Silver sickle

Sickle moon outside my window, 

you're a flashlight on another world.

Crossing the cosmos, your beam will go

brushing past the soft and curled 

forms of people fast asleep. 

You're a night watchman, always there.

Dim and bright your light does sweep

so many worlds: Who knows where?

Sickle moon outside my window,

ball of silver up in the air.

Waxing and waning, your face will show

a bit of tarnish, but never a care

for who shall make use of light

shining through the midnight dark.

The night-watcher's everone's right:

ever present, strong and stark.

Words of a threader stuck together

Thoughts of packing a pair of socks and flying away in a little box!

I'll pack a pack of chips and dip, and a tiny flask for the hip.

No journey's safe without a drink, but it can be done with little think.

On sea of clouds, with a breeze of sun, I'll see the Wonders: every one.

I'll follow a sunbeam all the way and convince it, down here, to stay.

The beam will help me look around till what I seek, I have found.

(It's interesting to shunt between the posting face and tweeting scene.)

It is quite cool how a journey rocks with a pair of socks and a little box.

Ode to a small thing that grew in my bedroom through the volcanic process

A lim'rick's the latest thing

that I will write and sing.

Perhaps a grin

or a riotous din -

Who knows what it'll bring.

A one and two and three.

Another one-two-three.

A one and two

and one and two

and one, pause, two, pause, three.

An artist bunch were tense -

A dilemma, immense:

"We need to do

a piece, brand new.

Let's make it on nonsense!"

And so they sat to write,

a-callin' night as white.

From yawn to dusk;

from cake to rusk -

A nonsense writ, all right!

And things began to flow.

You should have seen them go.

Fact and fiction;

contradiction

mixed into the dough.

The piece began to rise

like bread before their eyes.

A bit of salt,

some candied malt,

and liquor for surprise.

The other side of town

sat many with a frown.

They made a choice

that screamed a voice

that drove a cat to drown.

But that's another tale -

another glass of ale.

The artist crew

now slowly drew

to tap the final nail.

So what was the result?

We ponder with tumult.

What did they write?

It must to light,

before we can exult.

Ah, but there's the catch.

We cannot simply snatch

an artist's due

for pieces, new.

It slowly must unlatch.

So sit with bubbly beer

or wine in crystal, clear;

await the age

when it will stage

and all shall stand and cheer.