(Read “I’ll Write You a Bird” here.)

I wrote you a bird
That left at the last word,
Leapt and was gone,
Laughed at the absurd
Little man
With pencil in hand
And flew on.

Now it returns.
See how it burns.
See how it turns
On the thought of a breeze
When it seemingly sees
Us locked down like trees.

Oh, how it sings!
See what it brings!
I wrote you a bird
That comes back bearing wings!

If you plant a lion
Don’t come cryin’
To me if you don’t grow cubs.

If up pops a flower
Don’t get sour
Or think that you got snubbed.

Treat it nice
And feed it mice
In its well-watered tub.

Sunflions are
A little slow to “Rawr”
But once grown are kingly shrubs.

Drawn by Cristina P. whose art can be found here as well as on Etsy.

Hate will come a-hunting
With claws all shiny sharp,
Not to hurt you, not to harm,
But when she knows you’re wanting
She’ll give up her claws with charm
And let you ribbon up your heart.
Let you join her in her hunt
And take someone else apart,
Let them join you as an enemy
At the flame filled frozen front
Of Hate’s ancient, warring art.

Hate may win,
May well come in,
If you would cut
Hate’s twisting rope
Let go her claws
And head for Hope.

What’s in a story that keeps it from boring?
Forget adoring,
Just keep ’em from snoring.

I hear they like heroes
And heart and humor,
Beating back darkness
And death and doomers.

What makes a story stellar?
Whatever else a story needs
It needs a story teller.

Fenicker Mulch wore his own home grown clothes.

He mixed up his mud in a way no one else knows
With moss, manure and crushed up red shells.
Suffice it to say, he grew his own smells
‘Cause he rubbed this muck into his skin,
Then seeded himself – he was an odd one this Fen.

But from odd came great beauty,
Making oddness his duty.

Fen’s passion for gardens
Became fashionable garments
As sprig upon sprout
Sprung happily out.

Making many think he was maybe an ent,
He wore tulip shoes around socks of mint,
Had one leg of foxglove, the other of lupine,
Belted by grapes lovingly looped in,
With a sunflower jacket over his willowy form
And a young oak on his head to stay warm.

There were of course drawbacks to this wild style
That he only learned about after a while.
It took him six months to put new clothes on,
And he always had trouble when they mowed the lawn.
But he picked up the pieces whenever that passed
And made a new suit from the seeds in the grass.

Illustration by Cristina P. whose art can be found here as well as on Etsy.

You can make a mountain of a molehill
With a big enough mole.
You can do anything
With the right loophole.

Maybe you’ve been on a Merry-Go-Round
Where fun and friends and glee abound.
You rode a pony exceedingly fair,
Or maybe a griffin or the great golden bear.
Always forward, up and down,
You make a wish each time around
That must come true, at least, I’ve found.

Have you been on an Anger-Go-Round?
It’s a rough ride that only goes
Round and round and round and round…
Till everyone’s sick!

Take care on the arounds you go,
‘Cause every one comes back, you know.

One more thing I’ll put out there:
Who wouldn’t rather the golden bear?

Drawn by Cristina P. whose art can be found here as well as on Etsy.

There was a young lady of Snead,
Who was far too familiar with greed;
She took all she could,
Never understood,
That wanting young lady of Snead.

There was an old man on a log,
Who imbibed in a bit too much grog;
Crowned himself King of Trees,
Went to war with the bees,
That stung up old man on a log.

There was an old person of Greece,
Whose complaints never seemed to cease;
She’d moan and she’d bawl,
But did nothing at all,
That whiny old person of Greece.

If you can caterwaul
On only matters matterful
Then you’ll sleep well at night.

And if you huff and puff
On stuff not up to snuff
You might just want a fight.

But me I’m merely,
Quite sincerely,
Worn out by wrong and right.

It’s bedtime.

Turn off the light.

(Read the introduction to the Astrohaunts here.)

In the Babine Range a mountain stood,
It stood alone in wild wood
And wanted more than mountains should.

It called to Cloud:
“My dear, come here,
You float so low in skies all clear,
Come sit and chat and share in cheer.”

The ghost ocean of the sky
Coasted toward the buried lie.

Mountain trembled, soft and sly,
Then breathed deep as Cloud drew nigh,
Pulling him into his stony core,
Pouring him into bony ore.

Old Sun stepped back aghast
That this attack had passed.

Lynx felt it.
Kreke knew it.
Leif saw it.

And they were there,
Cutting through the frightened air.

They crashed to Earth,
They crushed the earth,
Bucketing Cloud out with all their worth –
Streams of golden silver,
Veins of gold that burned white hot,
Gulping rubies by the lot.

Back from underground to thunder bound,
Cloud was again a drifting thought.
Wonder wound through Mountain
Then he collapsed distraught.

But they did not forget him,
No the Astrohaunts did not.

They said to him:
“We could be kin.
Know your depths, for they are dark,
But under all beats diamond heart.

You’re too alone.
We need to share.
Come be known,
It’s time to care.”

They gathered pebbles, boulders, sand,
They held the mountain in their hands
And carried him throughout the land,
Leaving him with valleys, rivers, hills,
And to this day he stands there still.

He is in the Babine Range,
Still stands alone in wild wood,
But as the Astrohaunts arranged
He’s enlarged his neighborhood.

One day you may see something strange,
An inter-element exchange,
A cloud move against the wind,
Pick up a pebble he calls friend –

You’re looking at a change.