(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.

Become a slumberjack.
A member of the number
Who hack through sleeping lumber
To get to sunken dreams all curled
Round their diving dreamer’s souls
And pull them up into our world.

Become a slumberjack.
There’s wonder in the world
Thanks to the slumberjack.
There’s thunder in the wonder
That lightning only dreams of
And you could show it your love
By bringing thunder up above.

Become a slumberjack.

Cut through forgetful night.

A dream’s still a dream in the light.

There was an old lady whose farm,
Had an inhospitable charm;
Haunted by daisies,
And friendly zombies,
There was no understanding that farm.

There was a young lad of Caracas,
Who couldn’t help but cause a fracas;
The place was too nice,
He tore it up twice,
That unsettled young lad of Caracas.

There was a young lad whose glasses,
Were stuck to his head with molasses;
He called in the ants,
They were his last chance,
For him to be free of those glasses.

They call us Crazy.

Well, Crazy crawled from the hazy
Maze of shining knights and darkened days,
Like brazen blazing daisies
In bouquets of sunny rays
Slashing through the lazy glaze
Of a hundred thousand grays,
Finding ways by their “Obey!”s,
Staying all the preying praise
That loves as it betrays.
While every NO is raised,
As all else always sways,
Our twisting never strays –
We hold to hope!

I also call us Crazy.

Drawn by Mathmaclar whose art can be found here.

When you see you,
What do you see?
That’s what I wonder,
What looks like me?

When I look at the mirror
Who could it be
Looking back at me –
Looking for me?

Not in the mirror
Or on the TV.
Lots of people
But none looking like me.

I think I saw me,
I think I did,
In a lightning flash,
But then it hid.

And once again
In the drowning dark
In the toothsome gleam
Of a hunting shark.

Other times,
Deep in the woods,
I see myself
In apple flower buds.

As well as when
The silence rings
With fierce bird song –
I’m seen when birds sing.

I like my look,
These bits I see,
In hidden pieces
That look like me.

There was an old lady of Gold,
Who grabbed hold of a boulder and rolled;
There’s no stopping her,
Still goes by in a blur,
That rolling old lady of Gold.

There is a young person of Oz,
Who gives life to whatever she draws;
That’s why it’s a mess,
Those poor creatures, God bless,
That artistic young person of Oz.

There was a young lady of Crumb,
Who ruled her own tiny kingdom;
Queen of the bath,
If you incurred her wrath,
Then down the drain and exile from Crumb.

They said it wouldn’t work.
They mostly called it gross.
They groaned, “Surely your quirks
Have finally gone berserk!
For years we’ve heard you boast
How you’re finally getting close
To a source of light that acts
To dispel the darkest murk.”

But now I have my candle.
Made from the finest wax
That my burning mind could handle.

I seem to have been half right.

I see no flame but am sure I hear the light.