Heading home on the train,
Between my book pages
I glanced, and my eyes
Caught most other gazes.
Except for one figure
Lithe and poised,
Who kept on reading
Despite screeching noise.
She leaned on a pole
And used neither hand
To balance herself as we
Bounced through the land.
Dressed all in black,
Dark hair, and pale skin,
An old book in her palm
With pages worn thin.
While she was reading
Deftly spinning her hair
With three long fingers
Like a web in thin air.
I tried not to stare
Entranced by her spinning.
Snapped out of my daze
As the lights started dimming.
The intercom screamed,
“A train stopped ahead!”
The train brakes gnawed,
And whack – went my head.
I opened my eyes,
Wrenching pain as I scanned.
We were all on the floor.
I slowly started to stand.
Out the window I stared,
A thin figure raced by.
Later learned a thick web
Had saved all our lives.
They call me the Lockbed Monster,
With grippy pincers like a lobster.
Stripped of my blankets, I’ll still clamp,
Adhered to bed just like a stamp.
Sun may rise but not my eyelids
As I increase my REM mileage.
Bells and whistles, they won’t do it.
Marching band? I’ll sleep right through it.
A lion roaring in my face?
Twenty elephants in a race?
Through clash and clamor, I won’t surrender,
Locked happily in horizontal splendor.
What do you carry in your bag of brains,
Marvels, and memories and little word games?
Do you pack a calculator for everyday use?
A wrench for tightening when things get loose?
A fan for cooling those overworked fuses?
Some ice and heat for soothing your bruises?
A scosh of sun in a sealed tight jar?
A map for days you want to go far?
Photos of everything you’ve ever seen?
A cinema screen to watch as you dream?
A notebook of names, a binder of musings?
A gold case of moments especially amusing?
Got a telescope for long-distance viewing?
A cauldron bubbling with ideas stewing?
Files filled full of insightful defeats
Next to a stack of success recipes?
Records tooting your favorite tunes?
A safebox of sweet words that once made you swoon?
An album of faces you’ll never forget,
Blank pages for ones you haven’t met yet?
The size of the satchel is constantly growing
So don’t stop now, keep on stowing!
Before he wanders through the wood,
The knave knows not of the beast,
Except for details loudly sung
In the safe warm halls of a feast.
Until an answer can’t be found
The brain knows not how much it grows
When forced to search for methods new,
Opposed to those it thinks it knows.
The body hums an easy pace,
And seems a simple system, sound.
The strength of each component part
Unknown until it comes unbound.
And as it’s breathing down his neck,
The knave remembers those he loves.
He turns and stares at beastly eyes,
His hands fly forward, true as doves.
When answers lie just out of reach,
And all used paths lead to an end
The brain remembers more than facts,
Creative thinking is its friend.
When beaten, bruised, tired, and sore,
Immunities against the ropes,
The body soldiers on and on,
What flows in veins is blood and hopes.
* Inspired by my dear, brave cousin, who is battling cancer.
Before zookeeper, astronaut, athlete, or teacher,
I had another idea of what my future would hold.
It was less of a career and more of a feature
I decided I wanted before I grew old.
When I grow up I’m going to be tall!
I’d announce as if I had the means.
Turns out I grew up to be quite small.
Picking pants is not the same as genes.
I had a large dinner at quarter past seven,
It rendered me too full to sit.
So I laid on the hammock to stare up at heaven,
Thought I would rest for a bit.
It was a peaceful two minutes, supine outside,
But the little stringies beneath my bum,
Silently screaming, surrendered to my backside,
And submissively snapped, one-by-one.
*Based on a true story that occurred a mere few hours before the posting of this rendition.
Maybe the dirt under his toes,
The million-years-old grains of sand,
Sparked the ancestry of his fine nose
Set off a chain reaction, demand
To hunt, to chase, to set his gaze
Upon the horizon and scan
For preys to raze and bring forth praise
From his best friend, his master, man.
His muscles twitched. But not so fast,
Fowl was sparse in this urban land.
Jays parted ways, larks did not last,
And the city had chickens banned.
But his stance was firm, his jaw set,
His tail was as stiff as a mast.
Paused his duties as a house pet
As he spotted something fly past.
The hound in him snapped back with ease.
Adjusting to much smaller kill,
Domestic dog settled for bees.
Wild pup just enjoys the thrill.