Brian Cleary

My Father’s Mustache

My father’s mustache is the largest in town,
It’s bigger than all of the others.
It grows all along the width of his face
And continues right on to his brother’s.

I Can’t Find My Thesaurus

I can’t find my thesaurus—
I’m really quite disturbed:
Aggravated, agitated,
angry and perturbed.

Whoever came and borrowed it:
Return it straightaway,
Instantly, directly,
Right this minute! Now!!  Today!!!

It’s Raining Adjectives!

Hey, look! It’s raining adjectives—
It’s pouring plain and fancy,
It’s dripping dark and dangerous,
Mysterious and chancy.

My hat is drenched in jubilant
The puddles pop with jumpy
my socks are soaked with squishy, stinky,
soggy, soft, and lumpy.

The gutter’s overflowing too
with spooky, strange, and sneaky,
The drain is backing up with loaded,
laughable and leaky.

It’s coming down with clamorous,
Cantankerous and clunky,
It’s sprinkling splendiferous,
fantabulous and funky.

The weatherman looks skyward,
As he shouts, “What’s up? What gives?
It isn’t raining cats and dogs—
It’s raining adjectives!”

The Mind

Memory is like
a room where tiny boxes
hold our yesterdays.