TELL YET NONE HEAR
LEAVES YET NONE FALL
BOUND YET I KNOW NO BOUNDS
COLORFUL NO COLOR EVER SEEN
NOURISHING NO STOMACH EVER FED
HELD IN HAND — HAND NEVER TOUCHES ME
FILL YOU UP YOU CAN NEVER BE UNFILLED
SEEN YET NOT THE SEEABLE
FELT YET BEYOND FEELABLE
KNOWN YET AM ONLY KNOWABLE
SAIL AN INVISIBLE SEA
BEHIND A WIND THAT CANNOT BE BREATHED
Obscure, once seen I am clearly seen.
Voiceless, I tell my tale from my own view.
Dead, I never live.
Living, I may not soon die.
My world wears the unknown face.
I am the answer to the question I ask.
When I wear no clothes
I hide my message beneath my dress.
When you find it hardest to see me, I stare you in the face.
I grow, yet have no feeling,
and where I always spurt ahead, I get mowed down
and it doesn’t bother me a mite.
Usually noticed but seldom used
I hardly know my purpose.
Yet often I’m painted red;
I must wear this false face
though I have neither eyes nor nose
nor mouth nor ears to hear by.
I am just me, hard and thin.
Pure growth, without sensation. By this I expose
banalities of paint and trim.
Though my skin may be yellow, my soul is black.
But in its very blackness lies my value,
though the truth is I am more skin than soul.
Fated with a stiff body I sit on a soft butt,
and if I make a mistake I can always change it.
Born to non-violence, I receive much violence;
but though I face the blade often I only grow sharper.
Often-times cut — yet I never bleed.
Tall in first youth, I lose height in my old age:
butt worn with use, I am tossed away.
What I make is the sound
of a certain animal
famous for the way he feeds me
at his own relief.
If I am the wind I can’t be felt.
If I am a tree I can’t be climbed.
If I am the sky I can’t be breathed.
If I am fruit I can’t be eaten.
If I’m the grass I can’t be rolled in.
If I’m a mouse I can’t be chased.
If I’m a house I can’t be lived in.
If I’m a shoe unlaced I can’t be laced.
If I am night I can never become day.
If I’m the sun I can’t shine on you.
If I’m the frost I can’t fade away.
If a baby newly born I can’t be weaned.
If I’m a shut door you’ll never open me.
Yet if seeing is believing, I am seen.
What am I?
I am a parasite on the body.
I bite clean through the skin and hang on.
Biting without fear, often I hang clear in the air
yet my victim welcomes me.
Somewhat male, I prefer to bite females
(although I’ve been known to bite the other kind too).
People have called me beautiful
even ornamental to see,
and my body flashes goldish or silvery
and my back a glittering beauty
as I hang swinging from my victim who loves me so much.
I am one not American
and my blood is not red.
Winged, I do not fly.
Well-footed, I cannot walk.
Well-fed, you never see me sit at table.
Although my companions love to speak
I’m not spoken to.
Should I die, my mother would not miss me,
no kin folk cry their sorrow,
no friends come sulking at my funeral.
Named, I do not know my name.
Taller than this riddle is long,
who am I?
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