A Dad's Pride

So small and sweet, this helpless babe,

Placed gently in his father’s arms

Bonded with love and gentle hugs

This Dad’s devotion to his first son

           He knows of lessons he will teach,

               He’ll act out stories every night

              …And build a house upon the beach!

          
         And when his son turns forty one--

 
         With two sons of his own

           This Grand-Dad now will say with pride,

                        “I’d do it all again—my son!”

Ugly Sheep

It was mentioned in a most apologetic way. 

This was the field of ugly sheep, black sheep and all.

The field opposite a bed and breakfast in Scotland,

On which a handful of ugly sheep gathered, trying to fit in.

 

Ugly sheep, big creatures, long legs, long bodies, long necks

Some with bare skin carrying a blueness about the face and legs

Replete with Roman noses

And then there were big ears, more like a donkey than a sheep,

Really!!

 

There were also black and white ones, dotting the landscape

The black ones considered taboo

Hiding out far from view

Unable to contend with the ridicule

Hugging tight to the wall, with backs up

Erect ears like radar, ensuring their own safety

From afar, resembling speckled black dirt

Most unappetizing

 

In some places country farmers cull-

And report ugly sheep in their flocks

“Xtreme sheep”

Undesirable wool features:

Uneven wool; bare patches; worse, no wool at all; or highly rubbery and wrinkled skin

Culled by farmers

Random genetic mistakes,

Sticking out like sore thumbs

 

Whatever will become of ugly sheep?

Is it possible to let the “ugly” ones live in the world?

Rather than face ridicule and elimination?

Fortunately, they have since been moved

It was all for the best!

Raking Leaves

This poem is a sensory poem, meant to be read aloud to simulate the raking sounds of Autumn! Enjoy!


Bright foliage, colorful hues,
Yellow, yellow, mellow yellow, yellow, mellow yellow,
Orange which is partly yellow and streaked with orange fire,
Where fire is bright and leaves a fright
And crackling and crackling,
And spitting and crackling and waiting in pile of leaves!

The sounds of leaves which are raked and raked, raked and raked,
And raked--Raking, raking, scraping and raking
And raking and scraping it goes!

Taking a break with piles left to rake
For a job which is never done,
For the fall leaves are falling
The falling of leaves
They fall and fall and fall,
In need of scraping and raking and raking and scraping again--
And again and again and again!

The circle continues as raking is taking a long, long time to tend,
The circle continues, the patterns arranged
But falling leaves cover the trails with a rage
The winds they do blow,
They blow leaves from the trees
And falling leaves cover, so the grass we can’t see!


So back to the raking and scraping and raking some more,
Keep raking and scraping and breaking at four
For nature is clever and holds all the cards
So one must keep raking and scraping their yards!
Persistence pays off with sore muscles and joints,
Fall leaves will return
I ask, “What’s the point?”
Put down the raking and scraping and jump into the leaves,
Have fun in the yard and enjoy the leaves as you please!

Stillness in the Georgian Valley

The sun slowly rises

Filling the valley

With puddles of liquid sunshine

A resolute silence

Bores its way into the morning light

Stillness,

The Soul of this place

Soft, sweet, utterly Zen

Silence pours itself deep within

The crevices of this valley

Creating a canvas

Upon which stick figured trees

Tall and lanky

Hold firm,

Pencil sketched into the landscape,

Branches steely and randomized,

A million lacy tendrils

Splayed across a landscape

Creating a Still-life

 

Nameless at the Landings Bar

The early fall envelops

Darkness whispers to the night

From the depths of lost souls wandering

Lurking shadows out of sight

 

Invisible pheromones stirring up hope

For all the nameless people trying to cope

Sharing a moment suspended in time

Shuttering the loneliness, and the nine to five grind

 

FOG…

                            

                        Quietly!  At first in patches, floating swiftly towards shore,

 The fog, all powerful, gathers without warning—engulfing obliterating,

A white-out, void of time and space,

All things disoriented, unable to see, rendered helpless

…But then, Fog sits quietly, embracing me, wet and sweet,

Coating the shore with silent resolve

A perfect lover, understanding and soft,

It echoes the cries of sounds within its gentle embrace,

And then, detaching, moves on.

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