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.

The Lippity Dip

Just there! Look fast!

Don't think and don't blink,

or else this one chance may just slip,

To catch a brief and fleeting glance

of the rare Lippity Dip.

What is that, you ask?

Why, do you not know?

My good friend, where have you been?

The Lippity Dip is a small clipper ship

that sales atop a small bean.

Oh, don't fret, my dear friend,

you heard right now just then.

Your ears, they are working just fine.

A ship, full and true, with ten sails well rigged,

On a bean in this garden of mine.

Alas, now it's gone.

The moment has passed.

The ship's sailed on beyond view.

I hope you could see it, the pride of bean ocean

(As I like to call my bean stew).

First in 9 months...I'm a bit rusty.

I have a friend called Tape Measure,

He's twenty-six feet long.

Not twenty-five, for some reason,

but whatever. On with the song.

My Tape Measure and I are bugs.

...Um...Buds. I meant. My bad.

And where I go he go there too.

And neither us be sa.d

This thing is getting out of hand,

my ode to Tape Measure...

'is what I get for starting late.

I go look for treasure. Now. I. Um...Yeah.

(Thank goodness this is a nonsensical poetry blog...)

Inconvenient Cheese

Oh, pickled cheese,

you aim to please,

but if you could,

don't make me sneeze.

Oh, peppered chips

in queso dips,

right down my shirt

your cheese just drips.

Oh, mustard swiss,

you are not bliss.

You make lunch break

a time to miss.

Oh, old bar joke,

you moldy bloke,

my humor sense

you just now broke......(because the joke is cheese....get it?....)

The Wild Hamster

Somewhere across the Western Sea,

beneath wet tufts of moss,

a wild hamster lies in wait,

his prey: an albatross.

Now you might think that bird too big

for such a little guy,

but wild hamsters know no bounds.

Some even learn to fly.

But albatross, for him, will not

be dinner on this night.

For now comes near a zebra goat

who's looking for a fight.

And oh, such battle would they wage,

that hamster and the goat,

if only they were not divided

by a four-foot moat.

The branch where once the bird did sit

is without bird once more.

The wild hamster sighs then walks

out to the grocery store.

Childhood: A Brief Look Back.

Oh little blade of grass,

you sound like a kazoo.

I've never owned a domino

That was the color blue.

I sometimes miss the simple bliss

Of Velcro on my shoe.

I nearly hurled in kindergarten

The day they made beef stew.

A Jumping Bean

A jumping bean:

It has no spleen,

Nor heart, nor lungs, nor throat.

But jump it does.

Why? Just because.

Don't let it get your goat.

A simple thing

Within the fling

Of life that's so amusing.

And so it goes,

Amongst the throes

Of this world, so confusing.

Little Jackie Finnigan

Little Jackie Finnigan loved to run and play,

up and down the mansion halls, just always in the way

of heads of state, of honored guests; and never did she halt

to say hello as room by room across the halls she'd vault.

Little Jackie Finnigan loved her family:

Her father, last great governor of such a fine city;

Her brother, the explorer, venturing beyond each bend;

And lastly, Adii Quinntoughin, her best and closest friend.

Little Jackie Finnigan, blessed, yet still so sweet,

Spent her summers walking through the city in bare feet,

Spreading laughs to young and old, while at her father's side,

Always keen to keep ahead, despite her meager stride.

And little Jackie Finnigan grew and grew until

the day she turned thirteen, when time, itself, for her, stood still...

She cried over her father's form, his blood caked in his beard,

And there before two hundred eyes, Little Jackie disappeared...

Jello with Fruit Haiku

Floating, stuck in time,

Immersed in a grave of sorts.

Its flavors not right.

A Serious Poem, #1: Is there a Heaven?

Is there a Heaven, a place in the sky,

A paradise waiting for us when we die?

A someplace far better than where we are now?

Where Good is the who, what, where, when, and the how?

If there is not, then what are we doing?

Trying to forget the days we are rueing?

Living for nothing, then going nowhere.

Just one more small voice getting lost in the air.

I just can't imagine that this here is it,

A place with no reason to live or to quit.

There has to be more, something that explains

Why beauty is wind-blown grassy white plains.

Or thin veil clouds hiding dazzling sky.

Or winds of assurance to wipe my damp eye.

Or freshness in scents that tickle my nose.

Or friendship, constant, though it comes and it goes.

It's beauty in ugly that makes no good sense

In this broken world where we long for past tense.

It's things often looked at but often unseen.

That give us a hint of a world not unclean.

And love. What is that? How came it to be?

That sickness, that goodness that bubbles in me;

That longing to share, that drive to do good;

That need of a touch, the hope that I could.

So I am convinced, there's more than we see.

A Good place of immortal community.

It's somewhere I can't see, but I can perceive.

And all just because I once chose to believe.

New Years Resolution

A difficult decision was my New Years Resolution.

But now I stand, firm in my choice, with solid constitution.

Success is sure, I have no doubt, no fear of retribution.

My goal, my friends, is simply this: to eat but one Fig Newton.

The Hinklewatt Berry

The Hinklewatt Berry grows high in a tree

Way up in the mountains of Bangeladee.

Its blossom is rare, quite a sight to behold,

A beauty seen only by travelers bold.

For just once a year does it give off its fruit,

Which tastes a bit like an old moth-eaten suit.

What good can there be from a taste so off-putting?

It's great, so they say, for a chimney de-sooting.

Classic Poem #3: What Christmas is Not

In times such as these, full of holiday cheer,

A jolly old man and eight tiny reindeer,

It's best to remember what Christmas is not,

Lest we forget to remember what it is we forgot..

With thousands of twinkling lights all around,

With trees in the houses and snow on the ground,

With specials on TV and eggnog for all,

We're swept up in joy from the first day of Fall.

The closets all packed with presents on the shelves,

The lawns decorated with miniature elves,

The fireplace crackling with chestnuts and such,

All fill us with glee, quite lots and quite much.

But please, if you will, do remember one thing,

One thing very 'portant, one thing I do sing;

This season is nice, it fills us with bliss,

But if Christ hadn't come, it wouldn't exist.

So do not forget, in the midst of this fuss,

Who came down to earth and gave us Christmas.

Give props to the Lord for his Son he done sent,

And stock up on cookies, for quite soon, 'twill be Lent.

Classic Poem #1: Help!

Someone help me, please!

I am stuck in a haiku

And I can't get out!

Caution

A tale of caution you won't want to miss:

Beware of surroundings when taken by bliss,

Since hard is recovery when you screw up like this:

To smootch someone's nostril when you lean in to kiss...

In Need of Moisturizer...

Tonight I walk out in the dark.

The air, it lacks the song of lark.

Within my heart, a tiny spark,

But my skin is dry as pine tree bark...

Thirteen Below, v2.0

We go to the snow when it's thirteen below...

Why we go when it's so cold, we don't really know.

I fret at the wet squishy feeling I get

When I walk in my socks, 'cause I lost some dumb bet.

Then a fox ate my socks as they dried on the rocks.

And now my poor toes are feeling cold shocks.

Thirteen Below

We go to the snow when it's thirteen below,

And high up above the stars give a show.

The trees and the seas of old leaves dance with glee,

And the peace carries on just as far as I can see.