Walk a Mile in Their Shoes

Without remorse, he told the tale
Of willful acts of poaching.
And I, his friend, had balled my fist,
Preparing to reproach him.
But he went on to describe the time;
Nine siblings of meager means,
With no father to supply them bread;
The meat had stretched the beans.

A blue-haired girl in studded jeans,
Piercings adorned her face.
I scoffed inside at this punked out girl
Who had set herself so out of place.
And yet her clothes were modest and clean,
And she carried her head aloft.
Her apparel screamed, “PLEASE, NOTICE ME!”.
But her spirit was mild and soft.

We live in a world with billions of souls;
Diverse and dynamic and vast.
We must yet find a way to get along
If a peaceable world is to last.
Yes, in judging the acts of our brothers,
I profess we react too fast.
For each sinner yet has a future . . .
And every saint has a past! *

* Oscar Wilde . . .    "Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future."

If I could Write a Book

If I could write a book, my son,
And put it in your hand,

So many things of life and love
I’d have you understand:

Of books to read and hills to climb
And foods you need to taste;
The value of your closest friend,
And time you dare not waste.

If I could write a book, my son,
And, if I could write it well,
One chapter there would stand alone;
One theme on which to dwell.

I’d write of bridges wide and strong;
Of beams that bear their load,
Unwavering in the task assigned,
So, worth their weight in gold!

I’d write of honest men and true,
Dependable and brave,
Who brook their trials like a king;
Noble-born or slave!

But alas, my son, I would write in vain.
This truth you know, and well:
This chapter you must write alone;
Not mine, but yours to tell!

To all my children!

Cowbirds

Behold the humble Cowbird, such an evolutionary quirk.
Somehow nature taught this bird to be a first-rate jerk!
When it comes to low and dirty tricks no other bird can match it.
She lays an egg in her neighbors' nest; leaving them to hatch it!

She says she’s far too busy; "I’ve got to follow the herd".
I say that she’s just lazy! You conniving cowardly cowbird!
When her ample hatchling sheds its egg, the bugger’s just not fair.
It crowds its nest mates to the ground or eats more than its share!

Sound familiar? I hope to shout! Of all things that annoy . . .
The cowbirds in the office here act out this scornful ploy
By dropping projects on my desk, ill-thought, half-baked at best;
Expecting me to hatch them out and make room in my nest!

Our bosses do this all the time, but I reckon that’s their lot,
But what of Slow-Joe down the hall? I can’t believe this rot!
He hangs around and wrings his hands, judging my ambition;
Taking potshots while I sweat to bring his work fruition!

The problem with this cowbird gig; the thing that gets my goat
Is that cowbirds get promoted, and I don’t get a vote!
This is small of me, I admit; this outrage misdirected.
Cowbirds will always tick me off, at least 'til I'm perfected!

The Rusty Old Schwinn

The Red Ryder wagon sat there in the yard
By the sandbox, all ready to go.
And the Big-Wheel trike was there by the tree
Where Johnny left it a moment ago.

But the rusty Schwinn bicycle lay on its side
In the grass, like its will had expired.
Why was it not upright, ready to go?
Why, the poor thing was simply two-tired!

Why There are no Snakes in New Zealand

The story is told of a Maori King bold
Who dared cheat the Prince of Siam.
I’ll leave it to you to decide if its true.
But if you're not convinced, at least I am!

This king was annoyed so he filled his bored void
By selling the fauna of his wee land.
He soon grew in fame, none dared speak his name,
He was the richest in all of New Zealand!

But this roll could not last; the fates swooped in fast
With an invoice for arrogant King Frodo!
A prince of yon borders sailed in with his order
For a half dozen snakes and some Dodo.

“The snakes are all gone!” Frodo said with a yawn.
"And we ate the last Dodo last week!”
Thus the king blew him off with a wave and a scoff;
“Look elsewhere for that which you seek!”

But the prince had prepaid! And he screamed out in rage,
“What is that in the cage with the hasp?”
King Frodo’s eyes narrowed, “I won that from Pharaoh,
And that, that’s a two-headed asp!”

“And though its not fair, it is simply too rare,
Now be off or I’ll soon have your head!”
But the prince made this threat, “Dear King you’ll regret!”
Then he left leaving Frodo to dread . . . . . . .

At daylight’s first gleam, you could hear Frodo scream
As he raced to the harbor to spy,
And lo, by the pier was a note on a spear . . .
“Keep my gold! . . . But kiss your asp goodbye!”

Climb

In a far-away land, far out of my reach
Lies a beautiful island, with a wide sandy beach.
And hiding the splendor of the world there within
Are high rampart cliffs with brier on the rim.

It is there, in that world where most dare not go,
That a dear friend resides, with riches aglow.
For the high rocks, to him, are nothing at all.
He lives for the climb while I fear the fall.

His scarred limbs bear witness; he well knows the fall,
But he’d rather die climbing than not live at all!
I envy my dear friend. . . . For his riches? Oh no!
But for the courage to climb where I’ll never dare go.

I stare up from the beach at the brier on the rim.
And search for the greatness to climb after him.
Somewhere in my soul like that rim o’er the beach,
Lies a rough latent courage, just out of my reach.

Irony in the Sky

White chevron squadrons usher in spring
With squawking and honking and flapping of wings.
Their return brings a weekend to revel in fun.
The locals all love it, and hundreds more come!
But the poor migrant snow goose must be sorely perplexed;
Revered on one weekend, then slaughtered the next!

Horsing Around

If I were a horse, what kind would I be?
A raging white stallion so wild and so free,
Leading the herd to new pastures; green,
Sinuous, shiny; a sight to be seen!
Handsome and striking; pawing the air
I’d be the desire of every young mare.

No, not a stallion; a stunning paint war horse
Adorned with bold markings and feathers of course.
Only a brave chief could sit me astride,
Into the battle we’d gallop and ride!
We’d ride at high noon and into the night
Striking fear in the hearts of all who dare fight!

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not of that sort!
I’ve hardly the passion to kick or to snort.
A poor sorrel plough horse is what I would be
No stranger to rider nor harness; that’s me!
Wearing white socks; the work I’d enjoy.
With a star on my forehead; I'm such a good boy!

Ego-centrifuge

With iphones, itunes, ipods, argh!
Its always I or me.
In this ingrate, self-indulgent world,
I'm glad we have the Wii!

Turn Me Around

This morning I looked in the mirror
And experienced a curious sight.
The old man looking back at me
Had his left hand on his right.

If left is right and right is left,
Why is not up-side down?
I suppose it would be too difficult
To smile when we wanted to frown!??.