Rolling Thunder, Sky gone wild,

Brings fears and tears to an innocent child.

Lightning spears illume the night,

Torch once tree now the light.

Forest creatures nestled deep in their beds,

As winds of decision duel over their heads.

Why cries the child, what have I done,

Will I ever see return of the sun?

Be still my child, you’re safe in our arms,

From nature’s battles, and human harms.

For spring is the time we must abide,

When nature’s creations be tested and tried.

From the strength of root to the nest atop,

Winds thought as chaos continue non-stop.

Their work to challenge the broken and shed,

Removing old nests, limbs and the dead.

Now come stones of ice, the task to defy,

Weak structures of man, whose plans did belie.

Rain, the great wonder is last to arrive,

To rinse all of nature that we might survive.

So fear not the storm, for its purpose be just,

Without its strength, all would be dust.



There emerged a man called Trump,

Who was born with a powerful thump

To play the game like a true Mugwump.


As he stood on oak stump

While he said, “Hi, I’m Trump.”

“It’s time to get out of your slump!”


“Now don’t think me a chump,

Or rhino’s big rump,

Simply because I grump!”


“For they’ve paid off the ump,

The referee fails to jump

And rules now lay in the dump.”


“Don’t sit like a lump,

On rotting old bump,

Play your card for I’m your Trump.”

We Are America

There came a man from Manhattan,

Who decided to toss his hat in.


Neither timid nor humble,

He chose to rumble,

against bastions built on lies.


No gold does he need,

Nor egos to feed,

He stands tall with common allies.


For the people do tire,

Of those who conspire,

Unwilling to accept their defeat.


Silent throng now arise,

Anger fierce in their eyes

Vengeance will be bittersweet.


For the man from Manhattan,

Who kept his hat in,

And promises to reunite.

Love’s Worth

What price the value of love?

What costs to know you’ll be here?


Mornings in sleep you lay,

Awaiting the dawn of the new day.


Beside you is where I belong,

Your heartbeat a sweet love song.


Day brings struggle, survival the goal

Burdens of life carry a toll.


The waning light brings time of rebirth,

Time to ponder loves true worth.


Nightfall ascends, alone once more,

The trials of the day now barred from our door.


Moon’s glow upon your face

In love, we again embrace


Night our time as one

United til morning sun.


Sweet price the value of love!

Dear costs to know you’ll be here!

No Sins Tomorrow

Tomorrow is but a shadow,

Yet to be approached,

Never to be reached.

Sun’s light illumes my way,

Night shades slow withdrawal

Pale memory of dreams remain.

Old secrets of tomorrow entice,

Allured is the spirit

Its wants unmet.

I mourn loss, nothing does suffice,

To weep for bygone times,

No echoes shall there be.

For today shall be tomorrow,

Yesterday did set me free

Sins no longer dwell.

An end to all my sorrow,

The path is wide before me

Burdens now relieved.



On a crisp, bright spring morning, as golden sky arrows pierce the forest an old raccoon labors up a narrow path to the top of a hill there to lay his tired and worn body in the warm sun. His time of walking on is close and he doesn’t want it to be during the cold, still night.

He is disoriented as he reaches the top of the knoll, but he can feel the warmth encompass him. The aches and pains of his lifetime are now numb as he as he lay his sick old body in the warning grass. He rolls over several times heating each of his joints as though cleansing them in the warmth of the sun as he wipes the spittle from his beard and rubs his paws on the moist leaves.

Weary from his trek, he closes his eyes and wonders, “How long will it take? Will I suffer the pain of many others or the madness of the few?”

A sound, a muted growl comes from the small brush by the path. He knows this sound. He knows his pain will soon end. He lays still.

Slowly, as if losing a race with a snail, the intruder emerges from the brush its eyes darting in all directions as it searches for the source of the delicious aroma that has imposed upon his haven.

“There, look there it is!” it thinks as it focuses on the old one laying alone in the sun. It begins to salivate – hunger is overwhelming, clouding the mind as it attacks plunging fangs into the old raccoon.

“Welcome coyote. Welcome to death. No longer will you steal our young!” cries the raccoon as he, in turn, bites his foe one last time before shadows overtake him.

The coyote stops, an unfamiliar taste assaults his tongue as the stench of insanity flows into his body.

Too late wisdom, too late options, too late…