591 and 592

So many things to plan! So many points

to cover ere you enter into yon

imaginary jaunt, whose many joints

have their own hinges that they hang upon.

The monsters, peoples, and their workplace shifts,

the treasures, traps, and secrets you might miss,

the puzzles and their purposely-placed gifts,

the checks and charts in their handbook abyss.

And even when all paths have been prepared,

you’ll still take some that no man could have guessed;

yet that is true adventure, rightly shared—

the calculable journey is no quest.

So enter, now, into my labyrinth head,

where dice decide to leave you proud—or dead!

~~~

The waters muddy, and we don’t know why—

they simply seem to go that way sometimes.

Be it man’s foot, fish, or rain from the sky,

we do no good to claim we know its crimes.

But do with muddy water what we do:

when too muddy to drink, we carry on

to feed our gardens, more tolerant to

its muddiness, and if not there, upon

the streets, to wash the mud that they have there,

or for the stables—dirtier than streets.

You cannot make all water pure and bare

of all its sin. So mete it where it meets.

You’ll die without a tolerance for mud,

whose iron filaments fill e’en your blood.