Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Summer














Egrets wade a pool
Lazy summer pollywogs
Wriggle to get free

Jeepin'















I was bouncing along down in four-wheel low,
The road was rough and the goin’ was slow,
Now the puddle ahead didn’t seem too deep
Cuz I was ridin’ high, yep I was drivin’ a jeep.

But when I hit that mud now, I started to drift,
So I clutched it hard but I missed my shift.
I was stuck for sure, I couldn’t make it move. 
I weren’t rigged for muddin’, I was stuck in a groove!

Well some good ol’ boys come a ramblin’ along
“We’ll get ya out, but It sure seems wrong.
Next time ya’ll get yourself stuck in a seep
You’ll need a wench on the front of yer jeep!”

Well I washed my rig, cuz I’d just got paid
And headed on in to the big parade.
When I got to town, I was feeling real good
So I picked up my gal and put her up on the hood.

When I turned the bend you should’a heard ‘em yell
To look at my Rosie up there shakin’ her tail.
Them good ol’ boys were goin’ beep, beep, beep
Cuz I had a wench on the front of my jeep!

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Wood Cat




















Strong and stealthy,
Bold and Brave,
Watching the Linx
I know to behave
Quick and Quiet,
Patient and Pure.

Thursday, June 8, 2017

The Huntsman's Plight



















In darkened wood he takes a knee and weeps
The blood trail’s gone, and with it all that’s good
He knows not where the stag has gone to sleep
His children’s aching bellies want for food

The blood trail’s gone, and with it all that’s good
Dappled shadows hide the trail he seeks
His children’s aching bellies want for food
A stoic face belied by tear-washed streaks

Dappled shadows hide the trail he seeks
Until the sun reveals it at his feet
A stoic face belied by tear-washed streaks
With hope restored that soon his brood will eat

Until the sun reveals it at his feet,
He knows not where the stag has gone to sleep.
With hope restored that soon his brood will eat,
In darkened wood, he takes a knee and weeps.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Winding Our Way Through Time
















The rising sun marks break of day
Its zenith, we call noon.
Its setting brings the evening chill
And ushers in the moon.

The sundial charts its burning rays
Its pathway plotted out
Predicts the hour of every day
Beyond a shadow of a doubt!

Precious time, there’s none to waste
And so we set the staff
Inventing ways to track its passage
Clocks and chronograph 

The mainspring and the pendulum,
The tall Grandfather clock
Becomes the heartbeat of the home
Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock

The pocket watch with silver chain
Umbilical, life line
We spend our days; entire lives,
Winding our way through time

Time is time, it’s so precise
Ethereal and pure,
With a watch we always know the time
But when we’ve two, unsure!





Segal's law is an adage that states: 

"A man with a watch knows what time it is. A man with two watches is never sure."

Saturday, May 20, 2017

Renaissance Man
























The Man with the Golden Helmet


Resplendent in his gilded helm,
This aged man of war
Fills up this frame with shoulders broad
While gazing toward the floor.
From window high or chandelier
His helm and gorget glossed.
But faded coat of royal hue
In darkened backdrop’s lost.

His famous helm is highly domed
Its brim and comb but brief,
Ornately wrought with floral print
In striking bas-relief.
The leather chin-strap’s barely seen;
By golden cheek guards bested.
And on the cap, with feathered plume
Of red and white it’s crested.

Who is this man of battles past
Whose strong yet haggard face
Conceals the secrets of his mind,
Of victories and disgrace?
We may never know this regal man
Nor where his helmet lies,
But here in Rembrandt’s skillful oils
He is immortalized!


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Narwhals













Nomads of the Arctic,
Never traveling south,
Noble Unicorns live
Now in the sea, under
Northern Lights and ice flows.
Near Threatened, will they die?
New hope in vigilance! 

My Joy Overflowing
















You know the sound.
That whooshing whine of the toilet tank refilling.
You know it’s bound 
To stop eventually, so you go about your milling.
Subconscious warnings,
Pushed aside as your need to write starts growing.
Lost in yarning,
It’s not just your joy that is overflowing!

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Big John

















Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;
Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.
His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town
He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.
One long hot summer; played like a pawn
He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.
He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet
As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set
On Big John!

He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon
‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.
Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back
With a face as long as a wagon-wheel track.
The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,
But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.
So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar
And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.

He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.
I thought it was over, except for the fact
That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,
I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.
There in the corner; his back to the wall,
He waited with patience; said nothing at all.
Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,
His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.

It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some
Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.
Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.
Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.
Big John just stood there; there in the door,
Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.
Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole
Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!

The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.
They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!
The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”
Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.

Monday, May 1, 2017

Count Your Blessings












Modern man, with his well-laid plans
Can aspire to a stately mount!
In democracy, there is always hope
For it is his vote that counts!

But the lowly serf, just digging turf

Is destined to live with goats.
For in his feudal society
It is only his Count that votes!