Oh, to be a squirrel
Find a comfy branch
Give your tail a swirl.
Find a nut!
Sit on your butt!
Keep your mouth shut!
Maybe, a chair
Can relax your hair.
Knowing that there is nothing
You need to share.
When you don’t have a nest
But need a little rest
Sit on someone else’s house
Leave a big mess.
Give a loud scream
You’re not very mean.
Oh, to be a squirrel
In this crazy old world.
What do you write
when you're writing hand
can't write.
Try as you might,
you just can't get it right.
It's either too dark,
or maybe it's too light.
Or prehaps I'm gripping
my pencil to tight.
It's becoming a fright,
this inability to write.
I may fight,
this desire to write.
It gives me a fright,
as I sit here all night,
bathed in artificial light.
Studying this hand on my right,
which, at this moment,
cannot write.
Try as I might,
I can't allow my left hand
to take over for the right.
To write.....
There was a little fly,
his name was Fred.
He flew into a car,
looking for some shade.
There, he saw a little girl
who decided to become his friend.
She allowed him to explore.
She allowed him to fly.
He sat on her orange juice lid,
and he looked her in the eye.
She shared with him
her bright orange,
orange juice.
He stayed close by her side.
He took a little sip.
He shook his little head.
He was a little tired,
so he went straight to his little bed.
She decided to let him stay.
She decided he could go.
It was his decision.
This she let him know.
Today, he is still
in the car.
Wondering
where you are.
There are so many versions of me
That I feel lost at sea.
There is me, and there is you,
There is myself, a little elf,
and a broken shoe.
They all try to surface
They all are submerged.
There are too many
I feel the need to purge.
Who needs to go
Who needs to stay
Who needs to be kept
For a rainy day?
All of you,
I think.
I'd want all of you,
in a blink.
You are my ink.
You are my pen.
You help me think.
To begin, again.
The Rain.
The Rain, fell.
The Rain, fell, upon the ground,
Upon the ground.
The Rain, fell,
The Rain.
Turn your rainstick, around, and up and down.
Once upon a bearded birdhouse
Socks had been hung out to dry.
He was shaking out the rug
When dust got in his eye.
He cried to his momma
He cried to his pop.
Nothing they tried
Could make the pain stop.
Along came a pretty lady
With a hop, hop, hop.
She spotted the tiny tear
And decided she must stop.
She kissed the wet cheek
She pecked the wet ground.
Up popped a juicy worm
Which she quickly found.
They all had dinner
Their dishes wiped clean.
The dust eventually settled
A tear was nowhere to be seen.
This is not a true story
Just a bit of nonsense
About a bearded birdhouse
Filled with incense!
Pussy willows
Cattails
Runny jam and spiders.
Sunshine
Snowflakes
Raindrops and showers.
Gravel roads
Spiderwebs
Earwigs on flowers.
Troubadours
Trumpets
Crazy horses trotting.
Tulip bulbs
Hunger years
Small children crying.
Clouds above
Heaven above
God's arms open wide.
Looking at the world
through rose coloured glasses.
As the winds and clouds roll by.
Like thoughts and ideas,
they make smooth passes.
My feelings;
like dots in the sky.
Surrounding yourself pleasantly
is difficult sometimes.
The flowers and the trees,
are not always in rhyme.
My expectations are like chimes,
in what a world finds fair.
So different is the light
that my daydreams share.
Two swans dancing.....
In a farmer’s flooded field…..
To The Thawing Wind by Robert Frost
Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the browns beneath the whites;
But whatever you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass, and leave the sticks
Like a hermits crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out the door.
Groovy Tales of a Well Adult 