Flee, little one, flee.
Flee from anyone
Calling you “little one.”

You’d crush them.
You wouldn’t try.
Wouldn’t want to!
But if they lack
A working eye
Or love too much
This little lie
Of smallish you
And them up high…

What can you do
But fly, little one, fly.

If books were people I’d keep me closed,
A done tale is a safe one.
A done tale doesn’t bite.
This dovetails nice with my fear of foes –
The fierce fishmoth (both bug and fish?)
And the termite’s mighty blight.
I must protect my poemy prose
By trusting that no one can fight
A thing that no one knows.
Indeed I’d be forever closed
If need – yes need! – however slight,
Of knowing where the next tale goes
Had not been so polite as to impose.
But for that, I suppose,
I’d be forever closed.

Our train has left the track!
It hopped right off, it will not stop,
And it’s never going back!

Should I confess?  It’s all my fault.
I wouldn’t sit, ran back and forth,
Rocked it out of balance and knocked us off our course.
And now this disastrain isn’t gonna halt!

It’s not that bad, I guess.
Where we were headed I didn’t really want to go,
Though I can’t recall just where it was
It must have been so bad I didn’t want to know.
So to our new course I say, “Yes and yes!”

Oh, no and no!  We’ve gone over a cliff!
The ground is dropping off!

Dropping off?  This here’s no train.
I’m pretty sure we’re on a plane.

You can’t forever fail.
You mustn’t always win.
The only choice to ever make is try and try again.

I raced myself down Drury Lane,
I paced myself with hasty grace
For this great race was ace on ace
And I could only face first place.

Though some complained:
“Explain this brain!
It’s plain this boy’s in and outsane!
To think he’s two is painful vain!”

But I’d take no nasty sass.
So I and me tore toward the end full blast,
Gassing to the finish dastardly fast
When we both stopped short aghast –

Me and myself were in a race for last.

All the other other mes had long ago run past…

There was an old lady whose dress,
Was the ugliest thing, I confess;
It sent critters running,
No matter how cunning,
They all feared that old lady’s dress.

There was a young lad whose mustache,
Gave his face a most terrible rash;
But he wouldn’t shave,
Rather go to the grave,
That prideful young lad and mustache.

There was an old man of Bilbao,
Who married himself to a cow;
Conversation was dull,
But the milk pail was full,
That oddball old man of Bilbao.

Plink was always warned to wear her shoes.
Her mums would say, “If you don’t you’ll lose
Your toes to nails or bees or you’ll meet
A boorish grumpkin who’ll gladly eat your feet.”

But feet stayed bare till a deep field stirred
And something so much worse occurred.
(Or better, depending on your view.
Funny how my likes might not be true for you.)

Every green thing growing in that field
Adored the feel of feet unpeeled
Of awful straps all trapping
Little jailed piggies in need of unwrapping.

When that field felt unfurled toes
It grew straight up into her bones.
Her feet became a grassy green
And flowers crowned her like a queen.

Plink put down roots and threw up branches
With golden leaves and berries in bunches.
She’s now home to birds, bugs and squirrels,
Who knew shoe losing would flip worlds?

Her mums still tries to keep her trimmed,
But Plink was never known as prim.
That field will never give her back
And Plink is happiest with that.

Drawn by Jen

There was a young lad of Hoboken,
Who only owned cups that were broken;
He’d pour and he’d pour,
The floor always got more,
That thirsty young lad of Hoboken.

There was an old man in a shack,
Perched precariously over a crack;
They said he’d fall in,
He just gave ’em a grin,
That unworried old man in his shack.

There was an old lady of Godric,
Who developed an awfully odd tic;
Whenever she’d cough,
Her eyebrows would pop off,
That peculiar old lady of Godric.

There’s a creature called the Sandman
Who’s never seen the Sun.
It deals in deepest dreams
For nothing more than fun.

Nightly knighted by the Moon
It seeks out sleeping eyes,
Slipping in a pinch of sand
To loose lordly life-like lies.

You might think you woke the wild
Or just a shambling brambly ramble.
Truth is it’s in the sand
And every speck’s a frightful gamble.

Every dream you’ve ever had
Started life among the worms,
And the Sandman found them all
On its own peculiar terms.

Sand from the Drowning Desert
Brings dreams of flying nude.
A little bit of kitty litter
And you’ll see colors come unglued.

Glimpses of the future
Can come from fallen stars.
Sand in webs will bring on terror
And rarely leaves its jars.

Some dreams connect to others,
Those grains are roughed up red.
The sand of unknown shores
Will leave you leaping out of bed.

The Sandman’s mostly dream now
(The best artists always are).
Enjoy its final gifts to you,
Its days of sand aren’t all that far.

There was an old man of Mosul,
Who wanted to go back to school;
They said, “You’re too old!”
He said, “So I’m told!
But I never learned to listen, Mosul!”

There was an old lady of Ottawa,
Whose daily routine was a lot o’ blah;
To give it some spice,
She fought tigers thrice,
That bored old lady of Ottawa.

There was an old man of October,
Who cried, “It’s over!  It’s over!”
It had only begun,
His cries were undone,
That alarmist old man of October.