The Puzzler

puzzleIt was no ordinary puzzle.

It came in a sealed box just like any other puzzle.

Except there was no picture on the cover.

“10,000 pieces!”—the box said.

“If you put together no other puzzle in your whole life— —let it be this one!”—the box said.

The Puzzler was intrigued.


Possibly even a bit manipulated.

The Hoarder

The Hoarder


hoardertree1-500x1024Life is not merely puzzling.

It is beyond puzzling.

It is certainly more than a puzzle.

One can only wish it was just a puzzle.

Life is more like a scroll,

yet more than a scroll.


Like an endless scroll,

with the “now” of our lives,

laid out flat between the rolls.


The scrolls of our lives,

are entangled with—

—-complicated by—

—and supported from,

the scrolls of others in our lives



sometimes in the rolls,

we wither,

cryptic pieces spilling out on the other side,

waiting to be sorted.


Our past, rolls-up behind us,

whether the pieces fit or not.


hoardertree2-500x1024Life scrolls,

as a river flows,

when the pieces fit a lot.


The rolled up pieces of our past,

like cast away carpet,

are needed less than we fear.


So give away the pieces that you can,

making room for more.


Any piece that we withhold,

and keep as if our own,

might be the one,

for which someone longs.


We can never know,

how pieces given away,

can be useful to the puzzle,

of someone else.


Can you imagine if,

for want of just one piece,

a person didn’t win,

the Nobel Prize for puzzles?


Or for Medicine?


Seems like such a heavy price.


What if you take that one piece—

—with you when you go?


Will you have enough time—

—to give them all away?


By Charles Buell

Mother Nature is a Hottie!

In Summer, Mother Nature can be as hot as a brothel’s attic.

EARRINGS1In Winter, as cold as the end of Jack in The Shining.

When she is out and about in the violent cold of winter.

When the hoarfrost nips our noses and toeses.

We are seduced by her crystal earring’s shining.

And warmed all over again.

Like hot chocolate.

Amongst the shattered roses.

By Charles Buell