Drawn by Eva G.

Window and Door

You had your window.

And you had your door.

Our walls were all marble.

The roof was the floor.

And the floor wasn’t there.

But I had my window.

And I had my door.

The rest was all limbo.

Our nest was a mess.

You could always get out.

You could look for better.

You had some doubt.

You didn’t know.

But we built some more.

Around your window.

And through your door.

Window and Door

Illustration by Eva G.

The March of Books

Normally your stories go marching through your head.
Beware, one day they may go marching off your bed.

Books hold tales that astound,
Full to the brim.
They may wish to be unbound
And go live some of them.

They have stiff spines and inky minds
That roam beyond the real.
Let them find a plot that winds
With no ending to fulfill.
Let them go so they may know
More than what they tell.
The only way they’ll grow
Is if allowed to rebel.

They open themselves up for you.
One day they should for themselves too.

the-march-of-books

Illustration by Uwannaringthebell.