Jigcame, Jigsaw, Jigconquered

A puzzle piece died under there
That old armchair
Covering dust
Rabbits and crust

Crumbs from some pumpernickel bread
I checked; it’s dead
But lacking loam
A burial home

A puzzle with one empty spot
The perfect plot
Gave it a spin
Still don’t fit in.

 

For Claire, on her Wedding Day

The firstborn
Leapt into the world like a unicorn
With twice the myths surrounding her.
She laughed some, cried some, smiled some, screamed some,
And laughed some more,
Laughter contagious like chicken pox
And we all caught it,
A dotted itchy mess.
Fought to hold it in
With not a chance to win
When
She introduced us to her friend Matilda
Her violin
Or
Told us about little so & so
Who ran snot-first toward her shouting,
“I FOUND SOMEONE I KNOW!”
Or
How she valiantly defended her treetop throne,
Held her own
Against assailants young and old
From her perch at the McDonald’s playplace.

You
Do not know Claire
If you have not walked with her for miles,
An appropriate mix of talking
And taking in the world around,
A pleasant sound of ponder wandering.
You
Do not know Claire
If you haven’t sat eyes closed ears open
Listening to her sing
Winged words of truth and beauty.
You
Do not know Claire
If you haven’t seen her five minutes before she has to leave:
“THIS DRESS LOOKS AWFUL AND WHERE ARE MY KEYS!?”
And then glides pretty as a bluejay out the door.
You
Do not know Claire
If you haven’t engaged in the rousing drama
That is llama tag.
I
Do not know Claire
As well as some
As well as one
For He knows how we are formed
He remembers that we are dust
But
The first man was of the dust of the earth
The second man from heaven, Jesus Christ
The water of life
Turns the dust to mud
To open the eyes of the blind
That we may see
And know that He is God.

And on that grand canvas
Amidst all the other spots
Today He connects two dots.

Brendle the Bleak

A turtle named Brendle resides in the swamps
Where the girlybird grins and the tofflefish romps.
Deep down in the muck where no fin can disrupt him
He grumbles about all the creatures above him.

“That sunfish is irksome–I wish it were night.
The glowfish should know this: his light is too bright.
The girlybird’s eyebrows are much, much, too long
And nobody cares for a whistlefish song.

And mangroves–ha! Mangroves? They’re boygroves at best!
Those mudskippers must give their skipping a rest!
That awful fish tofflefish can’t even bake;
I asked him for a waffle and I got a pancake.

I should give that old twitterbird reason to mourn
And make all those egrets regret they were born.
Butterflies? Listen up! Asserfly’s your new name
And I’ll break all the skellyfish bones so they’re lame.

“That’s not very nice!” said a small voice from the dark.
“Who’s there?” growled Brendle, “My bite’s worse than my bark!”
“I’m Lansy.” the voice said, “I think you need a friend.”
At this Brendle snorted or loudly broke wind.

“I think,” Lansy said, “You might try being happy.”
“That’s a crappy idea—now you’ve made me get snappy.”
But Lansy was smart, a reliably quick fish,
And quickly surmised that old Brendle was ticklish.

So before Brendle’s mouth had the chance to clamp down
Little Lansy’s fins danced right up under his frown.
He tickled his chin and he tickled his toes;
He tickled his armpits, his kneepits, and nose.

And then Brendle did something he’d never before:
He let out a small giggle, and then a few more;
He let out a chuckle, a squeal, a guffaw,
He let out a rip-roaring HA-HA-HA-HA!

The turtle whose words had been hurtful and prickly
Discovered he also was incredibly tickly.
And now in the swamp the old whistlefish song
Makes Brendle quite joyful and he laughs right along.

Achilles Heel

From within, they said
Only I doubted this truth–
Real strength should show, right?
Twelvepack of muscles
In full high definition
Toned to perfection,
Until I learned how
Demigods can atrophy:
Even silver rusts.

 

P.S. There’s strength in numbers.  Here’s my other fortitude acrostic: Only Elite Belong

P.P.S. Don’t get mad at me for using the laymen’s definition of rust rather than the scientific.  I’m a poet, okay?

Relax

Your hands, humming hurricanes of beauty,
A windmill whirring wonders down my spine;
Now softer like a fern’s adolescent tendrils
And subtly warm like a lightbulb through lampshade.

Your hands are hammocks, swaying soothing rhythms,
A tide approaching under crescent moon;
All pinching tension vanishes in season
And peace decends like a queen at royal ball.

Kiss of Death

“Is nothing sacred?” she asked on her knees.
“Nothing but taxes,” then gave a slight squeeze.

Calm, cool, collected, he left with his gun–
Only facts and no feelings about what he’d done:
Leaving his wife on the cold chapel floor,
Dead as a doorknob in a locked and chained door.

“Be happy,” he said laughing, “it’s just you and me!
Old Annie’s in heaven, but we’re both right here–
Oh, kiss me Serena, for I’ve set us free!”
Oh how I despised him and felt full of fear–
Deny him?  He’d kill me.  I obeyed his decree.

@dr3n@1in3 5i^^i13 (Adrenaline is like you can’t even read)

Adrenaline is like your porch light is a lightning bolt
Adrenaline is like your front door is a wind tunnel
Adrenaline is like your hall is a moving walkway
Adrenaline is like your living room is a wave pool
Adrenaline is like your microwave is a toaster
Adrenaline is like your staircase was designed by Escher
Adrenaline is like your bathroom faucet is Horseshoe Falls
Adrenaline is like your bed is a meteor
Adrenaline is like your heart is a wasp’s nest
Adrenaline is like you’re Bruce Willis.

What do you see?

She…
……is…
……….tree…
……………..ting…
……………………me…
…………………………to…
…………………………….diiii
…………………………………..ner…

She is treating me to dinner just for two.
Does this situation seem sardonically untrue?
A little boo–zing caused this thought?

Conclusive hints from a glance at a Rorschach inkblot.

Tumbling After

Why is it that we speak of “falling in love”
As if it were a trap with no way out,
Or something involuntary, uncontrolled:
A muscle spasm, cancer, or a cold?

I beg to differ–love is not a fall,
But something other, like an upward climb
That strains the limbs and lungs and lover–
A bit of sorrow, bit of sour lime,

A troubling task now mastered by so few–
The rest all Jack and Jill on down the hill
With broken bones and not a drop of water,
Still unaware of love’s fantastic view.

Waiting for Dad

The sundraped buildings mark the evening sky
As whispers tremble liquid in her ear–
She scarcely heard a word, nor met my eye:
A twilight twinge of unabated fear.

The night is here, her neon signs ablaze
(Small comfort for a country child of eight)
I do not know the city or its ways,
Her silence makes my small heart palpitate.

Another bus approaches and is gone;
Some strangers wander past us in the dark
And still we linger on and on and on.
Another bus, more strangers disembark–

“That’s him!” she cries, and then he’s in our arms:
A father’s presence ceases all alarms.

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Because Russ L asked

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