Almond Haiku..

Almond split in two,
When dampened by my wet tongue,
Looks like a soap bar.

Timber's Well, Part I

Draw near now, my friends, and listen up close,

for I have a tale to tell.

A story so grand you might think it untrue...

A tale I call, "Timber's Well."

Now long long ago, not so far far away,

There lived an old man named Mazoo.

With fourteen gold teeth and a hand made of oak,

He could scare you till your skin turned blue.

And then one cold day he done kicked the ol' can,

Leaving everything he had him behind.

Except, so they say, for one special device,

Made for locatin' what can't well be find....found...

This thing here had whiskers, and seven pink spigots,

And lenses of all shapes and size.

Just how one could use it, ain't no one could tell.

So they gave it away as a prize.

"Now who'd want to win such a useless device?"

You may wonder, and as well you should.

The lady, Ms. Higgins. "The one with the cats?"

That's the one. Yep, she thought she would.

So she entered their contest to guess just how many

Blue pickles would fit in a pie.

Her answer was zero, for "Pickles aren't blue."

The laugh of the crowd shook the sky.

"But pickles aren't blue," I can hear you be thinkin'

And true, true enough, no they ain't.

But imagination be needed round those parts,

Or else you might dry up like paint.

She stood there defiant as they read the answer,

"Eleven, and no more," they stressed.

Then off rode Ms. Higgins with her brand new prize,

For she'd been the only that'd guessed.

The story from here be at most speculation,

for Higgins tweren't seen e'er again.

There's some that would say she done found out too much

O' a plot old Mazoo hatched back when.

Then others might claim she was napped for a treasure

That thingy she'd won lead her to.

But I think it's bigger, and deeper than all those,

And it all has to do with her shoe.

For, you see, they ain't found her for nigh 80 years,

But one thing they did find, they tell:

The left shoe she wore on that blue pickle day

Was found deep inside Timber's Well...

"Murder most foul! Or moderately foul!"

Some cried at the sight of her shoe.

But scrawled on the sole was a note that suggested

She weren't dead yet: "Pickles aren't blue."

This well, now, were old back when old men were young,

And all manner of legend's they'd learned,

Of a whole mass of caves found beyond its dark shaft.

And none who'd gone down there'd returned.

Some say there's a treasure lost deep underground,

forgotten for many a year.

But others would claim that the caves are all haunted

And tell of the ghosts they could hear.

But were it all true, or just fable and myth?

I'd bet you Ms. Higgins now knows.

For twenty years later, she sent me a letter,

Attached to a single red rose.

"What said the letter?" You're wonderin', I'd guess.

I'll tell you, when time we don't lack.

Until then let simmer these thoughts in your head:

I went down Timber's Well and came back...

A limerick, for a change.

Oh, Pickle, you smell kind of funny.

Like licorice wrapped up in money.

I would take a bite,

But I fear that I might

Be turned into a polkadot bunny.