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You rise in the morning.
I say, "How are you?"
You say, "I don't know,
What I should do?"
Don the slippers,
Put on a robe,
Go downstairs
To the family room.
Open the garage door
To retrieve the Times.
Sit down on the couch,
Tell me, "I'm cold
And so tired."
Read the paper,
And remark to me,
"Do you know this person?"
I say, "I know who it is,
But don't know him."
That is our morning start,
Almost every day.

There is a whirlpool in my head.
Spinning the words out of dread.
Words that tumble and roll.
Words with meaning or nothing at all.
Short words, long words or those that hide
Words of those that still reside
stuck so deep, in my mind.
Good words, for some; for others not.
Words that are fresh. That's all I got.
Trying to write something on demand,
is hard to do. Do you understand?

I awake to the sound of rain
on roof and gutter.
A pleasant sound, bringing peace
to this World of clutter.
In the distance, I hear the roar
of thunder claps.
A rolling sound, moving along;
another, passing Spring storm.
Out of the bed, to the window I go
to watch Natures show.
No bolts of lightning do I see;
just the clouds approaching me.

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?

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.

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