Mother Goose Self-Help
       

Climb a spout. Run a clock.
If the dogs laugh to see,
turn away. Remember their dogdom.

Turn your face from the man
who brings down the fastest pigs

from the sky. If you should fall,

let it not be far. If it is far, rain washing you out,
clocks striking every which way,
pick up your sticks, and, walking,

look for a spoon, a beggar's jags,
and bells for your toes to ring as you go,

reminding you: you go.

If you worry about life under a haystack
or a hill: marry a fiddler.
Or become one.

Find a bowl stronger
than that of the wise men of Gotham.

Set sail.

A lovely time, this: play fiddle
in your bowl on the sea.
Play until the strings break

and the bow wears.
At some point, then, let go the fiddle.

You will forget the mother songs,

the diddle-Hubbard-dings,
as you break and wear,
wear and fall,

your bowl cracked but whole,
your bowl shining and sinking.

It gets a little sad here.

But even here make of your sinking
and shining
a song—a home-again song,

if you can help it, and,
if not that, then a song to cry

at the locks, and rap
at the windows.

A crooked song.

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Copyright © 2014 K. A. Hays All rights reserved
from The Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission