Bear, Badger, Ghost came to the sea
Still wrapped up in the frost
Of winter morning’s leafless trees
That clung to them like moss
All having come to find out where
Their mountains had been lost.
Bear bent his world to woodland care
And Badger followed close
Or went ahead to scout about
As they came to the coast,
Though, truth be told, this walkabout
Was led by little Ghost.

Sharp Badger came collecting claws
From sharper things than she,
So the world softened in her paws
For those behind the three.

Bear, Badger, Ghost were of the woods
And came now to the sea.
For all they’d met of mad and good
They’d never met the sea,
Had never touched, nor been touched by
The deep and vengeful sea.
They heard a crashing, cracking cry
And clack of crescent claws,
They felt a flash of lightless eyes
That promised deeper gods,
They rushed to see through sea’s disguise
And meet the older laws.

Bear was a hillside that awoke
From dreams of ferns and fens,
To find both Ghost and Badger poked
Inside him in their dens.

At least there’s brooks that bubble
In hidden forest nooks
That aren’t so hidden if you should
Pick up to go and look.

At least there’s buggled bats
Along with those all flowered
Who’ll fly to the ends of night
To claim a cave or tower.

At least there’s honeyed bears,
At least there’s growling bees,
At least there’s color stealing leaves
Adorning thieving trees.

At least we have a world
Where anything’s a drum.
At least there’s ugly ducklings,
Whatever they become.

At least we have the least,
If it’s all we’ve got.
At least we have the least,
‘Cause it’s an awful lot.

Who wants a hug?
Who needs a hug?
Who earned a hug?

Here’s another way to live –
Who gets a hug?
Whoever has a hug to give.

I never run away from home
Without a good excuse.
You want to have a reason
That you’re out and on the loose
So folks don’t get too worried
Until it’s far too late.
This time I think I’ll tell them
That I just couldn’t wait.

When searching for a cycle
Not any one will do.
You must find the cycle
Most suitable for you.

“The unicycle’s just the ship
To captain!” as they tell it.

“The bicycle’s the finest trip
With two feet to propell it!”

“The tricycle will never tip!”
Is how they like to sell it.

You could add a hundred wheels
And never touch the ground again!
It’s a lot of fancy wheels, I feel,
And may not be the win
That wheelsmen claim for cycles,
They’re caught in their own spin.
So I think I’ll ride an icicle
Beside the winter wind.

Sometimes your skin falls off,
Just drops, self-doffs,
Slides down onto the ground

And you stand the perfect nudist,
The tried and trusted, truest
Nudist ever found.

More naked than you’ve ever been,
All nerves and heart, no skin,
And nothing has a hold

On you for you’re unknown!
You’re free! Unowned!
Though it can get rather cold.

There was a man of iron.
There was a boy of oak.
They met mildly admirin’
A fierce but blighted folk.

The man puffed ruby rust,
“I never knew a how-so-now
Who I could ever trust.
All they’ve ever made, I vow,
Has rightly gone to dust.”

The boy barked out a laugh
To hear such folly flop,
“Do you think they have a half
A care for your thoughts, pop?
I’ll tell you ‘no’ on their behalf
And ask you now to stop.”

The folk heard both and laughed with ease,
“We’ll make you into barrels
And fill you up with bees.
We’ll save you from the peril
Of puffing on the breeze.
You can hold our honey
And dispense it as we please.”

The boy of oak kept laughing
But the iron man grew cold
And went to rust some more
And maybe grow to mold.

The boy moved on as well
As wings were buzzing on the air.
The fierce but blighted folk
Got back to their work with care.

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.