Scupper Sprigs got lost in a maze,
But she barely noticed, was completely unfazed.
Though she was astray for nine hazy days
When they found her she sighed
And they were amazed –

She’d written ten books,
A movie, three plays;
Invented a system of hooks
To keep clouds in displays;
Got married and had twenty-three lil ducks;
Even translated the language of Luck!

Scup has been found for thirty years now,
And daily tries to return to lost somehow.
It’s tough getting things done in the land of the busy,
A lot of running round nothing till everyone’s dizzy.
She’s not done a tenth of what she did then,
So if you want to get somewhere let lost suck you in.

Illustration by Marek Jansen whose books and other work can be found here.

Drawn by Kimbap.

I want to be a puma,
A slippery, sliding shadow,
A clever, killer rumor.

I want to be a cricket,
A hidden music maker,
Master of the racket.

I want to be a hippo,
Sleeping underwater,
Chummy, chompy, chipper.

I want to be a possum,
Dying just for play,
A haunting, nightly problem.

I’m a typicalish human,
Lots of little things,
But big and broad and booming.

Which animal wants to be me?

Read about the Birds of the Cashew Coast.

Snapolean Roller
Has two shells.  Occupies the black and white shell when feeling fancy.  Presents itself in the black and blue shell when feeling even fancier.

Snrumpf
Small and presumptuous.  Spends most of its life sipping tea.  Will only take tea with royalty but does not do extensive background checks.  Just tell it you’re a duke or some such thing if you want to join.

Muckapod
Slime so sticky it can climb straight up a light fog.  Many shoes have been cemented in place by inattentive wanderers.

Snrizzle
Shell has an unending spiral.  If followed too far in only madness will be found.

Nomedeeps
Moves too slowly to be seen by the human eye.

Rompscotcher
Big as a car.  Way faster than a snail.  Runs on gas.  Might be a car.

Snutalia
Shell looks like a heart-red rose.  Useful for camouflage on the rose bushes where it spends most of its time nibbling the thorns down to nubs.  If the rose you’re smelling seems unperfumed you may well have found one of these.

Silver Silna
Travel in packs, or, “snores.”  A snore of these snails can wipe out a whole backyard in a day.

You are my everlasting pup.
The lion painted on my shield.
The dewdrops in my moss.
The starlight burning in my head.

And when I take your hand
In the ancient hinterlands
We shall follow no command
But the whisper of the wind
And the thunder of the land.

(Read “I’ll Write You a Bird” here.)

I wrote you a bird
That left at the last word,
Leapt and was gone,
Laughed at the absurd
Little man
With pencil in hand
And flew on.

Now it returns.
See how it burns.
See how it turns
On the thought of a breeze
When it seemingly sees
Us locked down like trees.

Oh, how it sings!
See what it brings!
I wrote you a bird
That comes back bearing wings!

If you plant a lion
Don’t come cryin’
To me if you don’t grow cubs.

If up pops a flower
Don’t get sour
Or think that you got snubbed.

Treat it nice
And feed it mice
In its well-watered tub.

Sunflions are
A little slow to “Rawr”
But once grown are kingly shrubs.

Drawn by Cristina P. whose art can be found here as well as on Etsy.

Hate will come a-hunting
With claws all shiny sharp,
Not to hurt you, not to harm,
But when she knows you’re wanting
She’ll give up her claws with charm
And let you ribbon up your heart.
Let you join her in her hunt
And take someone else apart,
Let them join you as an enemy
At the flame filled frozen front
Of Hate’s ancient, warring art.

Hate may win,
May well come in,
If you would cut
Hate’s twisting rope
Let go her claws
And head for Hope.

What’s in a story that keeps it from boring?
Forget adoring,
Just keep ’em from snoring.

I hear they like heroes
And heart and humor,
Beating back darkness
And death and doomers.

What makes a story stellar?
Whatever else a story needs
It needs a story teller.

Fenicker Mulch wore his own home grown clothes.

He mixed up his mud in a way no one else knows
With moss, manure and crushed up red shells.
Suffice it to say, he grew his own smells
‘Cause he rubbed this muck into his skin,
Then seeded himself – he was an odd one this Fen.

But from odd came great beauty,
Making oddness his duty.

Fen’s passion for gardens
Became fashionable garments
As sprig upon sprout
Sprung happily out.

Making many think he was maybe an ent,
He wore tulip shoes around socks of mint,
Had one leg of foxglove, the other of lupine,
Belted by grapes lovingly looped in,
With a sunflower jacket over his willowy form
And a young oak on his head to stay warm.

There were of course drawbacks to this wild style
That he only learned about after a while.
It took him six months to put new clothes on,
And he always had trouble when they mowed the lawn.
But he picked up the pieces whenever that passed
And made a new suit from the seeds in the grass.

Illustration by Cristina P. whose art can be found here as well as on Etsy.

You can make a mountain of a molehill
With a big enough mole.
You can do anything
With the right loophole.