Lizzy Luckdragon's Page



This is a page I am proud to sponsor for a friend of mine, who goes by the name of Lizzy Luckdragon. She has written these poems. And oh, yes, she had some help from Ouchly.




Sing Me A Song


Sing me a song with your two-lefted feet.
Rhyme me a rhyme, make its syllables sweet.
Say me a story that's splendid and true.
Tell it by heart and I'll listen to you.

Pick me a flower that grows in the sun.
We'll pluck all its petals, until there's just one.

Let's jump over ditches, skip sidewalker cracks,
and count all our riches,
discovering niches
and stacks
of new-falling leaves
where sunshiney beams are warm on our backs.

Let's go out and play,
chase the monsters away,
and laugh while we dance through a wonderful day.









Childhood Comes With Magic


If I grew up and you grew down
and all our memories were new,
I'd walk beside you through the town
and hold your hand, like grown-ups do.

We'd watch the people hurry past
and make believe we knew their name.
Sidewalk strangers, walking fast,
would step into our made-up game.

The lady with the feathered hat,
the gentleman dressed all in brown
would stop to have a pleasant chat
with kings and queens in silken gown.

We'd ride a giant horse with wings.
(I'd hold you so you wouldn't fall.)
And do all sorts of pleasant things
to make you laugh. And all in all

we'd sail through clouds and wind-blue skies
and soar above an ocean, too.
We'd catch a falling star the size
of you and me. And as we flew

I'd call you home and say your name
so I'd grow young and you'd grow old.
And then you'd know that childhood came
with magic.

Now my story's told.









Playtime


I've got

a Friendly in my pocket
and an Ouchly with a funsy tail.
The first, a fish. The other is a kitty
with a calicoat. Sleek, feline-fat,
but mouseful in her youth.

They play with me, these two.
I bring them out at half-past twenty-five o'clock,
when mother's gone to town and sister sleeps.

I tell them that the outside
world is mostly bigger than a pocket,
full of awesome things for fabric cats
and fish who don't reside in bowls.

On Sunday afternoons
we search the fency yard for wings
to take us up, away from boundaries
that circumscribe the daytime world
where textile fish and cats

are pocketed.












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Copyright 2001