The day after Easter
There’s a lot of eggs lost.
Some hiders are too good,
Some eggs are just tossed.

Lost but not gone,
Those eggs lie in wait.
Once hunters move on
They’ve only one fate.

They’re chocolaty, jelly bean,
Marshmallow, colorful.
They break through their shells
And are new bunny wonderful.

They’ll be back in a year
Much more than full grown,
When they’ll hide big baskets
Of eggs of their own.

There was a young person of Keel,
Who ate a whole rotten cheese wheel;
He stank for a year,
And was not allowed near,
His beloved hometown of Keel.

There was a young lady whose ears,
Could hear every wish through the years;
She shouted back,
“If you want it, attack!”
That bothered young lady with ears.

There was an old person whose beard,
Turned twiggy and had to be sheared;
Lest he become a tree,
And leave his family,
For a life in the woods – Oh, that beard!

They say: “Get your head on straight.”

My head is higher than first-rate.
Perhaps my finest shining trait.
But if it’s crooked, “Wait!
Get that head on straight!”

Why listen to their call?
I haven’t got it on at all.

Illustrated by Remzi.

Holes in socks are fine.
I never pay no mind
To holes in socks.
They’re fine.
Sure you get some rocks
(More of a shoe problem).
A toe might escape.
You live with that risk
(Or fix it with some tape).
They’re windows for the toes,
Serve as nice vents,
And are the finest factories of lint.

Holes in socks are fine.
Both socks and holes are mine.
The only problem you might mind
If you wear them all the time –
One day, out you’ll stroll
And find that they’re all hole.

(Though I also think that’s fine.)

I’ll write you a bird
That’s buried in ash,
That rises all cured
From a worrisome crash.
A bird that is blurred
Into beautiful thirds
Of singing and soaring
And furious warring
With the star of the morning
Over who should be warming
The land with their fiery storming.

I write you a bird
That bucks from the start,
I write and it stirs,
Red feathery furred
With backward beating heart.
A bird that is strong
For it knows if I’m wrong
It’ll still be,
Still demand to be free,
Will command all it sees
With heavenly song,
Now I’ve held it too long
And it chirps at the dawn.

I wrote you a bird
And it’s gone.

Read “I Wrote You a Bird” here.

Drawn by Aslynn Ephemera whose work can be found here.

Friend or fiend?
Kind or mean?

Give you a queenly flower.
Steal your favorite hour.

Sing you something funny.
Dunk your hair in honey.

Scare an awful monster off.
Bring it back and have a laugh.

Share all they’ve got for lunch.
Pinch and tease and punch.

You know which one is better?
The only difference is a letter.

(Read Life here and Magic here.  Read the original Life, Magic, Mischief here.)

Life doesn’t dare be easy.
Magic may seem rare.
Mischief is the one that shares
In Good and Bad without a care
Except for that odd meeting where
Fun and Fearless make a pair
Then kick off on a harebrained tear
To trick an old at rest nightmare
Into a fight with a fierce war bear
Just to watch the wild warfare.
Though when a kind thought can be spared,
Mischief at its best is fair.

Reject routine and rules.
Refuse to follow favored fools.

Fly to new Life and Magic,
And if you cannot find it
Then you must make and mind it.

Choose to lose and lose again,
You may well be last to win,
But it will be a lasting win,
And I will love you past the end –
Mischief makers,
Bravely sin.

Illustration by Newominus.

(Read Life here and Mischief here.  Read the original Life, Magic, Mischief here.)

Magic is the Life shaker.
Magic is the prison break,
It’s the bond breaker.

It knocks us out of normal,
Undoes the brutal formal
That locks away the dragons
Behind a silent portal.

It’s the other side of sunshine,
Inside and in between
Of every one of Life’s lines.
Feel it in your mind
And think it in your heart.
That’s the only way to find
It alive in every part
Of your greatest work of art –

You.

Become our Magic.

(Read Magic here and Mischief here.  Read the original Life, Magic, Mischief poem here.)

Even Death loves Life
So you know there’s something to it.
A thing I cannot write
So I need you to intuit.

A thing that rings in slaves and kings,
A thing that sings on flaming wings,
A thing that brings full nothings
That could be everything.

Find your love and laughter,
Don’t wait for Ever After
To finally maybe sometime arrive.
Forget living,
Let’s be too alive.

There was an old lady of Ipswich,
Who took afternoon tea in a ditch;
There came rats and a snake,
And the possums brought cake,
Those merry tea drinkers of Ipswich.

There was an old man of the wild,
Who encountered a petulant child;
He gave her to the owls,
‘Cause they were his pals,
And they’d bring her up right in the wild.

There was an old lady whose garden,
Bloomed on a plot that was golden;
Her strawberries grew,
With a yellowish hue,
In that mystical, treasure filled garden.