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.

Some may well discourage you,
I’m sad to have to say.
Some, I hope, encourage you
And help you on your way.
But only you can courage you –
I think you’ll be okay.

Fate’s eyes narrowed and dark lips curled
In a – Smile? Grimace? Sneer?
A bright little kid was given the world
To a frightened cheer.

Would she now see the world as toy?
Would she exact revenge?
What would be her chosen joy?
On what whims did our lives hinge?

She held all in clever hands
But what was in her heart?
She could cure the sickly lands,
Turn caring to an art.

She could feed and shelter all.
She could green the dimming woods.
She could fell dividing walls,
She could save us all, she could.

In the end she held the world!
A chance she couldn’t waste!
It was a rich and creamy pearl,
She had to have a tas–

An idea’s an idea even when bad
So tell me all that you’ve had.
They’re often lost or locked in a maze
‘Cause we fear they’re dumb or crazed
So I’d remind we’ve numbered days
And results go their own ways.
A bad idea may come to good.
The best idea may burn like wood.
The more ideas that you produce
The more that we can put to use.

Is spirit or the body first?
I just know spirit’s last.
And knowing that I ask, at worst,
Can future guide the past?

Also read about Birds, Snails, Owls, Bees, Foxes and Vultures.

Shy Shinned Pony
Walks on its knees because it doesn’t want you to see its shins.  Avoids any situation where it might have to stand so don’t invite one to anything formal.  Dances are most certainly out.

High Harrumph
Can self-esteem be too high?  Yes.  The high harrumph proves this.  There’s nothing it won’t gallop over.  In fact, you should just roll yourself under its hooves so it doesn’t have to waste any energy on you.

Wysterkal
While gallopers tend to prefer open areas so they can get up to speed quickly, the wysterkal insists on the deep, dim woods.  The slower, more carefully one has to go the better.  You miss less and there is much to miss.

Dishka
While ponies are rather famous for giving rides to people, very few actually seek out such attention.  Ponies are proud.  The dishka, however, is eager to be mounted.  It lives to throw people off.  Hop on.

Strinkle
Holds all manner of smallish things:  pens, salamanders, paper clips, snacks, pencils, quail eggs, mushrooms.  Might be a pocket.

Wrinkle Hoofed Pony
Its broad, grooved hooves give it a good grip on sand.  As you might expect, it thrives in beach and desert environments.  It is also highly prized for arctic expeditions as its hooves have been found to be excellent over ice and snow.  Sled dogs do not care for this development but polar bears are enthusiastically for it.

Low Larrumph
The high harrumph in disguise.  Why don’t you go ahead and roll yourself around under its hooves.  Get yourself nice and trampled.  Why must you make it work for it?  Does it not deserve this honor?

A question good to live by
Is often better than an answer.
Losing all is worth the try
Of life as take-a-chancer.

For some a pair of dice is paradise
But I don’t go that far.
The dice are cast and will suffice
As a place to start.

But not to end!
If not the day, you have the night!
If neither, then the twilight bend!
To try is what makes right.

Trees aren’t known for growing stones
But one was done with leaves.
It sank its roots in iron bones
And broke from greener trees.

Sand grains grew on every branch,
Becoming pebbles then full grown rocks.
Every breeze chanced avalanche
Or at least a few hard knocks.

This tree grew best on dusty days,
Thrived in lifeless winter.
A living fossil in all grays
That bloomed when hardship entered.

As years gave way to ages
Tree grew a mountain with it at top.
Its Book of Life held stony pages
That were strange and asked – “Why stop?”

Every child’s born divine,
Let’s please keep that in mind
As I tell you of young Brrine,
Covered in so much slime and grime
He looked to have gone and climbed
Out the chimney of a mine.

Brind was perfectly polluted.
Dumpsters stood up and saluted.
He never walked a pristine path,
His mind a mess of mucky math
On how to gain dull Sterile’s wrath –
Of course he’d never known a bath.

Bryn got grabbed by lucky lunge!
Into the soap and suds he plunged!
They scrubbed for days, weeks, on and on,
They drubbed his grubby gunk and grunge!

If you’ve followed all along
And are clever far beyond
These cleaner people then it’s dawned –
He was gone!

But he hadn’t been expunged.
Brn was now the filthy sponge!