~~ ~~ 1 ~~ ~~
Why pretend that parents are wise beyond all telling?
I say this for the record: Something rotten I am smelling!
~~ ~~ 2 ~~ ~~
If police come knock, knock, knocking, and the census taker notes
That you are a foreign person, board your boat while it still floats!
~~ ~~ 3 ~~ ~~
In the poor, white cardboard shanties gold and silver may be found,
But take care, O treasure seeker, that the gold does not confound.
~~ ~~ 4 ~~ ~~
Do not ditch the native speaker,
You’ll be glad that she’s around
When the jungle vines come creeping,
And your own tongue can’t be found.
Who can make sense out of nonsense?
Who can make hell holy ground?
Only those who speak the language
Of the things that make no sound.
Poems © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Sunday’s Whirligig #177
More Poetry Pantry #418 at Poets United
Sunday morning our neighbor, a high school history teacher, wheeled his bicycle into the street and pedaled away for his customary ride. He never came home again. About an hour later, two police cars and a police motorcycle arrived, bringing the teacher’s bicycle, his helmet—and bad news. Throughout the day we gathered bits and pieces of information from another neighbor. No, the teacher hadn’t been struck by a car. Apparently he had a stroke or a heart attack, and toppled from his bike. Rushed by ambulance to a local hospital, he hovered between life and death for several hours. By nightfall, he was dead. What started out to be an exciting summer festival of rest, relaxation and recuperation for a weary educator turned into a season of mourning for his wife and two grown children.