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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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.

*

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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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.

~

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.

~

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.

 ~

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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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.

.

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.

.

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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