I don't mean to cast aspersions,
but it would seem to me
parents shouldn't give a child stabby
things 'fore the age of three.
I don't know whether this household
has a pup or kitty,
but if the kid can spear the floor
the pets ain't look'n pretty.
Saying a babe shouldn't have a spear,
you'll call me "left-wing nut,"
but I don't like dog-on-a-stick:
even if it's a mutt.
Adrift at sea for days and days,
who knows how it will end?
Your body sloshes like the waves,
but as your mind descends.
Your mouth is dry; your body pruned.
In thirst, the water taunts.
But - ever wet - your skin sloughs off.
When soaked, the water haunts.
The sun burns hot. Then fog rolls in,
and senses are deprived.
And washing up on vacant shores,
you find that you've arrived.
You know not where - but feel relief.
Land monsters can't be worse
than those that grab you by the mind
while high seas you traverse.
Wildlife charges through the city
like the bulls of Pamplona,
a stampede of death
from a river of life,
a river that flows turbulently,
crashing and slopping.
Nothing can falter before the stampede.
Each step must land solidly,
each step until one's last.