The magical, marvelous, mystical world
The magical, marvelous, mystical world
that skips across the sea
and pulls the sun up every morn
is what Frank Schmittie sees.
He takes the magical mystical things
and turns them into ink
and fills his pen and lets it write
... at least that’s what I think.
You might be far away from all
the things that Franklin sees,
but as you read the ink that’s here,
with him, you’ll sail the seas.
We'll die without pizza!
Coming home, the family of mice
searched through their cupboards for something nice;
but finding there nothing savory or sweet,
the family of mice all stamped their feet:
“We’ve gotta go find ourselves something to eat!”
The family then sped to the kitchen above
and together indulged in their greatest love.
Inside the cardboard which lay on the table,
they stuffed their mouths full with all they were able.
First gnawing and crunching, then munching it down,
the mice were attacking a pizza they found.
But then, suddenly, a light lit up the room
and they were all trapped in their cardboard tomb.
The family of people all leapt up and down,
smushing the mice with a squishy cheese sound.
Losing their food made them irate and starved:
“We’ll die without pizza! Quick, out to the car!”
‘Twas hunger that drove them to speed on their way.
The cop stopping them said, “Ya should’ve obeyed
that red light back there, ‘cos now you must pay!”
The fine was so much that their hunger increased
which drove them to eat and to eat and to eat.
They ate so much pizza they died in their sleep.
So next time you’re hungry and stomp with your feet,
beware of the fate that these stompers did meet!
One day the Kitchen decided to leave the house.
Can you imagine – leave the house!?!
It was already out of town when I caught up and asked,
“Where are you going with the dishes and cups?
Are you upset?”
Of course the Kitchen didn’t reply,
but the oven, puffing smoke, bellowed a cry,
“We’re tired. Just tired. That’s all.
So when the Kitchen said go, we answered the call and went.
“But,” I protested, “you’ve so many meals and holidays
and birthdays and parties and
... and so many occasions provided for.
How can you all that success ignore?”
The oven shut its door and frowned.
The teapot pouted its lip and looked down,
“He said tired. We’re all just tired.”
Upon hearing that, I naïvely inquired,
“Tired of What?”
You’d think I had tickled a laughing hyena!
The shrieks from the pots and the pans and the china,
the flatware and sink and the Kitchen itself,
revealed very clearly the anger they felt!
Then up flared the stove and the cutlery flew
and I barely escaped, and I now must tell you:
Whoever enters a hot Kitchen nave
exceeds and surpasses the bravest of brave.
And I, for one, I tell you my friend,
shall not ever question a Kitchen again.
I have decided that to write in standard poetry
does seem quite trite and is a form of genteel snobbery.
So, I’ll try to break this habit and just think in plainer prose;
but ‘tis rather like a rabbit who must stop his twitching nose.
Still, here I go! Yes, I shall try to make that poet stop!
But, science says the hare will die if he must crawl, not hop.
Well, never mind; a poet’s mind can think in more than verse.
It’s just that words that fail to rhyme have whiskers far too terse!
They scratch and stiffly addle hope in bunny-brains like me . . .
While whiskers of a poet’s hand grow soft and long and free!
I love those words with fluffy fur, ‘cos twixt these floppy ears
I know the human side of life does prick so many a tear.
Alas, I see that I must write in standard poetry,
‘cos bushy tails and fuzzy paws redress humanity.
The Toilet Blessing
May the waters of your toilet ever flush beneath you,
but God forbid that they should ever rise to meet you!
Warning: Don’t let her turn the lights out!
For hours on end I can get hooked
inside the pages of a book:
my eyes get glued in fixed array
as I can’t tear myself away;
my hands are bound to front and back
by pirates who make sneak attack
on a ship I’ve stowed away upon –
my legs get stiff, I cannot run
‘cos pirates hold a musket gun
up to my head, “I’m almost done,”
I say half dazed unto my Mum
who says, “Lights out!”
and stops my fun.
In search of the next rhyme!
My poetry sprouted in China, grew in Siberia and matured in Saudi Arabia.
Remember, don't B Grim!