Why I like poetry

It's possible that I'm going insane.

Maybe that's no new knews to anyone else. Maybe I'm the last one to figure it out. But it seems to be happening nonetheless. (or is that not all one word?)

Last night I read The Nonsense Rhymes of Edward Lear to Ethan, and, I readily confess, it was more for my sake than his. The pictures delighted me and the poetry was a mouthful of bliss. He tolerated it admirably. My favorite poem in the book so far is "The Pobble Who Has No Toes." So before bed I counted Ethan's toes to be sure they were all there (they were). But as I tried to settle into bed myself, I noticed this delightfully frolicksome phrase gambolling in my brain...

"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible cat with the crimson whiskers!"

Actually, it was minus the fishing part, because I couldn't remember the beginning of the line. So it was sort of just "da da-da da-da da his Aunt Jobiska's runcible cat with the crimson whiskers..." You know that annoying feeling of forgetting the other thing you were going to buy at the grocery store when you only had two things to remember? It felt like that.

So, I'm sure a brightly whiskered feline figured somewhere in my dreams, but I don't remember it. When I woke up, guess what I was thinking? "da da-da da-da da his Aunt Jobiska's..." and so on. All through breakfast, it danced and romped and made a fool of itself, and occasionally slipped right off my tongue in a rhythmic mutter. There may have even been some head-bobbing-from-side-to-side as I munched my peanut butter toast. When we reviewed our memory verses, Mr. Runcible & Crimson himself was there to fight it out with half of Romans 8. After breakfast, for the sake of my own mental health, I sought out the source of my madness and looked up the rest of the line, so that Aunt Jobiska's cat could be properly fished for. It was just too fun to say.

And don't think that I got all wrapped up in my cutsy little rhyme and the whole little world was sunshiny and the birds were singing rosily in their little nests-- agreeing. No,no. But- this only proves how catching good poetry really is- when I went outside in an inward thunderstorm to cry my eyes out, that impertinent cat flicked his tale around in my brain and, well, I had to smile, in spite of myself.

That's just one reason I like poetry, even if it makes one a little insane. Go on, say a few lines, if you dare :)