Halloween Candy

Trick or treat, time to eat
Fill my bag with something sweet
Weighted on the sugar side
With mono- and diglyceride
BHT preserves with letter
The artificial-er, the better
Processed cocoa, lecithin
Citric acid, albumen
A witch’s brew with bubbly boil
Partly hydrogenated oil
Caloric cacophony, I can’t wait
For dextrin and sodium acetate
Corn syrup makes me come alive
FDC Yellow #5
My taste buds nearly jump the tracks
For dextrose and carnauba wax
I may be stunted, I may be shorty
But I can’t quit Red #40
Potassium sorbate makes me smile
And malic acid gives me style
The flavor is too high to rate
With glyceryl monostearate
So let’s hit the street, it’s time to march
In quest of modified food starch!

-Weylan Deaver


Dark cloud in flight
By fading light
Emerge from cave
With sonar wave
Faces furry
Flying flurry
Night wing flap by
Bug trap in sky
Coil spring unwound
Above the ground
Hover at flower
The witching hour
Nose in nose out
Now pollen snout
Your sun is moon
Midnight is noon
Snooze upside down
Reclusive clown
That toothy grin
That see-through skin
You earn the nod
For straight up odd
Yet still we fear
To see you near
Airborne joker
Thanks, Bram Stoker.

–Weylan Deaver


Dancing steam above the cup
Wafting sweet aroma up
Brightens eye, enlivens mind
Leaving lethargy behind
Wide awake now seize the day
Industry brought underway
If you give the all you’ve got
Just go brew another pot.

–Weylan Deaver


Half-Mouse came to visit;
‘Twas the half without the brain.
He showed up worse for wear,
Looking past the point of pain.
Half-Mouse came to visit;
‘Twas the half that had the tail.
But missing all his mind,
The visit was a fail.
It does not really matter
Whichever mouse half is it,
You’ll never hear him chatter
When Half-Mouse comes to visit.

–Weylan Deaver
[Written upon finding a half-eaten mouse in the driveway.]

The Prancing Pen

Pull up a seat for the fire’s ablaze
And there’s many a tale untold.
Rest up your feet, remember the days
A good story never grew old.
Look—if you dare—to something out there
On edge of a sound barely heard.
Stay in a chair and go anywhere
On wings of a spellbinding word.
Lost in a thought just found in a rhyme
Hold tight or you’ll lose it again;
Willingly caught and musing the time
In the light of the prancing pen.


—Weylan Deaver