How nice to not have something
That needs our constant judging.
So let’s leave it nameless
And, yes, somewhat aimless
And not waste a worry
‘Cause we don’t have to hurry
Any which way that we think.
I rather like the ring
Of a “let it be” beast.
We’ll risk it all again
But for this one at least
Let’s neither lose nor win.

The crumbs were all kept
Where the night guard swept
Them to the far side of the moon.

Each crumb to be found
Could be rightly crowned
As a prince of the lunar dunes.

From every proud cake
To humble bread baked
On any planet that you’ve heard

If a crumb should fall
It belonged to all
And this was the stern final word.

So each crumb was starred
For the fine night guard
Who flew in on their gray-green brooms

And swept the whole lot
Into their broad pots
Until full up with baking’s blooms.

Before they could stale
They would pour like hail
Out onto the moon’s sealess coast

And the waves of crumbs
Would swirl and become
New breads for those who need it most.

If you might be one
Who could use a bun
Take one or four, we’ll both be blessed.

So that’s where crumbs go
And now you well know
Why eating I make such a mess.

Ibe kept Far in a jar
‘Cause Near was nigh here
And his larks were all stars
Gone there but here clear.

Because of betweens
He said he was free,
Though maybe this means
More to you than to me,

Because, for myself,
If I’m ever to fill
A jar on a shelf
It will be with the real!

The things here at hand!
Like pickles or treats
Or perhaps even sand!
(Though I prefer eats.)

It’s fair to say I don’t
Have the words to say
What Ibe will or won’t
Do this or any day.

He’s ruled by himself
In the land of the grand,
And the jars on his shelf
Fill up with wild plans.

The day after Christmas is done,
Old Santa’s again feeling young,
For he’s pulled off a feat,
A miraculous treat,
Every gift out has beaten the sun.
Now he’ll sleep for most of the year,
Till the darkest of days reappear,
Then it’s back to the task
Of impossible asks,
He’s a spirit of limitless cheer.

A cyclops has a second eye
He hides down deep inside,
So he can see himself
From every single side.

A cyclops has a third eye
For staring down the past,
His fourth eye’s on the future
To see unto the last.

That fifth eye is the one you see
Staring back and maybe through
Those biting eyes of yours
That glare back right on cue.

His first eye’s looking out
The eyes of others like a ghost
To know the lives that others live
At their noble post.

So when they tell you of the cyclops
And his single, mighty eye,
Tell them Clopse has many more
Than we ever seem to spy.

And if they tell you you’re just silly
And to leave the tale to them,
Close one eye and point out
That silly don’t mean dumb.

A full heart is a happy thing
That helps to fill up others.
An empty heart calls you to bring
Kindness in every color.

A long gone heart does not exist
So don’t think that you can
Lose yours to be mourned and missed
In empty, heartless lands.

There are no missing hearts,
Some try to hide but none are gone,
They’re one of those confounding parts
Of you that carry on.

A locked heart is the worry
So I go collecting keys
And if you find one hurry!
Send it to me please!

“I don’t have the kind of fortune,”
The eel said to the loon,
“That comes by way of wish on wings,
Yet here you are so soon.”

As he wrapped his fin around her foot
And glanced at swelling moon,
His stomach grumbled hungry groans,
Demanding to consume.

Loon said, “Beware a wish so easy got,
For they are hungry too.
I might give this a second thought
If this loon were you.”

“Every thought I have is this!”
The eel spat of his wish,
“That all the world would crawl to me
And climb into my dish!”

The eel then introduced his teeth
And made to make them known
To the calmly seated loon
Who then showed him her own.

Loon ate the eel without a crumb
Of care for wish or want
Even though the loon herself
Had dreamt of such a hunt.

The full and happy loon took flight
With moonlight shining on her back,
Guiding her from wish to wish
To wish to wishful snack.

Illustrated by DALL-E in the style of Randolph Caldecott.

With all sorts of rights and wrongs
It’s less if you’re smart or strong,
Less the mess of “better, worse,”
More live and let belong.

Life is short and life is long,
You’ll be right and you’ll be wrong,
Make the wrong the short of it
And you’ll roll right along.

Jungle Ruck

The jungle comes to a book! The vivid jungle paintings of Henri Rousseau help showcase the wild animals and wild spirit of the jungle. Come explore.