Jason Lander — CC BY 2.0 — https://goo.gl/BDoYhB

Life: A children's poem for adults

Life is a tilt-a-whirl board
game pieces flying in the air.
And when life is spilling over
we help and we share.

We show that we care.
We gush and we gurgle —
and we hope that we’re there.
We guess and we gaggle,
google, oggle and glare.

We pry and we pick
and we wiggle a stick.
We ponder and praise
and sometimes we gaze.

We lose it — —
we find it — —
but sometimes not for days.
We wished we’d remembered
and remember to wish.
We cut and cut corners.
We open and shut
and get stuck in a rut.

Life is altogether complicated
while simple and plain.
Don’t lick other’s linens,
or linger or blame.

You proscribe and give orders
and remember the names.
You lose place, have a face
forget and forewind

You jump to a star —
You make a star to jump to.
You feel like your running
but not going nowhere.
You correct and go over,
punctuate and create.
It comes and it doesn’t
and it isn’t the same.

You process and post
and picture and pee.
You postulate and remember
and forget you were three.

You get sore and get stiff
and you stretch and you strain.
You worry you’ll lose something
dropped down the drain.
And sometimes you wish
your timing were more timely.

You find perverse in plain sight.

You decode and decipher
and see picture of trains.
Sometimes you feel off tempo.
Sometimes your on track.

You giggle and laugh
and you try not to gaff
and if you are lucky
you get to pet a Giraffe.

You capitalize your capitals in every sense.
You misspell and mistake
and sometimes miss cake.

You’ll want what you shouldn’t
and not what you should
and probably too often
feel misunderstood.

You dare and you dance
some people do chants.
Your clever and caring
with splendor replete.

You savor and score
and you suffer defeat.
You think your fat
but wish thin,
and there's men.
Please don’t ask what it means,
you wonder it seems.

We pray and get stressed
and grow breasts,
and get dressed.

You’ll stop and you’ll click
and you’ll thumb flick and blunder.
You’ll want to be a trio
or quattro or more.

You’ll transcend and you’ll mend
— hope, hop and hunger
go over and under
stomp stand sit-lie
and go through a door
before while and after.

You cry in the laughter
hide, hallow, and weep.
You’ll lose what you wanted
— the other you’ll keep.

It’s soft, and it’s hard,
and it’s tangled and steep.
You’ll see more or less
of their beautiful mess.

You’ll score help and holler
and cringe at deceit.
Lucky alley cats
always land on their feet

G-forces will sink you
and others make you float

You’ll get it.
It will take time.
Please have a taste.
Say thanks for the wine.

The words come more smoothly
when the thoughts flutter by
for monarchs who choose
the fourth right to be wrote

You’ll want something sticky
and to eat something sweet.
But not with all —
the judgment to meet.

We spend time teaching others
to do something they can’t
in the state they are in
we tell them to stay
for the fear of retreat.

The mind cracks the code
by brute force of the thoughts.
That is consciousness.
This is campfire debate;
Intense intents in tension
in tense in tents.

A parenthetic loop of conjugated gold
for the pages of words untruthfully told.
I have doubt, shame, and sorrow
for past, present, tomorrow
and debt to the one
with nothing to borrow.

It’s funny when there’s children
but not when there’s not
our thoughts on refinement
for early display
and we wonder why others
remain in their bliss.
Together is better
two is better than none

A troupe and a troop
are polarly opposite
You are a member of one
or the other
or harbor or part in it.

Where was I only works
as a metaphysical phrase
If you know where you are
then you know where you were.
Unless you forgot.

Fingers on foreheads
file folders fan and
you focus and cross them
to stare into the air
or zoom into a hair
and can conclude
which way the story
goes on from there

Your concept is only as good
as the story that contains it.
I am warm as a bear
in a furry bear blanket.

Structured foreshadowing
creates the false sense.
Letters stacked up
in a sunsetting column.

Each word is a menagerie
of a multitude more.
Gold lips and bold hips
always cause the rise
and eventual autumn.

It’s not for you
but for me mine.
I have been riding
this end of line.

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