Someone’s Crying
In the Valley someone’s crying … crying, hoping someone hears. On the Mountain is a Wizard who’s been jaded by the years. Near a small brook walks a Maiden, but she’s got too much to do; in the forest is a Lumberjack who’s too busy eating stew.
Not the Wizard, nor the Maiden, nor the hungry Lumberjack gives an ear to nearby crying—they all shrug and turn their backs. But a small Lad, in a valley a mountain range or two away, hears the crying in his soul’s ear carried upon the sun’s last ray.
In the moonlight he traverses the dark mountains where bears roam. With the moonbeams spotting danger he gingerly skirts around their home. Other dangers crowd upon him as he keeps his forward pace—bats are swooping, owls are howling, spiders try to web his face. Foxes slink not too far from him salivating for a bite—to them, he looks rather tasty … chewing him would be delight!
On a moonbeam coming through a pine that nearly stops the sky, the small Laddy’s soul hears once more the incessant, pleading cry.
Wiping cobwebs, swatting bat brains, sneering back at glaring owls … he slips closer to where the bears are, where the foxes dare not prowl! With this furtive desperation, he out-foxed the foxes’ jowls. But the terror of that tightrope made him nearly lose his bowls!
Now daylight’s breaking with new dangers, making snakes drop from the trees; seeing him, snakes think how much fun it would be to wrap his knees! Squeezing, squeezing, snakes love squeezing lads and lasses in daylight. You see, the sunrays also carry things that make snakes leave the heights!
Walking, with his senses checking every shadow, every breeze, the Lad walks into sweetest danger—honey dripping from a tree.
Hunger’s taste buds overwhelm him as he dips in his walking stick. Honey! Honey! Luscious honey is so smooth to lick and lick! But the price for stealing honey is well-known to young and old! Alas, when hunger makes it tasty, one forgets and becomes too bold.
Swarming back from a field of flowers, an angry army starts their chase. Stinging, stinging as he’s running, how can he survive such race?! First they sting his open ankles, then they sting his wrists and neck, then they target ears and eyebrows … But wait! They stop! The world’s now wet! The lad was lucky that a river flowed not far from that honey tree. He held his breath and, with the current, swam and swam and lost those bees!
Emerging from the saving river, the Laddy pulls twelve stingers out. As his body swells with poison, a sunbeam brings a distant shout. He musters strength to resume his journey, but his wounds now slow his stride. Pain shoots through him, cramping muscles, he suddenly feels about to die. Keeping close to river’s shoreline, the Lad is struggling to go on; but the poison overwhelms him and he falls into some thorns. In delirium, he reaches out and picks a berry from the shrub. That red berry, if it’s eaten, can counteract what bees have done. To his lips he puts the berry, but he fears it’s poison, too. Somehow his hurt, dying body makes him eat that bitter fruit.
Though the thorns ripped through his body, they cut like a surgeon’s blade; the cathartic berry expels the poison though the incisions the thorns had made.
Extricating himself from the thorn bush, he crawls and sips from river’s flow. The water gives back strength to continue, though now with woe and tortuously slow. He struggles up the Mountain before him that overlooks the Valley that cried. Seeing the Wizard and the Maiden, the bedraggled Lad just walks on by. He smells the wafting mealtime aroma of the stew of the Lumberjack, but the hungry Lad just keeps on walking—this time ignoring hunger’s attack.
Up ahead the sunrays flood into a clearing in the wood; this is where he thinks the person who’s been crying probably stood. As he gets there, there’s no-one there … just an echo of other ones scattered to the planet’s corners crying, “Hope has come and gone.” With that echo ringing loudly, the brave Lad is not belayed: he’s pressing onward with his journey—that young Lad’s still on his way!
So … if you’re hopeless, revive courage! That young Lad’s still on the way.
I know. I saw him.
The Status Quo is Fine
I know in the world there’s a kindred soul who’d once been a part of the chosen fold who’s wandering far from the safety net without a home as the cold Sun sets. I call to the Sun and I make a plea that he’ll pause an hour to help me see if on the horizon I can find that soul and somehow return him to the fold.
I search the rim of the earth and sky and, with one minute left, I deftly spy my kindred soul and I rush to him, but even before I can speak or begin to tell my friend of the danger he’s in, he warns me of the dire problem that took him out beyond the fold into the realm where all fires burn cold. “The problem,” he said, “is a hidden flaw within earth physics that’s missed by all. The problem, simply put, is that what we can see is the inverse side of reality—what’s touted as strong is really quite weak and that which is bright too often is bleak, and some in the fold don’t really belong and what seems so right might be utterly wrong.”
