Expound

You threw your arms around
me like you loved me,
Like you’re really glad you found
me and you hugged me
Like you knighted or you crowned
me with the sun because
You thought I couldn’t see
through your smokescreen.

Imprefect, or however it’s spelled

A flaw is a law with an F,
A rule with the reason bereft,
Where logic has failed
And chaos prevailed:
An audiobook for the deaf.

The Journey

Trace the path from dot to dot until you’ve made a line
Each dot is like a moment
Each segment a length of time
Without all the connectors to hold them all in place
The dots are bits of coal dust
Floating out in space
And without the dots the segments are just a pile of sticks
As lonely as the Maytag man
With nothing there to fix
But dots and segments hand in hand lead to my abode
And past it–on to future homes, further down the road.

Forever Friendship

Commitment has its price and it ain’t cheap–
How much she left to follow in the way:
Riches, family, friends.
Is this just madness, unhinged logic leap,
Submission to a whim or dream astray
That drifts along and wends
Its way unknown, a droplet in the deep?
No!  I say no!  The difference–night and day
And nothing blends.

Called by her Father, she runs to his embrace
And takes the gifts he’s given just to her,
Now joins the story in medias res:
Changchun, China set to feel her stir–
Here love and joy and kindness she displays,
Embodies spirit’s fruit in all her ways.

Honor’s Opposite

Eyes averted, diverted gaze
Cheeks churn red and ruddy heat
Head hangs low
Hands hang limp
Heart beats nervous beat

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Photo by Andrew Fosker

Swimmingly

June humidity–
Water, water everywhere:
Crystals in the air

Swimming on two legs

Photo by Eliana Anthony

Not ready for solid food, and spilling the milk

I’m crying over spilled milk
And told, “It’s useless.  Stop.”
But I will weep for all who bilk
The harvest from the crop.

So if you ask me why I weep,
I’m crying o’er spilled milk–
The basic truths so rich and deep,
Rare treasures like fine silk,

That matter not to present ilk
Who think Jesus a dud.
I’m crying over spilled milk:
For us Christ spilled His blood.

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.

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