The last of autumn’s leaves begins assault
Of winter gales. The sap within the trees
In hibernating xylems call a halt
To most activity to some degree.
The birds that once resided amongst them

It's time for Tom to lose his wattle head.
He's designated martyr for the feast.
We pluck him naked and stuff him with bread
Then roast his hapless carcass whole or pieced.

Day changes to night without a whimper
Another day of time I can’t retrieve.
The thief of time blithely filching the hours
From me, a felon that I never see.

It’s often said that Man is very smart.
His cleverness is quite remarkable.
His brain, a rather special body part
Is hardly capable of being dull.
He never calculates and cogitates

I composed this poem on the morning of Independence Day 2008.

July fourth and firecrackers aren't heard.
Perhaps because it’s raining as I type.
I thank the gods for booming sounds deferred.

A butterfly alighted gently on a flower.
Along came a honeybee who had the same desire.
Sir!, said she,"did you not see I reached this blossom first?"

Toll the iron bells!
Let the knelling peals linger
In our hearts...Again! For the
Many fallen loved ones. Hear
The tintinnabulation!
*http://www.antiwar.com/casualties/

Buzzing bumblebee
you just might be the cutest
thing today I've seen.

Your black and yellow
jacket, awkwardness of flight.
Amusing fellow

This black and burly

The dark sky flashes
a silvery, jagged streak.
Thunder booms along

the path of discharge.
Strong winds blow the falling rain
obliquely downward

drenching all below.

The features of the Triolet are:
· 8 lines.
· Two rhymes.
· 5 of the 8 lines are repeated or refrain lines.
· First line repeats at the 4th and 7th lines.

His manic mind this particular night
Was dulled by the fractured waning moonlight.
Standing alone amongst the monoliths
Of stone and marble, cold and spiritless.

A book discussion group is reveling,
Delightful entertainment; always fun.
A bunch of book enthusiasts seeking
A monthly intellectual session
Expressing individual comments

All of us are born ignorant and some
Of us remain that way I’m sad to say.
The knowledgeable flourish and become
The shepherds, the dumb just piddle away

Recently, I read Kahil Gibran’s prose" The Criminal”. I have read it at least two other times in the past but this recent read had effected me more so than the past reads.

I found blinded slavery: a persons
Present tied to their parents’ past that urge
Them to yield to their traditions, worsened
By ancient spirits, fettered and scourged.