Adventures begin

When four wheels spin

On shady paths and city streets

In knitted booties or tiny bare feets


Our big happy faces loudly giggle

My little pink piggy’s squiggle and wiggle

When breezes tickle in warming sun

Our shiny four wheels are always fun


We go fast and slow, up and down

Sometimes mom calls dad a clown

Birds and dogs, signs and sound

There are moving pictures all around


With me always on journey’s far

Folds up neat to fit in the car

Adventure time’s what I like best

But sometime strollers need a rest


The End



Four See a Poet Well

Dive deep into this poets well

Rise with weighty, weedy shell

Float atop seas warm and clear

Drown in waves of icy despair


To the heavens soaring high

Gravity wins in darkened sky

Climb a ladder to emerge

Swim alone I do not urge


Forever shaken out to dry

Life is ripped with tear in eye

Lips conform to truth or lies

Four see and hear no silent cries


Poets tend to dive too soon

Writes tomorrows under moon

Sees a future without a past

Writes first, questions last


Boards to spring, slides to climb

Empty wells all fill in time

Time gives, takes and lends its hands

Turning forever in shifting sands


A place alone when hot

Vibrant when others not

A place that’s cooler than hell

Welcome all to a poets well



Empty Lot

Our empty lot’s not empty at all.
There’s a tree that’s extra big and tall.
It’s a place that us kids love to share.
It’s on my street so mom needn’t care.


We spend our sunny days in the shade.
There’s lots of dreaming in forts we made.
There’s bunches of dirt to dig deep holes.
Rainy puddles for toy fishing poles.


Our empty lot really has it all,
We hide and seek and sometimes play ball.
It’s the place where adventures begin.
A fence that keeps city out, kids in.


We’ve bugs and spiders, squirrels and cats.
There’s soft grass to sit for quiet chats.
We see dogs on leashes and birds without,
Some tweet, sing sweet others shout.


There’s rope jumping girls and running boys.
Everyone brings their favorite toys.

Weeds make jungles for our tiny men.
Tiny cars we lose then find again.


A place on Sundays for dads to mow.
A place anytime where friendships grow.
When the day’s fun’s done, I say goodnight.
To my old friend, under the street light.


The End