I pay a tax on my humble shack, on all my goods and other chattel,
on my bass boat and Billy goat, laying hens and Angus cattle.
I try to smile at government guile when from ownership I am driven,

I have jotted down my memories,
My moments in the sun-
And many of the things that
I have left undone.
By all rights and reason
I should not still be here -
I have outlived my comrades

As most everyone knows,
water undergoes,
what is called phase transition.
From a vapor to a liquid by condensation
and from a liquid to a solid by refrigeration-

Tares sowed in ignorance
Now spawn a bitter crop,
Ripe unto the harvest-
That somehow must be stopped.

Lest we reap the whirlwind
Bearing now upon us fast,
Forced to take the hemlock cup

Such desecration of hallowed ground.
A weed beside the rose.
Assured, not he with them would die,
Yet, worthy, thought he, with them to lie,
A coward beside heroes.

~ Anonymous

They write poems for fun and not for fame-
greeting card dribble just isn’t their game.
Some write in earnest and some write in jest,
but whatever they write they do their best-

Like gluttonous pigs-
Engorging at the slop trough-
Oblivious to their impending fate-
Many-
Seeking only instant gratification-
Ignoring the allegory of the spider and the fly-

The wrong road taken
Loving words never spoken
Promises broken.

One stormy evening dark and dreary-
I sat alone bleary eyed and weary-
drinking my beer when what did I hear
but a rat-a-tap tapping at my door.
Away to the window I flew like a bat

Thirty years ago, multi-floral rose and
fruit laden wild berry bushes could be
found in abundance everywhere around here.
Native grasses provided shelter
to the ground nesters and the

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
Twas he on those heavy steel shod feet,
With what a beautiful flowing grace
He oft would gallop and race,
Then stay, then run again, and stay,

I try to write poetry although-

It sometimes may read like prose-

It’s either or-

Not neither nor-

That I am hoping what really shows.

September’s orange orb
poised on eastern horizon
chasing setting sun.

I have a new grandson-
born on the fifth of may-
who is just about perfect
in nearly every way.
From the crown of his head
to the tip of his toes,
and back again to
his little button nose.

From ever-earlier nightfall, the scintillating stars emerge

from the September skies as from a Rembrandt canvas.

It is good, during Virgo’s mild nights,