I look in the face of this radical soul and now understand why he’s not in the fold. The Sun now is set and I go back home, seeing, ‘tis best if that radical roams. The physics of this world are quite well in tact; it’s poor guys like that who are way out of whack. Here, back in the fold, what’s good is good and sensible folk live exactly as they should. If he questions the things we all accept as true, he doesn’t deserve to be part of the crew.
As each glorious sunset fades into dusk, I’m glad he’s not here to stir up a fuss. I’m glad he’s not here—he’s not really one of us.
The Penguin & The Peacock
A Penguin and a Peacock decided to set up house together. It seemed odd to all the other birds who knew that like should stick with like, but there was nothing to be done. Penguin and Peacock assured everyone that inspite of their great differences in appearance, they were really alike in heart.
Penguin and Peacock set up a nest and began to invite the other birds. They were attentive hosts. They seemed to love the art of conversation and tried to out do one another in thinking up the most jolly topics to discuss. Afterwards, when the guests had gone home, they would compare their prowess at changing the conversation and keeping it on their chosen topic.
These conversations were not so jolly as what they had when the guests were present. Sometimes these conversations became too personal and by the end, the Penguin and the Peacock were each injured from the insults the other had delivered upon them.
Very soon all the birds of the neighborhood learned that to visit them was to become the ball in some conversational sport. The Penguin would bat the guest bird and the Peacock would return the volley. With everyone keeping up politeness, no guest bird was willing to say they didn’t like being a ball.
How dare you lose your mittens!
“Now, didn’t I tell you not to do that! You’ll catch your death of cold! A Polar Bear Cub must keep mittens on. So do now as you’re told!” The Polar Cub guessed that his teacher was right, but still he saw no sense in adding a layer on top of his coat that seemed sufficiently dense.
Pumpkin Jack
Little Bumpkin was a pumpkin in a pumpkin patch; he had a fear with Halloween near of ladies who might snatch — snatch him from the pumpkin patch and turn him to a pie, so, he changed his name and lit a flame and poked out his two eyes! He poked his nose and poked his teeth to make a scary face, and when those brazen bakers came they stopped their forward pace. Instead of Bumpkin they saw Jack — a lantern like a ghost. The forswore thoughts of pumpkin pie . . . “Instead, let’s just make toast!”
Yes, a toast. Why not!
Next time at a banquet meal you lift your glasses high, remember Jack-o’-lantern’s flame, whose wits kept him alive! Cheers!
A Seed
Little Jamie, out her window, daily watched the world go by—Cobblers, Grocers, Milkmaids, Butchers, and a woman selling pies. Little Jamie, some called crazy, ‘cos she smiled at all below. But her smile did have a purpose—she hoped it would help love grow.
One old codger, nicknamed Dodger, never smiled back at the lass; he said girls who smile at old men are, most surely, fully crass.
Then one day our little Jamie fell down from her window throne, and the first one to her body was the codger heading home. Dodger stooped and breathed into her air that gave her life again. Little Jamie, as she came to, looked and weakly gave a grin. Till that moment he had never known the value of his life, but that faint smile saying ‘thank you’ made his own heart come to life.
Little Jamie, out her window, smiles for she has planted love—when her seed died, it was able to give life to one above.
To Belinda, his bride of a day
At the mention of the name his deepest passion was inflamed that fled him since the haunted day his Belinda was so cruelly slain—Belinda, his bride of a day.
The killer had been locked away, the Judge said, “Till comes the Judgement Day.” But parole was granted now to her and her sentence was deferred—the killer was now free. The killer’s free! His bride’s interred! His blood does boil at what’s occurred! And in his rage he pulls a gun, killing her for what she’d done. His soul now bleeds.
After many years in jail he is released into the hail of raging storm that swells and floods and drowns him in his frigid blood. He, too, now dies.
Shrinks of some much later time said his anger made him blind to choice of letting Belinda go, instead he chose to sink down low in latent rage. “Let it go,” they say with flare as their hands raise in the air gesticulating reason’s aim—to keep one’s passions well-contained and in control. But they’d not known Belinda’s love nor found the killer’s bloody glove nor felt the gash of love that’s lost nor been a groom at such a cost to Belinda, his bride of a day.
Echo of the Hunter’s Gun
The echo of the hunter’s gun is final melancholy note of tragic score that hist’ry wrote lamenting day that now is done . . .
