Splain would write a history book
On all that never happened.
He would take the closest look
At the myth and gobbledygook
Beyond the starts and ends.

He peered into the nothingness
And yelped, “It’s over full!”
Then began to pen as best
He could the blessed mess
Beyond us factual fools.

As he wrote he found his fate
And gave an empty shout,
“Beyond the famous Fable Gate
And the fields where lies await
This very book sits out!”

Splain claimed with sad conviction
That, “I sat and read it all.
This book was the greatest written
From the realm of fact and fiction,
Such a shame it’s staying fictional.”

I lose myself in mountains
To have them found in me,
So when I’m caught and measured
It will be tree to tree,
So though I’m a small person
I’ll be seen as the key
To life from sprout to eagle
And filling up the sea,
So none will look inside me
And sadly see a plea
For anything that’s better
Than mighty peaks would be,
So I’ll get lost in mountains
Whose only guarantee
Is wherever I then go
I’ll go with them in me.

A gimcrack is a creature red
In face, fish, tooth and claw.
Some say that it was born and bred
In low lands lost to law.

The truth lies somewhat lower still,
Yes, lower than truth goes.
Truth stands upon the lowest hill
And watches what it’s owed

But cannot ever have or hold
As life finds finest lies
To seed and bloom and then grow old
With gold scales and blue eyes

That peer from red as once was said
And must not be forgot,
For features here are in your head,
Their power in your thought.

Can baubles matter, can they thrive?
Can knick-knacks earn a care?
The gimcrack finds itself alive
As shiny nothings there.

Illustration by DALL-E in the style of John Bauer.

If I were a pie
I’d sit and sigh
And wish to be a cake.

If I were a cake
I’d sadly bake
And dream of fruity mousse.

If I were a mousse
I’d cut all loose
And go for chocolate pudding.

If I were a pudding
I’d turn to putting
Myself in cookie piles.

If I were such piles
I’d aim for the style
Of those crowning cakes.

But no matter how I bake
I don’t turn more desserty,
So I’ll have to eat and make
More of them a part of me.

Tired starbirds come to rest
Upon the gentle rumbling chest
Of taller mountains than I know
Where youngling comets swirl and grow
To get a tail just long enough
That they may chase their wagging love
Out into the pointed black
And get them there and back.

Tired starbirds come to rest
And build their ship-like, hold-all nests
To fill with shining, diamond eggs
That bloom into a thousand threads
At the gentle, pulling touch
Of the moon who’s teased the clutch
To knit themselves two pairs of wings
So they may dive some planet’s rings.

Rested starbirds are then flung
Back out on tails of comet young,
Without direction, only need
To fly and flock and hunt and feed
And decide if they’ll return
To the same nest where they learned
Of loving home or they’ll go on,
See deeper stars and fly beyond.

Illustration by DALL-E in the style of William Blake.

The days that I don’t start
Are marked among my best.
They can be as they are
And need not join the rest.
These days don’t have an end,
They’re lightly full and free.
They simply let me in
Then go on leaving me.

There’s a shell on every beach
That’s from a different sea,
A sea that beats the blowing shores
Of all eternity.
So now I ask what you might ask –
How has this seashell come to be
From such a sea impossibly vast
To me?

And if that matters (and it does),
How might I take this seashell back
And know this shore as more than lore,
But as feet on fact?

It hears me ask, grows legs and runs!
A crab inside’s our first mystery,
But the larger one finds waves
And flees!
Now every shore I ever know
I’ll look for one shell of the sea,
And so I search on every beach
For all eternity.

Hunn received a sunny letter,
By which I mean not only nice
But filled with warmest, honeyed light
And smells of sleepy spice –
A day-in-bed delight.

Hunn wrote back a woodsy letter,
Bursting out the envelope
With moss and earth and twiggy sprites
And flowers full of fruiting hope –
A lost-in-something-more delight.

Hunn got sent a stormy letter,
An airy sea whipped every way
Until it could not hold its might
And lightning flipped the night to day –
An elements-let-loose delight.

Hunn sent off a leading letter
Stuffed with fluff and followed it
Like a friendly postal kite
It led Hunn straight to the one who’d writ
For an arm-in-arm delight.

The two then wrote a river letter
That sent itself rip roaring down
To find another one to write
In any crashing, splashing town –
A pass-it-on delight.

Illustration by DALL-E in the style of Emily Farmer.

My regards to all the ghosts
Bored enough to boast
Of dying in some godforsaken way.

Odd you ever thought forever
Would be the way to sever
Yourself from dearest, dullest day-to-day.

So now you go on haunting
Thinking that you’re flaunting
The horrors of unliving on display.

The truth is that you’re tedious,
Seemingly the neediest
Dead to ever try to spread dismay.

Our regards to all you ghosts,
Bland as coldest toast,
But figure something else out we all say.

We aren’t friends.
We’re odds at ends
Of ifs and buts
And wild whats.

We aren’t friends.
We’re outs and ins
Of storied roads
And secret codes.

We aren’t friends.
We’re bucking blends
Of caves and stars
And kissing scars.

We aren’t friends.
We’re all that bends
To better than
We were before.
We aren’t friends.
We’re so much more.