Baby shoes, never worn

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

The shortest story still stings like a thorn.

Maybe the baby was never even born,

Or later on became the reason to mourn.

I like to think of things with a twist,

Always positive is the main gist.

Maybe the baby just doesn’t need shoes,

She can fly as easy as snooze,

They moved south where it’s always warm,

Shoes as useful as a locust swarm.

She might have hooves for all I know,

Not feel cold imprinting the snow.

Might be a superhero just like x-men,

Radiate heat and levitate with Zen.

My point is, check your assumption,

Sometimes it’s caused by good old gumption,

Other times it’s just a prejudice of sorts,

To save you from doing mental sports.

Expecting crap does no one good,

Makes you feel much worse than you should.

(The original story is beautiful, though,

With this beauty, stay on your toe.)

Sunnie or Moonie

If the world stopped turning and just stood still,

The other side scorching on a star-sized grill,

The other side freezing and waiting for the morning,

We could do nothing, even with a warning.

The moths would have to migrate to the dark,

The rats as well, no walk in the park.

Sun tan parlors on the sunny side would die,

Stargazing wouldn’t end on the dark side’s sky.

The sun would burn a red desert in the middle,

No life or sound, a creature nor a fiddle.

The coldness of space would steal the other side,

Over the half, the chill would glide.

Wastelands great on both sides of the earth,

Everything living on the in-between girth.

The land of eternal sunrise or sunset,

You would ask everyone you hadn’t met yet:

“Halfway Sunnie or maybe even more?

Two thirds Moonie or three in four?

I’d say the latter with what you’re wearing,

Not enough layers is why I’m staring.”

The world would change and so would we,

Your place in the sun defines what you be.

Nothing else mattered, be it big or small.

Sunny or Moonie and that’d be all.

Hair-eating hat

This is the story of the hair-eating hat,

It’s very short and fictional at that.

There was once a hair-eating hat,

Weaved into being by a wizard-type brat.

Whoever put this hat on their locks,

Unless they were as cunning as a fox,

Would be met with alopecia very sudden,

Try it on in the shop and your face will mudden.

You would only hear a soft munch,

As the hat just had, a golden curl brunch.

It’s a very nice hat, don’t get me wrong,

But if you’re not bald, it’s your hair’s swan song.

Some get lucky come hibernating time,

They keep it for a while sell it for a dime.

They are spared as the hat was sleeping,

The very next owner will likely be weeping.

If the hat eats a headful or two,

It gets full and looks like new,

This is when it never, ever eats,

Not even the best of crow-black treats.

On the other hand, if it looks scruffy,

It could baldify a dog, big and fluffy.

I have heard it can change how it looks,

So you can’t learn its looks from books.

That’s why the only advice I can give,

Is: Don’t wear hats as long as you live!

Stuff I noticed

Whenever you crack up and let yourself go,

Let your teeth clatter and your laughter flow,

Not a single worry will ever, ever stay,

Was a thing I noticed on a very funny day.

If you smile the first thing in the morning,

Hug people you like with absolutely no warning,

It might keep their frowns at bay,

Was a thing I noticed on a very good day.

If you think too much about every single creak,

Or about the book you read last week,

You’ll be on the under-blanket highway,

Was a thing I noticed on a very scary day.

If you toss and turn on your bed,

Sweat and gasp till you’re almost dead,

Go for a run and feel ok,

Was a thing I noticed on a very hot day.

You’re never as special as you would think,

It’s not that bad if the world did sink,

If someone’s nasty you don’t back away,

Was a thing I learned on a sharp-thinky day.

If you wake up with your dreams not done,

You don’t get to stuff your face with a bun,

You might get angry with the people who play,

Was a thing I noticed on a very busy day.

If you run and run and huff and puff,

Fight with a bear who’s more than tough,

Just like Buddha you’ll relax all the way.

Was a thing I noticed on a tiring day.

The world is stuff you think and do,

It’s picking the way that’s right for you,

I can see many more wonderful ways,

With all the stuff I noticed on all of my days.

Flight to Berry Pie Land

Good morning, this is your captain speaking,

The sound you hear is the landing gear squeaking.

We’ll be landing in berry pie land,

The weather is sunny, great to get tanned,

There are some sugar showers you can expect,

If we dodge those, the flight will connect.

The temperature is toasty 200 degrees,

I hope none of you – hah – packed your skis.

The landing will start two minutes from now,

If you look to the left you can see a sea cow.

Fasten your licorice belts, would you please,

Upright your seat and relax your knees.

The marshmallow runway is soft and smooth,

With this you elders can calm your youth.

I was your captain for this, sunny day,

Welcome and please, have a nice stay.

Giant handmaid

Greg’s a hill giant and a good handmaid,

He’s 60 feet tall and his hands are splayed,

He’ll reach every single giant house nook,

Dust every surface of every giant book.

His feather duster is a big palm tree,

It sets the football-sized dust balls free.

Greg works mostly for the giants of gold,

The ones of ancient-y kind of old.

The dishes he does with the water of a lake;

Orange rind mountains and hills of cake.

You could feed a Finland or two,

With giant leftovers, couldn’t you?

The dust mites harangue real tanks for leisure,

Eating up cows is their favorite pleasure.

Greg just grabs his giant mite-hoover,

Sucks them up, the better, the sooner.

He evicts the people living in the giant-mansions,

No free rides or affirmative actions.

Scoops them up with a dust pan, red,

Throws them out, alive or dead.

Greg takes pleasure in what he does,

Some animal activists might make a fuss,

Those silly things, they’re vermin, that’s all,

Greg thinks to himself and makes the right call.

No more pests, the house is clean,

The owners tip him when its state is seen.

“Thank you Greg, you loyal aid,

That Anti-leniency of yours? A Grade!”

Greg thanks his Massers, heavier than him,

The money from their pockets now heavy on his limb.

Garlic butterfly

Today I was peeling a garlic clove,

For some stew then boiling on the stove.

One big peel fell circling down,

A flutterby whiter than blue or brown.

It will land, dead and still,

Was what I thought and always will.

But it flew up till it came to my chest,

Around my back and back to my breast.

Its tenacity draining it reached my lips,

Gave me a kiss, and plunged with flips.

I was kissed by a garlic moth,

Taste of garlic and the bubble of the broth:

All I felt or could think of,

As I stood there, filled with love.