. . . the day they roamed without a fear of humans who would kill for sport. Since few can bear a tragic score and fewer bide a flood of tears, the final melancholy note of one less species on the earth does barely cause our hearts to hurt so long as we are kept afloat by synthesized and organized, televised, commercialized, sanitized and amortized melody of modern lies which with gusto are now sung at the top of mighty lungs as the echo of the gun is drowned out by beat of drums . . .
Still . . . echoes, echoes hunter’s gun: “Hunted species’ day is done.”
Sunday Morning Paper: I saw the light!
I saw on yonder hill a light squinting through the blackest night; pausing, watched it flicker out and thought I heard some children shout, but turned my head, kept walking on. I turned my head, kept walking on. I passed a man around the bend heading on to where I’d been. On his face he wore a grin which made him seem the simpleton. I turned my head and hurried on; I turned my head and hurried on.
Next day . . . papers said he’d saved two of three children trapped in a cave—the third one died just as he came (just one minute sooner, she’d too been saved). I turned the page, kept reading on; turned the page, kept reading on.
But what’s the use of telling this tale? It’ll probably land me somewhere in jail where lawyers and judges and cops with guns will join in condemning the thing I had done, i.e., turning my head and walking right on. But what kind of fool wouldn’t walk on!
. . . All rise . . .
In court my grand defense was laid: “A hero’s born, he is not made! Just imagine that you were me—the cry could’ve been a trap, you see—the night was thick and close and dark, so jury members, please have a heart and acquit me, please acquit me.”
The judge and jury saw my point, but still the evidence did point, point to the fact I’d walked right by while in the distance the girl did cry to empty sky.
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” they cried.
O, how easily does come guilt when tales like this are craftily built. At first we feel the preacher’s glare, hearing the cry squeak through the air. And then in jury box we sit, to judge the one who gave not a whit. But still, that one is each of us pleading for mercy, not justice. Thus, “Let’s be fair!” does kill the tale that dares suggest she land in jail.
Meanwhile the man who’d saved the two has humbly faded from our view. Please turn the page, this tale is done. Let’s get back to something fun. Please turn the page, keep reading on; the sports are next, let’s see who won!
Ps: The Sunday paper that carried this tale retracted the story, the writer’s in jail. So . . . Beware of the preacher who’s itching to use this helical tale—it’ll be misused—unless she hang her head and cry, “The one who saw the light was I!”
Love
Love can’t imagine the world as it is, Love can’t but hurt for circumstances; And love can’t be measured by the use of the word, For love can’t determine how itself is heard.
Love can be tricked as it trusts all things, Love can be duped as it hopes all things, And love can be fooled as it feels all things, But love can’t be broken as it bears all things.
Love never tarries to set right its wrong, Love never forces itself to belong, And love never lies nor manipulates truth Since love never plays the incredulous sleuth.
Love is the only thing I take with me When I shall enter to eternity; And all that’s been writ’ lamentingly shows That love, here on earth, takes a miracle to grow.
Morning Brew
Come now beam of morning light just bright enough that I’ll delight to sit and sip dark morning brew, and with my love to then review the day behind, the day ahead, the things we’ve thought and things we’ve read . . .
The cup of brew when shared at dawn eases fears and bids them gone.
Wiggling Worms
The wiggling worms rose up on hind legs and stared at the mutant one and pitied her hairy and chubby physique—her ego was thus undone! The season of comments they whispered her way did make her ashamed to reply; but in the next season as they flew as moths, our lass was a Monarch on high.
Now, you may think this tells like the tale of that once famous ugly duck, but there’s one big difference—the moths of this tale are now all to flypaper stuck.
Zeet Street
Once upon a time in a dark and urban street lived a quiet orphan boy who was known out there as Zeet. On the street all kids do meet with what teachers call real life, for out there you can get killed just for being black or white.
By some fluke of nature’s whim Zeet had thoughts that made him stray from the wisdom of this world, out to the light of day. As he walked one sunny day, he peeked through a windowpane of the First and Commerce Bank where a widow went insane as the Banker took the Deed, from her frail and frenzied hand, of that corner of the world where hard luck had made her land.
As Zeet watched, his anger grew as the Banker’s false glad hand touched the widow’s youthful arm with a feminine demand that the widow give to her an ingratiating smile. As the widow winced in pain, Zeet barged in to end the guile.
Fast as lies, the bullets flew from the guard inside the door . . . Zeet collapsed at widow’s feet and expired upon the floor.
The crime that there transpired was reported far and wide, but the widow never knew that Zeet died to save her pride.
The Demon & The Saint
Demon: So, we meet at last, Bright Star, face to face.
What you did years back is seldom surpassed
Even by those who have achieved renown
With books in their name and letters behind.
Congratulate you, I must, and marvel.
