I don't like it when poems are long
When poems are long and keep going
on and on

I don't like it when poems are long
because my brain begins to think of a song
and then a hippopotamus twirling and whirling around

When poems keep going on and on
my mind cannot stand another stanza
and then the lion pops into my head

The lion that tells me this is gonna be long
that this poem is as vast as the sea
and nor you or I will be able to flee

I don't like it when poems are long
unless of course they are written into a song
will hippopotamuses dancing

Unless that poem is intriguing
with life and color and passion
with feeling and being and desire

excuse me?
But I do not like it when poems are long
unless they are good and they are strong

Five. Cinco.

Half of the ten and a fifth of the twenty five. Mathematics are a funny subject, don't you think? Some man just made up letters to correlate with numbers to transcend to concepts that in all reality could mean nothing and the square root of a orangutan could actually be yellow.

I contemplate on that a lot, being the Grace that I am, wondering if what's real is real, if words are just words, or all they the pygmy hippopotamuses flying in my dreams. Anything is possible. Dreams could be reality, and reality could be a dream. Or maybe there is no such thing as realness, and everything is just madness.

I learned a lot from my friend the Mad Hatter, how to love, how to be disappointed, how to fall into a pit of despair and how to wear a hat like a ****** deviant and love it.

But the most important thing I learned is that sanity is very subjective, because what may seem totally sane to me, completely within the norm, may seem like complex incongruity to someone else. Maybe we're all mad. Maybe no one's mad. Maybe its just you, maybe its not you.

Special. That's another word that always got me, but I prefer to think in the realms that everyone is different. The world is in different shades and hues, none are ever quite the same, so why should people be that way?

But maybe yet again I'm only speaking in riddles and soliloquies and monologues and standing over all my conquests I am screaming my thoughts while they utter not a word, fearful of manic me.

I'd be afraid of manic me. She is quite the finger-twitching tyrant.

Words are words but are they real? Are they what you mean or are they just lies, lies, words that you scream until she dies, dies, and the world is at peace.

Oh, that's not right.

I once wrote a short poem similar to that I could recite by heart, but as my heart has changed the words become jumbled. Death creeps its way into lies, and heavy juxtaposition ***** with my meanings. Eating my words, until I am not a girl anymore, I am a leaf, or a bat, stuck in Wonderland until the end of my days.

Funny how Alice the savior became Alice the bat.

Wait, I'm not Alice, I'm Grace.

Oh, I do not know who I am anymore. And that is the tragic beauty of Wonderland. You just never know what, or who, tomorrow may bring.

vibrant colors on beautiful birds
caged in uselessness
and never flying free
when the doors wide open
from the presence of fear
and the absence of dream.

mortared into corners and
clutching onto our terrible lives
and meaningless possessions
with talons of counterproductivity.
terror-stricken by vagrancy and
holding up the dagger to our hearts
while submissively allowing the
beast of prey to cut through with
ease until the blue waves come out
through the tear ducts of depression
and the voice starts trembling
and the feathers start molting
and we start falling apart
at the seams.

working hard for everything
and surviving on nothing.

our lives and our deaths
wouldn’t be so sad
and we wouldn’t be
so terrified of change
if only we had proficiency
and understanding
in our viviparous days
that when we wake up
to face the sunrise,
the reckoning of agony
begins.

we’d be able to
fly free
a little more often
like catapulted
hippopotamuses
but here,
in the swampland
of our darkness
that’s our cross to bear.

::::::Just a Poem::::::


The world will end
The Earth will bend
Waters will get thirsty
Ants will grow hefty
The sun will melt
No pain will be felt
The clouds will usurp the sky
Fishes will walk and fly
Trees will run and walk
Flowers will sing and talk
Animals will become wise
As with great heat the Moon will arise
Rivers will flow out from earth
Water will be the measuring unit of wealth
Stories will not be told
Not when old senile grasses will bear forth gold
And mountains will be heaved by valiant men
As they bore forth silvers and diamonds vomiting children
Famers will plant Crimson stones and harvest rubies
Ripping their husbands apart, and searching for crystals, would be feminine hobbies
Lions will be used for transportation, since their claws will turn wheels
Crocodiles will evacuate their aquatic tenements and head for the hills
After losing their flight, birds will trek to volcanic regions for recreation
As venoms of snakes will be used for mummification
Just when planetary bodies muss up after drinking muscatel
And Comets will go wiggling the Universe searching for Meteors to tell
Asteroids will be **** women
Visiting Earth on intervals to eat the luscious renascent three-legged men
Children will converged forging a bulwark with each fiery horn
Ones fixed by a one-tooth worm just about the time they were born
This is a gory war; it will commence when a star will fall
Exactly when vim-less monkeys will bellow a rehearsed rodomontade in the butchery hall
As venerated corpses of Rats receive posthumous worship
Those villains were holy miscreants, who sent many to death-sleep
Their posterities are honored; infamous miscreated Rats, with flagrant mien
But as foretold by the corpulent Prophets, shortened will be the tyrannous Gopheric reign
For they will be swallowed by gigantic-goliath gourmand Hippopotamuses
Their description are ineffable to words, they are of enormous sizes
And aeons from now those gourmets will swallow the earth! And oh! Unreal it will all seem
Because you think this screed is just a Poem!

Composed by SirKelvin
Poem 99, ©SirKel 2016

I grant you
three overused words
can never do justice
to the way my heart depends
on the continued beating of yours

But why, **** you
could you not have gone hunting for rarer birds
taken a risk with words
Netted a guillemot. A tern, a crane
even a toucan
Written a second rate poem
if I can you can
Conjured forth that secure base
with a bedtime story
for your empress of penguins
your queen of hippopotamuses
your borrower girl

One day, even soon
that flock will have lifted
not to fly south, not to return
and there'll be no more lifting and swooping, no joy
in the swerve of a turn mid-air
no undertones, no attempts to colonise
no smiling eyes

I'll be standing alone under an empty sky
there'll be nothing to look at in wonder or borrow
or any asking why

Doing justice is what murmurations are for
how you've done them and more
You showed us the world and the joy of flying - and look
here I am trying to do it too
but three little starlings will do
A starling for each of your little darlings
Three overused words in a league of their own
I know it's beneath you but see I am
beneath you
I'm down here, just here, I'm no longer hiding
and red herrings are cheaper.

Red herrings are still only
two a'penny