Just Through the Trees

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I knew some people, just like you

Not just like you but as you do

Drinkers of bottles, quite a few

Sniffers of dust and of glue

Shooters and cutters thought they flew

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North or South can’t beat the heat

An army of one can’t beat a fleet

Running noses and stinky feet

The world’s colder on the street

Luxury’s just a clean white sheet

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In the dark without a clue

Off the bus short a shoe

Just one beast in this zoo

Why are all the colors blue?

Life is odd, just like you

~*~

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Autumn

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Autumnal sunsets, nothing new

Clouds ablaze and sky deep blue

Second looks, few hold dear

There’s other thoughts this time of year
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Weather’s changing and holidays soon

The race for home before the moon

There hunger’s fed and cozy bed

Rise with the sun, its path we’re led

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Orange and yellow now out of reach

Pinks and purples fade to peach

Lilac hues whither to gray

Stars above end the day

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Playhouse

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I built a playhouse, just for me.

I worked all morning, come and see.

It’s now just finished, just today.

So come on over and we’ll play.

*

My house has windows and a door.

It’ll fit bunches of kids and more.

We’ll plant a garden on the side.

Bush in the back for us to hide.

*

There’s a place for table and chairs.

To color books, build things with gears.

There’s little stairs to go up high.

Peek out the window touch the sky.

*

Cook in the kitchen, clean when done.

The rest of the day we’ll have fun.

Can’t leave crumbs for a pesky mouse.

Then it’ll be the mouse’s playhouse.

*

My house can be a boat with sail.

Or castle in a fairy tale.

A haunted house that is a scare.

Or just a place for friends to share.

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If you don’t have your own “me space”.

You can make one, just pick a place.

Surround with imagination.

Then fill it up with friends and fun.

*

The End

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Chronic-call

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Horrors penned in tomes of fear
Words unseen in a shadows lair
Forever night when cover’s tight
Wings blossom in morning light

Rolling stones gathering moss
When time renders motions loss
Unknown saints wear heavy cross
Unbound future our only boss

Times absorbed in a sponge
Fills the well to take the plunge
Return from pleasure, pre-desire
Or the heat of ice and frozen fire

Air-less caverns running swift
Bloodied quill the only gift
Flightless birds soaring high
Pages fluttering in endless sky

Spiraling upward for the crest
Touching down – needed rest
Sleepless specter, broken spine calls back
Ink floods lines, sheets fill black

Dark and light fill lengthy fall
Return we must to journey’s all
To do what’s right, a writers call
Recording all, big and small

~*~

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Waking Up

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Waking up’s the best time of day.

What will I wear, what will I play?

It’s time to think of things to do.

First find my pants and missing shoe.

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Wipe from my eyes the sleeps last trace.

I’ll brush my teeth, wash hands and face.

My bed’s made, teddy’s on pillow,

But one last hug before I go.

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To the kitchen, mom will be there,

Making breakfast for us to share.

We chat about things to be done,

Some of it work, some of it fun.

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Finish dressing put dreams away.

It’s time to start a brand new day.

That’s why waking up is the best.

But can’t do that without your rest.

~

The End

*

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Journey’s Home

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I’m not just me, I’m at least three.

One sailed far hoping to be free.

One steamed airless more recently.

The oldest walked a vast frozen sea.

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With passing generations this matrix grows complex.

A boundless atlas made of tiny specks.

Paper lines divide the pages of our time.

Ignorance is bliss, blindness sublime.

 ~

Unfurl the man-made charts, the journey’s just begun.

The ship of fools adrift, nowhere left to run.

Invaders, settlers or immigrant be –

all driftwood from the churning sea.

 ~

Time whispers on the ever-changing breeze.

One-eyed pirates still plunder all the seas.

Children wander a water-less beach.

Welcome shade out of reach.

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To find a paper line they roam.

To find a future to call a home.

Pages of the atlas grown,

each a page we call our own.

*

The End

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Book of Dreams

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A page from my book of dreams;

a tale of love, or so it seems.

I wake each day the dream doesn’t end.

Will she ever love me or shall I just pretend?

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Technicolor visions and her scent in the air

Awaken from this dream I could never dare.

Her touch always welcome on my trembling skin.

When she says she loves me, my life will then begin.

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Encounters of the flesh, too few to ever last.

Music of her voice now echoes of the past.

Sunlit voids surround were daylight once was bright.

Now only darkness brightens our rendezvouses of night.

~*~

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Driftwood

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Built a boat with boards of wood,

made with junk I knew was good.

Drifted on the seven seas,

searching for the birds and bees.

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Saw new lands; north, east, south and west,

returning home, thought it best.

My ship now sits on a stand,

fearful of the careless hand.

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Now if this vessel were too to break,

with scraps of wood I will remake.

Fitted then in a case of glass,

reflecting time for all who pass.

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And if this glass too shall smash,

its shards of glass tossed to the trash.

With broken sticks pulled from within,

my craft of new will then begin.

~*~

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