Saint: Marvel? Surely ye jest! ‘Tis rather I
Who must marvel at such audacity.
Demon: Begging your pardon, of what do you speak?
I merely wish to convey amazement
That—for one of such plain and common birth,
And for one of such average scholarship—
That you should shine so as to be noticed.
Saint: Ah, now ye speak more as the fiend I know!
How thinly thy bile is covered in flesh.
Demon: But why be so harsh? Come, let us reason.
I mean you no harm. For you I do pull.
Others wait with baited breath for your fall,
But not I. I am your admirer.
Tell me how onward you go with no doubts.
Saint: How dare ye say that doubts do not exist
When plainly that is the test besetting?
Demon: Why must you so question my intentions?
If you do such, how can we reconcile
And construct a City of Inclusion?
Saint: Beguiling lies—what greater torment for
A heart broken by the Great Compromise!
Demon: Why not give up the challenge of your youth,
And instead, mature and gain dignity?
Saint: And what dignity remains when naked,
We face the One God glowing red and pink?
Demon: Incorrigible! Your star has grown dim!
Saint: Know ye not? ‘Tis not my aim to be bright.
Skeleton in the Closet
There is a door within my house that ever remains closed, or should I say it stayed that way till one day I was told that hidden behind such doors are not only rats and mold, but also things that might be worth a treasure-trove of gold.
The door swings rusty on its hinge and nearly topples down; behind the door my skeleton looms and looks at me and frowns: “Why did you leave me here so long—so much we could have done! But all my brains and ligaments have long since fled and gone!”
With bony finger in my face, my skeleton decries, “Without me you’ll surely die!”
I counter, “That’s a lie!!”
I strike the door, and as it slams, my skeleton is shattered. Yes, all the riches in the world, aren’t worth his brainless prattle!
Spineless and with no backbone I face the world today. I’m proud I didn’t compromise and show him light of day. What’s more, I’m proud I didn’t seek that treasure-trove of gold. Lesser souls, when facing such, would dare not be so bold.
From Closet sepulcher echoes sound as bones stir slowly round: “There’s treasure in a backbone found—some day I shall be found . . . some day I shall be found . . . By whom? Some day I shall be found . . .”
Poetic Justice: Both bridges are out!
The most apposite thing is when two liars meet and tell to each other the truth, but rather than heeding the warnings proclaimed they both speed away to their doom!
Shared Chocolates
(country and western version available, subtitled with Fanny Bly)
The chocolates I gave her, she shared with her mother. The letter I wrote her, she read to a friend. The tennis we played made her late for a date . . . O would that she would be my lifelong soul mate!
I know I must woo her in some special way—something to give her or something to say? I know I’ll discover the key to her heart . . . Maybe this poem is the best place to start. . . . She read it and shrugged and asked, “Who’s this poem to?” I blushed as I told her, “It’s written for you.” She smiled as she pointed to one small mistake: The chocolates I gave her—she’d shared with a date.
Fickle Fan Amnesia
Call it fickle, call it sin, but a team that will not win when the fans are pulling hard should be feathered and be tarred, then locked up behind steel bars!
Winning is not all that hard, is it?
Yeast or Baking Powder?
Betty Jean and Betty Lou scarcely know now what to do to stop the leaven in their bread from rising up above their heads! It’s growing high and wide and deep—now it’s oozing ’round their feet! They try to run and cry for help, but ev’n ’fore they’d yelled or yelped, the dough had bubbled, covering them—trapping all their cries within.
But still, the oven can be used! They light its flame and watch amused as heat from open oven door bakes the bread from roof to floor. But the air—too hot and dry—made the pair of Bettys die. In the days and weeks to follow many folk came to that hollow where the House of Gingerbread had been baked just as I’ve said. Poor Betty Jean and Betty Lou, Betty Crocker cries for you! Had you but read that gingerbread’s baked with powder, you’d not be dead. The moral is not hard to see: “Carefully read each recipe!!” But if you don’t, then please don’t wail if you end up just like this tale.
The Last Words of Sir Diggery
The water soaked his leather case and blurred the ink and thus erased from mortal time and memory the last words of Sir Diggery.
He’d lived a life of Quest and Grace—a model for the human race; he’d found the key to happiness and wrote it down in humbleness. But on the road he was ambushed and left to die beside thorn bush. Then as the rain came beating down, some passerby who thus him found picked up the case and shrugged and said, “This is not yours since now you’re dead.” She dumped the refuse from within and thought she’d found a real bargain. She wiped her feet upon the mass of papers which contained the last—the last words of Sir Diggery, thus cleanly wiped from memory.