The copper, tinged an umber green,
Fell twisting through the girded beams
In convalescent coils.  A mass
Of pipe dreams course with soluble
Solutions none of which quite fit
The problem.  Leaking ever more
In frequent pitterpatterns on the
Floor, where familiar mildew spots
Threw freckling faces fierce from rain,
The trickling plumbing of my brain.


The Pattern Repeats

A pair of eyes that blush the robin red
And charm sweet smiles from all the nearby kids,
Your brows like sparrows with their wings outspread,
A flight of fancy perched above your lids.
Your nose is not a button but a knife,
A preview marking sharpness of your wit
That cuts, divides, and conquers without strife,
Still leaving all in stitches for a bit.
Your laugh is trembling, caught between your lips:
Soft portals op’ning to release your voice;
You speak in cursive curvy like your hips
And all around the daffodils rejoice.
Fair ribbons weave their way through curly locks—
I’m shy so all I see are argyle socks.

Photo by Christina

Three Little Pigs (The New Twist version)

There once were three piggies with three types of wit
And three little wolves who were of the same knit.
The pigs were named Abel and Lincoln and Babe;
While the wolves were named Cain, Davis, and Sacrebleu.
(You thought that last line should have rhymed, didn’t you?)

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Because Russ L asked

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