We lived in Rainer Beach,
South of Seattle, not far away.
School was starting in a week;
my Mother and I decided to seek,
some new clothes for this one.
That was me, her oldest Son.
We got on the bus, she took a seat.
I sat a few feet behind her,
as she was pregnant
and I was in my teens.
I was embarrassed at being seen with her.
I regret that day and what I did.
Not very nice to my Mother's love.
She never said anything to me,
for she was the kindest soul
I ever did see.
Miss you Mom.

Ugliness has risen, in our life led,
where many citizens are begging for bread,
in this great country of ours, broken now,
as there is no work or how
to survive, in this, our own land,
as the virus killed, one hundred thousand.
Where is the outrage? The question why,
when our elected leader, continues to lie?

The Gods are at play,
is often said,
when the game they're playing,
can wake the dead.
A rolling noise, coming this way,
shows me the Gods really do
know how to play.

A trail, a path, a rutted road,
marked the journey of the old Toad.
He left the Bog he lived in,
starting his life anew, where it began.
From Bog to trail, through the trees,
hiding in daylight under branches and leaves.
He made his way toward the town,
where his family lived, near the Sound.
Water he craved, back to the Sea,
for this journey is not about him,
but more about the man I be.
I must go now; the light grows dim
as our journey in life is short,
from the time we were born
until life does abort.