“Give up” is an expression
In need of language lessons.
“Give” is good and “up” ain’t bad,
So how the two go and add
Up to quitting or despair
Seems to me a bit unfair.
But this looks an easy game,
So I’ll join in all the same –

When things get rough, laugh sideways.
You think you’re tough? Half pie days!
I have to say that I fly grapes,
Sneezed the night, work for drapes,
Tickle truffles, trick turnips,
And give every one of my ups.

If you do give up, okay.
I look forward to your next play.
But the phrase displays
Displaced dismay
That if it’s not word vomit
Mean its makers gave up on it.

I need a cave,
By seed or grave,
Sly deed or brave,
I need a way
Out of the day,
Off the display,
Into the safe.

I’ll be a high-kneed crick,
A sing-song bat,
A clawful bear.
I’ll not be sorry-sick,
Hollow or flat,
Or awful scared.

Some fear the dark
Or feel themselves
Trapped inside an outside.
I hear the heart
As it delves
Into a holy-hide.

I need away,
Sly deed or brave,
By seed or grave,
I need a cave.

Mip had a worry.
First it was thought.
But tore out in a hurry
Before it could be caught.

She had a want to be known,
No part of her shut,
No secrets to own,
This sounded best but –

If I’m known am I lost?
Could the gift be the cost?

If I’ve naught else to give,
How do I live?

Mip had a thought
That turned to relief,
Burning blue hot
As newfound belief –

We’re full of endless unknowns,
Galaxies grow in the body,
Moon mind, star heart, sun bones,
All fit easily, oddly.

Mip could show all of herself
And there’d always be more.
She had an unending wealth
Of herself at her core.

So far I’ve pulled a perfect day,
I haven’t sinned at all today –
Not bit a toe,
Or stole a toad,
Let in crows,
Let out the baby,
Made a rather bug filled gravy,
Salted milk,
Peppered handkerchiefs of silk,
Dug any holes,
Shot anything straight out my nose,
Coralled raccoons
Into anyone’s bedrooms,
Snuggled up to schemes,
Smuggled in a stream,
Biked a bed,
Hiked through the bread,
Pickled other people’s stuff,
Turned every pillow into fluff,
Sworn off clothes,
Writ a spiteful ode,
And I’ve not bit a single toe!

Having done my all-time best
You’d think it’s time to rest.
But now the clock reads 12:02
And I’ve got catching up to do.

Don’t listen to me.
I’m full of the sea.
I’m salty and fishy
And swashy and swishy.

Don’t listen to me.
I’m full of debris,
Of rubble and rabble
And bubbles and babble.

Don’t listen to me.
I’m full of the three
Horses of nonsense
Who’ve saddled my conscience.

Don’t listen to me.
Or anyone else, see?
Unless they dare do
That odd thing of listen to you.

If we switched faces
What would you see?
With your eyes
Who would I be?

Drun was done with everyone
So she dressed herself in cactus spines
And attracted more to her than ever.

Lizards climbed her, spiders spun,
Birds built nests, vines entwined,
She’d overshot on clever.

People loved Drun’s fashionable glory,
They wore cac spines of their own
And declared Drun as their king.

You want a moral to this story?
Get more creative ’bout being alone!
Or realize there’s no such thing.

When it was yelled – “Time for bed!”
Krow was still too in his head,
Too tilted toward the dreamless realm,
The sandman could not take the helm.
Krow was crowned in nesting thoughts,
Round and round they tested lots
Of what-could-bes and maybe-nots
And gripping but quite broken plots.
He had a ritual for this,
The flip of Sleeping Beauty’s kiss,
A way away from roaring zoos
And deep into a purring snooze.
Krow pulled from pockets crabs and bats,
Acorns, rubies, nesting gnats,
He tucked them in with calming pats
Then sent them as sleep diplomats.
He tossed his shoes and then his feet,
His pants and legs were folded neat
And tucked away on tidy shelf
Along with more bits of himself.
You really need not be alarmed
As he removes torso and arms,
Life doles out confusing charms
And this one did not do him harm.
All of this to at long last
Buck the future, shuck the past,
Krow removed his buzzing head
And put it and him to bed.

Right or wrong is clear and clean,
You know precisely what I mean.
Short is tough so I’ll make this long,
But most is right AND wrong.
Each often has more than a bite
Of the other, I think we might
Admit life’s duskier than day and night.
To show this mix of black and white
Let’s use the words “rong” and “wright.”

If you’ve gone worried
Your world’s turned blurry,
To you I cordially invite
To always think I’m right.

There’s never been a better letter
Than the Tommy screed.
As he was a true go-getter
He wrote it to ensure you’d read.

Onto his paper skin he scrawled
Everything he thinked.
His family was all appalled
As he was pickling in ink.

Tommo knew what he was doing,
Never acting on impulse.
While akin to skin tattooing,
He calls it penship with a pulse.

He licked himself into an envelope
And mailed himself third class.
Now he’s shipping on the hope
That he’ll get to you at last.

I don’t know what you said to him
But he must have a full reply.
The largest envelope will fit your limbs,
I’d better let you write.