I begrudge you not
your round of golf, so
when I see you,
I want you to go
to a warm place
very deep, down below.

There is always an option,
I say to you.
No matter the candidate,
please vote Blue.
If you choose Red,
that's a color too,
But not the best for us.
Please vote Blue.

You're a flea on the back
of this World of ours.
You need to be scratched;
Sent on your way.
You may not with me agree,
but just now, please go away.

Think not
of what is to be,
for life is full
of uncertainty.

The ebb and flow
of living life,
from overpowering love
to increasing strife,
captures one's thoughts again,
filled with days of Sun
and nights of rain.
A battle will rage within
as we mortal people,
will decide to win,
the grandeur of this land,
will be captured once more
for the enduring glory of man.

The worst thing said,
The worst thing heard,
"Get off your high horse
And join the Herd."

It was there,
in front of me.
I don't know why,
I couldn't see.

Where are you now, standing all alone,
without courage but with heart of stone.
You are the Great Donald of renown
but you behave like Ronald the Clown.

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.

Words I've lost,
many times before,
were words of love,
in the days of yore.
Words professed are
to the one I love,
guided by the
Heavens above.

The fire is lit,
It will be ready soon,
But smolders from
The wet wood.
Smoke curls over twigs
And wooden limbs.
As the heat grows,
flames flicker and dance.
The odor of smoke
fills the room,
as a puffy white cloud
goes up the flue.

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?

For what purpose,
is this life of ours?
Can the answers be
found in the Stars?
Born into a World
of pain and hate,
must we also,
love and satiate,
a life of hunger?
Must we forego,
no place to live,
or abode to go.
We must live
on the streets,
as we strive
in this World
to stay alive.

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.

I had no boat.
I had no oar.
I couldn't fish.
I wanted more.
I bought a boat.
I bought an oar.
I bought a motor.
I knew the score.
I went fishing.
I caught some fish.
I fished from the boat.
I had my wish.
I found my dream.
I found out when.
I was now at the end.

I'm lost in my reverie
of how my feelings
and what I see.
The great loss of life,
both near and so far,
are all the reality
for our lives as they are.
We hear lies, every day.
Hurry up November,
we must vote you away.

From across the divide,
he will come for you,
despoiling the environment,
is his want to do.
Ignoring the scientists
of this great land,
matters not to him.
He does not understand,
environmental issues, he can't see
comes at the expense of you and 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?

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.