Contributor Posts

The light begins
on a frosty dawn,
with rabbit tracks
across the lawn.
Rabbits forage now
looking for food,
and now have
espied my Tulip tops,
from which they'll
bite with their chops.

What have you written,
my little smote?
Stay away from religion.
Don't discuss the vote.
These words that I write,
make no sense to me,
when I wake up at three.
Back to bed will I go
for I'm tired of this time
and do not like it
when my words do not rhyme.

Bright are the lights
of the rising Sun.
If it ever stops raining
perhaps we'll see some.

The trembling limbs
on that first date.
The nervous laugh,
about not being late.
Your radiant smile,
my crooked grin,
out to the car,
to the movie we went.
Finding our seats,
the lights dimmed.
Holding her hand,
she sat next to me.
The joy of love,
was so happily,
not meant to be.
One of infatuation,
with a lovely girl
made my heart
beat so rapidly,
but this puppy love
was not to be.

I am awaiting my fate
and it soon will be found.
I may have lost it
on this soggiest ground.

Someone or thing was beside the tree,
feeding my mind with uncertainty.
Should I stay or should I flee?
Someone or thing, was now watching me.
I decided to stay. I wanted to see,
as at that moment it was curiosity,
not waiting for what it may be.
I must find out; what is the reality.
Moving forward, so very cautiously,
Was a puppy, running so happily,
as I rejoiced as he ran to me
and licked my face so readily.

My brain is in some kind of a funk
for all I am writing looks like junk.

Click the image below to read Tim Jone's article 

The wind in the valley
is blowing quite hard.
Blowing all of the debris
out of our yard.
That's not all bad,
if you know what I mean,
except the neighbors debris
is now my yards scene.

My hat was on
and then I said,
I feel the rain
on the back of my head.
Is your hat waterproof?
they asked of I.
It must not be
for my head isn't dry.

Deep in the forest,
where you'd never go,
there dwells a creature,
you may not know.
A creature quite short
or stocky to see.
A grumpy one certainly,
it reminded me of me.
His name is Badger,
He roots through the soil,
looking for some food
before it does spoil.

She came up to me.
her eyes filled with dread.
She had been sleeping,
The sleep of the dead.

A sleep so deep;
no thoughts, no dreams,
no tossing or turning,
not what it seems.
For centuries it's happened,
that is well known,
the deepest of sleep,
when tired to the bone.