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.

“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.