She called herself a Bibliophage
But you could call her Bib.
She ate up all her toothsome books
Down to spine and ribs.
Bib brought a bookish appetite
To all she ever read.
She’d house a gloried story sandwich
With covers as the bread.
She’d sip from pages of all ages,
Ink coursing through her veins,
Ink sinking down into her feet,
Ink leaving footprint stains.
Bib stewed and steeped in inky tales,
Seeping in her twinkling mind,
Leaving her prints around the world
In the biggest book you’ll ever find.
With scrumptious books at hungry lips
And world at roaming feet,
Bib wrote a wide and worldly story
For someone else to eat.
When you tire of making sense
Go make some other things
That widen the world with suspense
And wild our stone kings.
Sownso mailed herself to herself
And travels now for free.
No post office has found her yet
To complete delivery.
Through snow, rain, heat and gloom of night
Worked mail women and men,
They looked everywhere outside that box
But never once peeked in.
At last they quit and returned to sender
So she travels still for free,
For they can’t find her the opposite route
As I’m sure you already see.
Sownso’s a pioneer, though not all agree.
Whatever people have to say
She’ll never stop to hear a word,
She’s forever on her way.
The quickest way to bliss?
One to do –
Lose this list.
A better way than this?
Lose yourself –
We recognize you for being yourself!
There’s already everyone else.
As the ‘tificate reads:
“This is not about your deeds
Or your iffy look,
You might be a boor, indeed,
You could be a crook!
You never learned to tie your shoes,
Trim your nails, comb your hair,
Say ‘hello,’ pay your dues,
And certainly not share.
You didn’t even want to learn!
Your entire life’s unearned!
You’re a grump and proudly dumb
But you’re redeemed at this one turn –
You’re not some other crumb.”
They could haul off all you’ve got
And you are you still.
They could even take this ‘tificate,
In fact, I think we will.
That said, one thing’s forever true –
They can’t take you from ou.
I can’t take u from .
What happens to stars that fall in the sea?
Why do they no more shine bright now for me?
Is their light gobbled by the hungry waves?
Are they more twinkly in dark sunken caves?
What is their duty once they drop the sky?
Are they free finally to close their eye?
Do they get caught be eels to warm their nests?
Do they light ways for whales as honored guests?
Or grow great jungles of delicious kelp?
Or play, hunt and dance with young sea wolf whelps?
If I want answers while I’m still alive
I’ve got my questions and a quest to dive.
Those times that I remember who
It is behind your name
Remind me you’ve a truer view
On my own silly games.
“Will you be coming back?” you ask,
To let me know I can,
Allowing me to keep my mask
Of one without a plan.
While I will war or ghost unknowns
Out on beyond the end,
The name I hold is not my own
But one I call a friend.
Those times that I forget my name
The world forgets me too.
All else I know forfeits the game,
I’m off into the blue.
“Will you be coming back?” they ask,
As if I’d ever know.
I see a single, given task
And it is, simply, go.
The where or when or why of it
Will offer not a clue
To what to start or how to quit
And certainly not who.
Stipple Kibbin lay in his bed.
Stipple Kibbin picked at a thread.
He picked and he pecked, he pickled and pulled,
Stip mindlessly made himself a lovely hole,
Not in his sheets, not in his clothes,
But in his body ’round his patchwork soul.
Once he noticed he didn’t stop, no,
And quickly unraveled his lil pig toes.
He pulled at his thread as he happily crumbled
Till he found him self-surrounded in bundles.
Stip enjoyed this coming apart
But when he felt the tug on his heart
He turned to the rather opposite art
Of knitting, crocheting and sewing up parts.
He put himself back together again
With more pig toes and a bit bigger grin
But he didn’t stop, not there nor then,
He found more threads and stitched them in.
Life’s all threads and you just don’t know
Is this one to pull or one I should sew?
Well Stip did both and off he now goes
Traveling, raveling as he grows
Into the world from roots to crows,
From patchwork soul to lil pig toes.
If what’s at hand is not at heart
Then go discover other parts
That meet your heart upon its seat
And clap along as your heart beats.