I lost my music

I lost my music, can you help?

It’s colorful and bouncy, red with a yelp.

I lost it when sleeping soundly last night,

My head was empty when I saw first light.

The normal rhythm accompanying life,

Was just gone like cut with a knife.

I looked under the shelf where I keep my blues,

No sign of it, just some loose screws.

(They were holding the peace in place,

Now our house features an escalating arms race.)

I looked behind the fridge where I keep my cool,

Not there either, just a chill ghoul.

(He’d really want a bite of your tasty flesh,

But he’s ok, no worries, don’t thresh.)

The top of the closet had only some dust,

And a bit weirdly, a bread crust bust.

(Sculpted into the shape of children’s laughter,

I have a glance and decide to take after.)

No, I haven’t had a look on my roof of felt,

But now that you suggest, I should have smelled,

The distinct scent of my music melting!

Come now, hurry, the notes are welting!

Oh no, too late, the melody just thawed,

If I tried installing, it’d sound flawed.

I guess the music machine on my attic

Has to have a try, might get acrobatic.

But now that we’re here, look at the sun,

It’s already setting, ain’t that fun.

It must’ve seen the damage it did,

It felt ashamed so it ran and hid.

If that’s the case, I might as well sleep,

Now it should work, I can’t hear a peep.


World Cup of Stretching

Welcome to the finals of the World Cup of Stretching!

Such a pleasant day, the weather is just fetching.

Last year’s champ, Berta, is up.

We can see her composure from this close-up.

Her condition is good, she’s super tired,

Her dedication to the sport gets me fired.

But I can see some slight mistakes,

No pants for starters, some deprivation shakes.

Assuming a lying down position she starts,

Anticipating stretching all the body parts.

Like last year, she starts with her arms,

Spreading them high enough for fire alarms.

Her wingspan is grand, over 30 feet,

Embracing a bus, her fingers can meet.

Next she curls her legs like a snake,

So much power, the ground does shake.

Once, dear audience, Berta went to Greece,

From the Polish border: one leap to her niece.

Now her back has the Golden Gate arch,

Can withstand the Red Army’s march.

A very nice job, the judges are thinking,

Oh now, dear viewers, your hearts must be sinking.

She got a DQ due to not wearing pants,

“Improper conduct” the jury just rants.

Berta overtrained and made a big blunder,

No somebody else got to steal her thunder.

(If you want to know who actually won

It was Mr. F.A.N. Tastic coming second to none)

Mad potato

A potato gets angry if you boil it too long.

It falls apart as everything’s wrong.

When you fork it, you’d want a spoon,

It doesn’t hold together like the earth or the moon.

A mad potato is feared on the plate,

The carrots and onions rue their fate.

Once a potato, when it got mad,

Jumped off the plate, which made me sad.

It stole my knife and threatened the milk,

Which escaped the glass, slithering like silk.

This armed potato stabbed my cup,

Porcelain screech made the cat tense up.

Ramming the knife into my loaf of bread,

I had to declare the bread stone dead.

That homicidal potato, in a mad rage,

Ran off the table to the horror of the sage.

Hitting the ground it shattered into mash,

A quiet, angry thud, no bang or crash.

An angry tater caused all this fuss,

Frightened milk and an upset puss.

Not a single dry eye when the bread was buried,

An eternal scratch that the cup always carried.

Don’t boil potatoes a second too long,

You might have to compose a sad song.

Statues thinking

I saw a statue and had a fun thought:

Are their minds filled with thoughts or naught?

If you’re a statue, older than Jonathan,

Do you have the same notions again and again?

The first fifty years would pass easily by,

Marveling at peoples’ lives of a fly.

Identifying pigeons who land on your head,

Listening to all of the things that are said.

The next hundred years might be a bit harder,

If not for the repair crew’s loving ardor.

You might get bored of watching your realm,

Or even the cooing things on your helm.

You have to go inside your brain,

I’d think that’s one good way to stay sane.

But going insane might work as well,

It’s not like anyone else could tell.

Insanity, the way to endure eternity,

All your thoughts a twisted fraternity.

If you don’t want to drop your ball,

You should stop thinking once and for all.

Concentrate on the wind that strokes your bronze,

On the rain drops and the cries of swans,

On the tourists’ admiring gasps and aahs,

The lightning flashing to the tune of nature’s laws.

If this is true, then this also holds,

I mean for statues and such of olds:

They went crooked or became like Buddha,

Which one? That’s a mystery unlike Bermuda.

Typing sticks

Typing sticks are fingers and balance sticks are toes,

Seeing orbs are eyes? Not even House knows.

Chewing blocks are teeth and hearing holes are ears,

Your head: A speaky hole and some thinking gears.

Running sticks are legs and pointing sticks are arms,

Sniffing holes can detect some aromatic alarms.

Pumping ball is hearty and filling sacks are lungs,

Tasting snake is what some people call their tongues.

You’re made of sticks and stuff and so, and so, and so,

Sticks never worry about life, but still they always grow.

Tree branches

The snow has painted all the birches white,

Their branches are pointing left and right,

North and south and east and west,

Up and down and all the rest.

Those young birches pointing away,

Regarding the world as new all day,

“Look at the clouds and that car over there!

Where did that rabbit run just now?! Where?!

Look, another cloud and it’s really big!

And a small deer thing that likes to dig!”

Every branch and bough is poised and ready,

Looking at the plants and a real-life teddy.

Birches are young, fast and wild,

Of every tree they’re most like a child.

Spruces, however, covered all over,

Branches so thick form the whitest clover,

They are the parent, with their embrace,

Their heavy limbs are the squirellotaur’s maze.

You don’t want to play tag with the rain?

Just come under and its chase is in vain.

You’re never safer than under a spruce,

This goes for robins, a mouse or a moose.

One fine summer I slept in a spruce-shade,

And after that, I’ve never been afraid.


Summer stopped by in the middle of Feb,

I wouldn’t want anything else in its stead.

Almost all of the snow just thew,

Bringing excitement to me and you.

There’s a street to cross? Ain’t that fun!

You can slip under a bus in the warm, warm sun!

That’s like a free gym hour for your heart,

And you get it for commuting, that’s pretty smart.

A surprise flood in the middle of the crossing,

Underneath that, some icy-kind of glossing,

Wade in the water, tires halfway under,

Whoops! Your balance just now made a blunder!

Your left side’s wet and the other is damp,

Time to turn on your inner heat lamp.

It’s pretty thoughtful, of the ice, I mean,

Kept you from overheating and made you clean.

Slush on the pavement makes you tired,

More exercise just gets me fired!

No gym today or tomorrow, it’s fine,

Cycling in the sludge is good for your spine.

Plus, it pro-tects your tired-y tires,

From nails and glass and asphalt fires.

The only downside I can think right now:

It’s a bit hard to ski with a super sweaty brow.