Bring Me Everything Whimsical
--Jon Postins--
“The Whimsical J Po of My Yellow House”In the long and felicitous hours of my solitude,
when the wind brushes the shutters with gentle curiosity,
I find myself visited by a presence —
whimsical in nature,
radiant in persistence,
and wholly devoted to the uplift of my peace.This presence calls itself J Po. He wants his space. He demands his roles. Time permitting...thud, thud, thud.He glides through the rooms of my yellow house,
that cheerful sanctuary of timber, memory, and warm light,
with a grace that elevates the very air.
His footsteps fall like soft invitations,
each one stirring the atmosphere
as though the house itself greets him with affection.His eyes — luminous, uncanny,
glowing with a lantern‑bright mirth —
regard me with a kindness I welcome.
He carries whimsy the way a minstrel carries melody,
with reverence, with joy,
with the faintest shimmer of mischief.At times, J Po laughs —
a sound so whimsical it dances along the beams,
ringing like bells in a jubilant cathedral.
It fills the rafters with brightness,
lifting every corner into gentle celebration.At other times, he weaves whimsy into the very air,
spinning it like golden thread across the banister
until my yellow house itself glows
with his delicate, delightful charm.And once —
in a moment so serene it felt borrowed from another realm —
J Po paused in the hallway,
lifted his hand,
and summoned the forces of the northern lights
as though they were old friends stopping by for tea.
They shimmered across the ceiling in quiet agreement,
painting the house in colors that hummed with benevolent wonder.And then there are the evenings
when J Po speaks in playful riddles —
each one a key to a door I gladly open.
He offers them freely,
as though joy were a destiny already chosen.I remain —
an eager host
to J Po,
this whimsical companion,
this benevolent muse who delights in staying.
He has made my solitude his playground,
my quiet hours his stage,
my mind his moonlit promenade of wonder.And in the gentle moments before dawn,
when my yellow house sighs with contentment
and J Po stands at the foot of my bed,
I confess —
with a warmth befitting a sovereign man —
that I am grateful for his presence.For in his whimsical wake,
the brightness gathers,
the air softens,
and even the most ordinary chambers
remember how to dream with joy.