Pencils don’t bend;

four minus two is two;

and Mona Lisa’s eyes

don’t follow you.

Science and math

say these statements are true,

even if you insist

she’s still looking at you.

Using computers,

measurements, and subjects,

researchers have debunked

that Mona Lisa effect.

But researchers

came to the conclusion

that the Mona Lisa

does have an illusion.

In his painting,

experts say, da Vinci snuck

into Mona Lisa a smile

that’s a frown when viewed close up.

So, pencils don’t bend;

four minus two is two;

and Mona Lisa is just

messing with you.

A wicked cackle wakes me at 2:15 a.m.

From my cot, I see no one in or outside my prison cell. I walk to the bars of my cage and, in the dim light of the corridor, I notice a small, unmarked package on the floor just outside my cell. I reach through the bars, pick it up and peel off the plain brown paper, revealing a small, spiral-bound book. No markings there, either. But when I open it, the first page is full of hand-printing that reads like a journal:

Oct. 30

A wonderful night! Just the right chill, and clouds obscure the moon. Reminds me of the evening long ago when you threw eggs at your neighbor’s new car as he parked. The driver panicked and hit another car. You ran. The eggs come before the chicken. :-)

Oct. 31

Remember when you wore a ghost costume on this night? Who knew that little kid would make a ghost of the driver of that other car. And you thought no one saw you.

Nov. 1

I love courtroom scenes in movies. Real-life, too, especially when you smirked at the judge who sentenced you this afternoon for embezzlement and grand larceny. You also should have blown him a kiss like you wanted to.

Nov. 2

Stop writing! Don’t apologize to your ex-boss. Do you really expect your jailhouse letter will make him say, “Duh, I forgive you for robbing me blind”? Stay strong.

Nov. 3

Don’t be a weakling! You should have pushed that book right back at your visitor. Instead, you accepted it, even after the guard thumbed through it with his grimy hands. Throw that thing away!

Nov. 4

Don’t get soft on me. Don’t XXXXXXX You are the man! You laughed at that weak, crying inmate this afternoon. You make me proud.

Nov. 5

Why the hell did you go back to that inmate and read him some verses out of that book? No need to answer, man; I saw the semblance of shame creeping into your mind. I don’t need to remind you—but I will—that you agreed to eliminate that emotion when you threw in with me.

Nov. 6

Awww, today you cannot find your book.

Nov. 7

Couldn’t find it in the prison library either. Heh-heh.

Twelve Noon, Nov. 8:

It pains me to write this, but it will pain you way more. This morning, I saw you in your cell, on your knees with hands folded. This is a mortal violation of our agreement. Tonight, you will see the penalty. This is the thanks I get for recruiting you?

How many miles can an optimist walk

On the rugged paths of a callous world

Before the spirit becomes browbeaten?

Before the glass-half-full perception

Springs a leak and reaches depletion?

Before the psyche that was a beacon

Breaks, and night becomes every season?

Before the soul is callused and weakened

Like the soles of your feet so hardened?

Perhaps there is no answer or reason

as to the mileage an optimist can walk.

Hats off to the journeyers who still walk.

Woulda, shoulda, coulda. When I leave this life, I do not want any of these words to be on my lips.

Let other people speculate other paths I could have taken or life decisions I should have chosen. Just know this, everyone:

I live to make a difference. I do not live to preserve the status quo.

I play to win. I do not play to not lose.

My life is an action verb, not a nondescript article.

The only “if” in my vocabulary is this: If my life is short or if it is long; let each of my days be filled with accomplishments to help my planet.

So, instead of beginning my last words with “I woulda” or “I shoulda” or “I coulda,” let my sentences start with “I tried to” or “I vied to” or “I died to.”

Ulrich Q. Wiedersehen was a most unusual klutz.

His monumental blunders in Germany were legendary, from going the wrong way on the Autobahn to falling off a turret of a tall Bavarian castle. Yet he always survived to screw up again.

Long-staring Germans called him “Der Glucklicher Dummkopf” (“The Lucky Fool”). Yet most believed that the spectacular feats of stupidity were signs that his luck would run out, and that Mr. Wiedersehen was doomed to go the way of the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Wooly Mammoth.

When Ulrich died, no one knew the cause. He departed this earth without saying goodbye, but throngs of Germans gathered for his funeral and shouted, “Oaf Wiedersehen.”

An old, forbidding wooden house shrouded in cobwebs and rumors. A faded “condemned” sign tacked to a rickety front door for the past thirty years.

Yes, that’s how I’ll start my drabble. I can feel the dark prose taking shape.

No one dares approach this house, especially at 10 at night when unearthly groans are heard by the few neighbors left. Locals repeat a myth that a boy once snuck into this house, but never came out. His soul is said to be waiting to trap the next intruder.

Yes, I can feel myself in this godforsaken place. I almost

"There is no such thing as a dumb question."

That's what teachers, supervisors, and lecturers told me.

When no one in my work group posed a question, my boss added, "Don't be shy. There's no judgment. No one to stop you from asking anything."

A few giggles surfaced, reminding me of the ridicule and judgment that I risked.

So I kept my question to myself:

"Is there such a thing as a dumb answer?"

A raspy cackle raises my hackles,

and my feet stop, as if in shackles

near a dark, godforsaken chapel.

A diabolical laugh crackles

again, as if wheezing jackals

are stalking me, trying to tackle

my soul, treating it like an apple

to be devoured without a grapple,

followed by a burp and a cackle.

"How are you doing today?"

Like you, I receive this greeting two or three times a day, especially from a coworker at the start of another workday. Sometimes the five-word question is sincere, but most often it is a mundane way to say "hi."

And the standard reply is usually just as routine: "Fine. And you?"

However, I decided years ago to break out of the rut, and answer the "how are you" greeting with a different word: "Smooth." (As in no problems, no difficulties.)

I often receive a raised eyebrow or a smile. But the first time a female coworker heard my reply, she was momentarily speechless. In the vacuum, I asked, "How are you doing?"

She paused and said, "Lumpy."

I changed the subject.

I saw my old banjo case

in the back of my closet,

where for years it languished

with the instrument inside.

I recalled the day we split

and I gave my heart to a guitar.

Something moved me to brush away

the dust, and I hauled that old case

into the bedroom where the banjo

and I long ago made music

together. I opened the lid

and gazed upon my old love.

She was as I remembered her.

The wooden neck I used to cradle

was still a dull, faded brown.

The frets in front were worn down.

The five steel strings were frayed

and no doubt needed tuning.

As I so gently lifted

my ex out of her dark grave

I noticed the marks still etched

into the light synthetic head--

flaws made by my errant

fingerpicks scarring her beauty.

I recalled her patience

as this beginner slowly learned

how to treat her properly,

how to make bluegrass music,

how to introduce her to jams.

But all that was in the past.

Could lost love be rekindled?

I had to find out, so I slid

my picks onto my left pointer,

middle finger and thumb.

With my hands in their old places,

I tried to revive our magic.

Hesitantly, pick by pick,

our very first song together

slowly emerged. “Cripple Creek.”

I paused to savor the moment.

Time apart did not destroy love.

My muscle mem’ry was still there.