Precious

Cannot stand,
yet has feet,
throat and mouth,
yet can’t eat.

Has lungs,
cannot breathe,
lips and tongue,
cannot speak.

In darkness dwells,
doesn’t bite or swallow.
Has nose, can’t smell,
doesn’t walk, yet follows.

Has not life,
is not dead.
Brings great joy,
makes young lovers wed.

Has a mind,
can’t discern.
Dearly loved,
can’t love in return.

Ever swimming,
has no gills.
Makes men’s knees weak,
and mothers ill.

Never wakes,
always dreams.
Torn apart,
in silent screams.

Nameless, blind,
precious, frail,
voiceless, sleeping,
innocent, jailed.

What is it?

Wiggly Wigs

We named this creature because of our fear,
now fear this creature because of its name.

An insect we greet with scowl and sneer,
an innocent insect living in shame.

Spare this poor creature, give pity, not blame,
a victim of slander, a scandal severe.

For an Earwig is not this great scourge of fame,
an Earwig’s a wig which is worn on the ear.

Countdown

Without even looking,
you reach for the phone;
held up to your ear,
you wait for the tone.

Notes bouncing forth,
as you dial away,
on tiny square buttons,
without a delay.

A reflex as ancient,
as river and tree,
but in your great haste,
you never will  see.

The keys on a phone,
you know where they be,
are not quite the same,
as on your PC.

The keypad’s inverted,
on calculators too.
Go check, if you doubt,
but sadly, it’s true.

So now we must choose,
the debate has begun.
Do we count down from nine,
or count up from one?