When Lewen counted one hands’ fingers
She got as high as eight.
Now they were crooked, bitten, broken,
And not a one was straight.
This made them good for many things,
For thumb wars they were great.
But counting proved to be a weakness,
A much less handy trait.
She counted up that hand again
And found herself at four.
Another count went roaring out
Returning with two more.
A count from eight to four to six
Seemed like evens messing with the score,
But then the count was three, next five,
To really make the counter sore.
While fingers are some wild beasts
They don’t always make sense.
They’re bucking broncos of their own,
The kingly body’s prince,
And are depended on for counting
When they might better serve us hints.
Lewen released her hands from servitude
And has counted her toes since.

The only woods I wish to know
Are deep and dark,
Their only glow
A carried spark
I keep down low,
A ferried ark
That leaps to show
The life it holds,
I need it stowed
So I can go
On in unknowns
By tip and toe,
From nightly crow
To hidey-hole
Of diving mole
Or bity troll,
Deeps leap below,
Dark’s secrets grow,
Woods do not owe
Me nothing though
My wish I know
And I must go.

Illustration by DALL-E in the style of Caspar Friedrich.

I can’t say that I got that far
From where the wildest poppies are
Before I tripped and turned around
To go return to what I’d found.

A field of flowers stood untouched
And back I ran!  Yes, back I rushed!
So none could steal before I stole
The ocean hills of growing gold.

The poppies stood where they’d been left
Awaiting my befated theft,
I reached for them, they reached for me,
And I was plucked, as I should be.

I sunk roots in the purple plains
And put up yellow petal suns,
I’m where the wildest poppies are,
I can say that I got that far.

Illustration by DALL-E in the style of Van Gogh.

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It’s time for the rest to head to bed
When bed is claimed by sun,
As moon and stars are nightly wed
And work and play are done.

Crumple up day’s hip hip hooray,
Toss off your clothes and cares,
Today has gone its now worn way,
Sandman’s coming with his wares.

Dig into a bed you’ve made your own
With downy joy and love,
You’ve conquered the world’s kindest throne,
Your pillow crown awaits above.

With covers of your summer hope –
Hope may be where sun sleeps,
Because of its enormous scope
And the endless heat it keeps.

Give joy, love, hope as you dream
So there’s more when you awake,
Then sun and you will proudly gleam,
But for now yourself unmake.

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

The new year’s
The old year,
But you’re now
And you’re here.

What you want,
Please don’t fear,
Are right now,
Are right here.

They say they
Never veer,
From old year
To new year.

Don’t let them
Steal your ear,
With the old’s
“Hold now here.”

‘Cause you’re now
And you’re here,
You may choose
Your new year.

Whatever nonsense comes to mind
Keep on coming in.
Most this so called “sense,” I find,
Wears a little thin
When you look at what’s behind
The empty if not angry grin
That often fronts a face that’s blind
To what you’ve done and been.

So send sense a saucy letter
Telling them you’re free
Of all their sweetly seasoned natter,
Self-sold flattery.
If you can imagine better,
Let it be.
“Nonsense” doesn’t matter,
Not to me.

A little girl grew an astounding beard,
A worldly, dark, confounding beard,
A burly, stark, yet downy beard
That swirled from ground to ears.

It took her fifty years to grow
And she was barely six!
This beard was full of realms unknown,
It was thick with tricks.
Many called it nest or home,
Sometimes even other kids
Would run through as would a comb,
Though one never did.

Every year she’d go compete
At the Beard Olympics.
Every year she’d sweep the meet
At the Beard Olympics.
She was admired by young and old,
She’d leave wrapped in a shell
Of beard and medals gold,
She wore her jungle well.

They recently found something weird,
No one was in that bearish beard!
The little girl had disappeared!
And that beard still wins every year.

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

This plays off the Little Jack Horner nursery rhyme.

Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner,
Eating his Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb,
And he was struck dumb
When it poked him right in the eye.

He’d been baked in pie,
Jack had a good cry,
Salting a dish usually sweeter;
Baker checked Horn,
To find pie not done,
And put him back in until Easter.

I’m all out of secrets today.
There’s nothing I know
That’ll get us to go
A particular, interesting way.

I fear the obvious must do.
This common ground
Is all I’ve found
Where only truth is true.
Unless, of course,
We’ve another source –
Dare we turn to you?