Little Boy Blue’s Mother Goose Truth

 

Little Boy Blue’s Mother Goose Truth  

That little old woman who lives in a shoe? 

She’s there ‘cause she didn’t raise Little Boy Blue.

He was ‘spose to be tending the sheep each day;

instead, he was having a roll in the hay.

Each day he rolled with a different girl-

It began with one flaunting her forehead curl. 

He’d heard from Jack Horner she was “very good.” 

Jack BeNimble said she was “horrid” – but would. 

So Curl Girl was Friday’s roll up in the loft; 

Bo Peep rolled on Tuesdays, that same hay so soft. 

Miss Muffet rolled Thursdays, checked for spiders first –

(in all things arachnid she was quite well-versed).

Boy Blue rolled Hill Jill on Saturdays at three, 

and each of them thought, “someday he’ll marry me!” 

The rolling continued along through the years,

with Bo peep the first one to end up in tears.

“I’m pregnant.” she cried, as Blue slept on the job. 

“He’s worthless,” she knew, and continue to sob.

Each rolling girl came, one by one, with this news – 

but Boy Blue just lay there,

continued his snooze. 

Miss Muffet knew spiders – thought of Black Widows, 

so she called all Blue’s hayrolls and all his kiddos: 

“Let’s go in together and get our revenge,” 

and watched as their faces contorted and twinged. 

Their ideas took root as they simmered and stewed – 

they gave him the boot…..now they’d give him the shoe. 

So off to the hayloft they stormed in a huff, 

rolled him their own way, clicked his wrists in handcuffs,

marched him down to his mama, told her their plans.

With Blue in his handcuffs, they’d tied her own hands –  

and just as they’d said, she knew just what she’d do: 

she’d give up the family farm for a shoe! 

She’d be tending her grandkids 

as she’d been told 

all leathered and laced up and Mother-Goose-soled

And as Boy Blue sleeps on in the shoe’s dark toe,

his mama tends grandkids – 

her offspring is woe! 


A Newfangled Nursery Rhyme by Kim Johnson 

Ants Go Marching Two By Two Haiku

 

Ants Go Marching Two By Two Haiku 

under an upturned

leaf a tiny tea party: 🫖   

ants’ #raindaysocial 

cups and saucers clink ~ ☕️ 

colony gossip occurs

ants have affairs, too

12 were seared alive

in a deadly ring of ^fire^ 🔥 

touring other hills

10 marched off in tin 

to tend war-seeking beetles 🪲 

{ they lost the battle }

8 selfishly ate

the dreaded killer ☠️ granules* 

(*that they did not share)

6 ants fallen sick – 

Coranta 🦠 virus [sic] sweeps

their toxic queendom

ant sorrow brings

this mound is full of mourning 

this world is too sad! 😔 

4 stepped out for a 

picnic 🧺 week ‘fore & have not

returned – all feared dead!

2  smooshed by a _shoe_ 👞 

like a too-weighty spacecraft 

crashed to earth: splattered!

1 egg-lain mistress:

drone stepping out on his queen??!!

👑 Queen won! ate them both

ant drama brings gasps;

this hill is full of shockers 

this world 🌎 has gone mad!

ants 🐜 decide to swap

#teaparty for #happyhour

…Long Island Iced Tea! 🍸  

 

Quandary

 

Quandary

How should one respond 

when an outspoken 

community member

dead set 

and vocal 

against masks

and tracking-juice vaccines

because the virus 

is a “huge farce” –

and just in case 

it’s not, he went ahead 

and injected that 

household disinfectant

in his veins

like some genius 

suggested –

gets it 

and is near death

and probably going to

exit stage left

leaving his wife and two 

kids with sky-high

hospital bills

two months later?

Does one contribute 

a box of masks in his memory?

or offer fresh-baked cookies 

to those in line to get the shot?

Because these responses 

and that Go Fund Me page

someone set up for him all

seem like things

he would not want 

to have holding him

in silent agreement

with a virus that 

he adamantly proclaimed

doesn’t exist. 

Asking for a friend in a quandary

who believes “I told you so”

isn’t quite appropriate here either.

Diminished

 Diminished

Should one runner’s flatter mile be diminished by another’s more uphill?

Should we ask the elite runners to start at the back?

Should newlyweds in love 

quell their hearts for those divorced?

Should a new mother’s love 

be tucked under the shadows of a sister’s miscarriage?

Should a valedictorian feel shamed by scholars less honored?

Should school grade books even exist if some are less driven? 

Should those with strong legs sit on the bench while a teammate’s broken  leg heals?

Should the world stop smiling today to mourn all those who suffer loss? 

Should vacationers stay home because all cannot afford to go?

Should a kayaker stay home because there are those who can’t swim?

Should we all stop eating for those without food?

Should I take a lashing because my ancestors gave them?

Should professional athletes stop playing because teachers earn less? 

Should we dismiss our potential, ambition, and dreams for the missed opportunities of others? 

Unerasable

 

Unerasable  

fifty-four, like a 

teenager – writing our names

in a bathroom stall

along a Georgia 

Highway at a truck stop where

we bought boiled peanuts

on the backside of 

nowhere as we traveled home 

on a June Sunday 

through rural towns where 

ghosts of hateful cross burners 

in white hoods still roam

scenic roads haunted

rimmed with cobalt bottle trees

haint blue porch ceilings 


remnants of feelings

fears alive and real linger 

like names etched in trees 

someone has been here 

lovers and haters alike 

unerasable 



Beckham Cash Meyer



Beckham Cash Meyer

a new baby son

to snuggle, swaddle, spoil, love 

to the moon and back 

number four, third son

he’ll learn to stand his own ground

share and fight alike

protect Saylor Reese

share brotherly secrets with

Sawyer and River

personality-

dreams and wonders and interests

who will he become?

Echo Haiku

  


Echo Haiku 

Your new son sleeps in

your new home. He will

meet Nana today! 

PTSD

 

PTSD 

I know he’s having 

flashbacks when he draws near to 

lock eyes and seek love 

dog PTSD –

when he needs reassurance 

and won’t stop asking 

18 inches tall 

fierce as a mountain lion 

scared as a kitten 

two searching black eyes 

and a trembling paw that tills

a patch in my arm 

abandoned by his 

former owner, left to starve 

inside a duplex 

the day a landlord 

turned him in to the rescue 

we made him our own

knowing he would be 

a challenge with such issues 

knowing we’d love him 

this is what love is: 

dropping all else to show him 

that he now belongs