Finding I said nothing

right

. . .

I also found

I had nothing

left

(to say)

either.

With yarns

–and 2 pens–

I knit a cover

(story)

–writ 1, girl who–

wove a golden weave.

some pearl,

some pattern,

some patchwork

the killer quill’t

I fashioned

failed

to blank-it

chill within

–but certainly let it out–

which was fine

(if not fuzzy)

because

whipped flat

it spread

. . .

lying smooth enough

with are-me corners

(draped with protective paper)

and strategically arranged cushions

disguising dropped stitches

–and most laughing matter, besides.

yet duvet dossier

scratched the wrong itch,

tickled the odd bone,

divulged secrets better kept &

created brimming basket of yarns

that just looked messy

////////////////

after all

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

–hardly

the Sunday funnies

you lounge around

to read.

 
to you

I’m her

a boon or burr,

but in my eyes

I’m “I”

. . .

a more important guy

. . .

the self attached to my

. . .

to what, wherefore, and why

. . .

the me that’s her

to you, is she

(to me)

and diff’rent thing entirely

and resonates with him,

not he,

apart from us,

not them but we,

and them’s

not they

–beyond this say–

exist in gobs

of fray afraid,

not groups, but mobs

of

we’s

(in force)

and those in

we’s

means

meez,

of course,

excepting none

a world pop,

made up of ones–

–source:

back to top. . .

 
Mother’s Goose

was well & cooked.

Force-fed, filleted, and foie-gras’ed

–when eloquence escaped her, and her hickory-dickory-docked–

the retrieval of which was a chase already commemorating the futility of the situation.

Wild, right? And just like those ribbon races,

it boded ill,

(to put it mildly)

–no rhyme scheme for one thing, and that irked—

the silly goose…

she forgot to duck-duck…

she diddle-diddle…

forgot that kat-kats,

are meer sometimes, too, and apt to find her tasty

–the invite to Christmas dinner

a thinly-disguised menu, really, worth

a thorough gander before

RSVP’ing, since

scrutiny’s a good goose trait,

doncha think?

Boy goose…girl goose, it’s all the same

except for the poking thing

nudge-nudge

oh, but I digress…

Back to the dinner party

(already in progress)

Yes, Mama Bird skimmed when

she ought to have scanned

moved when she ought to have

migrated

picked a peck that proved a pickle

and this oversight

practically guaranteed the

Goose

bumped off—

well, that and her preoccupation

with perfecting a

loosey-goosey, lockstep march

–her boss being the antichrist—

Dr. Seuss

and Mother Goose

met on match dot com,

questionnaire

determined pair

were Zebra

and beyond.

The duo dined

on food & rhyme

on ham & eggs of green,

a Humpty hash

with just a dash

of pease from

porridge theme.

The couple strolled

and passed King Cole

on journey to St. Ives,

Seuss tipped his hat

while slipping cat

in sacks of

seven wives.

Then squiring Goose

back home to roost

the London Bridge fell down,

stranding Seuss

–a coup—

with Goose

on higher, drier ground.

A fox in socks

He clocked her dock

she goosed his Sneetch

& wocket,

and hopped on doc

til weasel popped

rocketing from pocket.

And after that

Ma Goose got fat

so fat she had to lie in

but lost her girth

when giving birth

to twinkly star

named Ryan.

The lesson here

is fine and clear

(credit dating site)

to tow-tow boat

on date to float

when bridge is

lost to tide.

this is a verse

to modify view–

like grinning

when winning

is harder to do,

like squaring

the shoulders

and powering through

–and laughing,

when sorrow is

beckoning you .

this is a poem

without any style,

a jingle

to mingle

with thoughts for a while,

a protracted mantra

to murmur

when trials,

are testing your mettle

and upending smile.

so mimic

this gimmick

yourself

if you plan–

to keep your chin up

and catch as

catch can,

to redirect

focus and

thus understand,

your mood’s up

to you

gritty

or grand.