A gentle breeze touched on the trees
And then it tore them down,
There’d be no simple sights to see
In this old hollow town.

The town of Crumble came to be
When stars all glanced away,
When they looked back a town of three
Had sprouted from the clay.

Young Tacker was the biggest seized
Out of the living soil,
The other two were modest bees
In search of flower spoils.

The town of Crumble sat like dew
On clay from which it came,
Its purple twists of red and blue
Leaped like a living flame.

“What can I get away with?”
Is important to be asked.
“What can’t I get away with?”
Points you to your next task.

Sometimes you say something
To hear how it sounds,
‘Cause in a half-full head
All it does is bounce
Off other unsaid things
That sit around
And wonder about
Those barking hounds
That won’t not say
Every verb and noun
That splits the dark
Of the last half-ounce
Of thought they’ve got
In their smiling rounds
Of upturned lips
And curly crowns,
And with that thought
You might half announce
You’re off to search
For half-holy grounds
Where the score is kept
In half amounts
And the fact you said it
Means it halfway counts.

The mountain asked the blue-black bear
If there were better places where
The berries grew and fairies brewed
Their mushrooms in a twiggy stew.

The mountain asked the black-blue bird
If air blew sweet as it had heard
Between the peaks of highest spires
That reached and sang with heaven’s choirs.

The mountain asked the rainbow trout
If waters burst from richer spouts
Among the crystal crowning alps
That held star dew within their caps.

The mountain asked and it was asked –
If all of us keep coming back
What matters best at this or that?
What mountain crest has ever sat
Upon a height to ever match
The love with which we all were hatched?
Our home is home, that will not change,
No matter what the mountain range.

There’s a thing that feeds
On the lively breeze
Of your yawn and sneeze.
A mere breath won’t do,
And nor will two
Or three or slews
Of gulps and gasps
Or rips and rasps
Of coughs and laughs.
No, this beast drowns
On shallow rounds
Of breathing sounds.
It needs the best
Deep in your chest!
A breath with zest!
So it sneaks with pepper,
Boring stories, feathers,
Bits of colds and other measures
To get you spawning
Sneezes, yawning,
It goes conning
Life from out
Your crumbful mouth.
Listen for the quiet shout –
“Bless you,” hear it,
For it will mean it
Though you’ll never see it.
The world fills holes
With hidden souls
That eat from oddest bowls.

You’ve been awful sassy lately,
Your grumpfulness is almost stately,
You’ve impressed the irksome greatly,
You’re royalty among the jerks!
Keep up the good work.

I think I’m growing bark
And turning to a plant!
My skin grows rough and colorful,
I won’t do this! I can’t!
Please, Mother Nature,
Give me one more chance
To be a little boy
And laugh and play and dance!
Wait, is that a zipper?
Taking another glance,
Someone must have dressed me.
Who put on these pants?

Swish drew a fish upon herself
So she could be the sea
Then all the world sank into her,
Her ink pens were set free –
Uncurling color riots,
Unfurling rainbowed islets,
Their swirls rose up as pirates
To take the land and sky!
Awake you bland and dry!
Forsake the stranded lie
That keeps your pens in line!

Swish drew a wish into herself
So she could go be more
Than any girl in any world
On any sea or shore.

Do you want a pen?
Here, take this, and then

It’s a sign of the times
When the crickets all sing
Of the merriest crimes
In the land of the king
Of the cats and his mice
Who must kiss his great paw
And obey for the price
Of a whisker or claw
To hold treasure unknown
In their little soft hearts
And unmeasured alone
In the duping fools arts,
For the mice all adored
That the whisker was theirs
And would hunt them no more
To their hidden home lairs
And the claw would not strike
Like a clock in the night
At the midnight of life
With a playful last bite,
But the whisker was grass
From a field of mouse bones
And the claw was chipped glass
Off cat’s crystal high throne
So the mice made their bed
On the teeth of cat king
And they safely self-fed
Their whole lives to the thing
That sure purred they were saved
By its power and grace
And they rushed to their graves
As if it were a race.
It’s a sign of the times
When the mice are reborn
As loud crickets whose rhymes
Pour a chorus of scorn,
Yet the old king grows frail
And he too will soon pass
To come back through the veil
As a lone blade of grass.

I bought myself a brother
So I’d finally have another
To chase and play and laugh all day –
A smelly, punkish fixer upper.

The seller (former brother)
Quickly proclaimed,
“He’s been good
But then twins came
And it’s understood
We don’t need more of the same.
So to you he goes!
He’ll lose every game!
There will be more toys
And he’s easy to blame!
As for our family,
It’s a real shame
But I’ve almost forgot
Old what’s-his-name.”

I bought myself a brother
To love and grow and keep,
And even more important –
He was very, very cheap.