Monthly Archives: June 2014

Writing Space

In a quiet room by candle light
I scribe my poems in the night
And hope that what they have to say
Can hold their own at break of day

Of the author not much is known
Wise man or fool, I know not which
Scratched on paper for one alone
Written for pleasure not to be rich.


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Ice Cream Made Fun

A bit of ice cream sounds real nice
On a hot, steamy, summer day.
Some plain vanilla will suffice.
Want more?  Add goodies, don’t delay.

Chocolate shaved from a candy bar,
Handfuls of nuts, butterscotch chips,
Honey poured from a plastic jar,
Each one of these will add some zip.

Simple mouth-watering flavors
Mixed together are more tasty
Than all the other thirty-one.
And, making them is added fun.


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Sleep is such a slippery beast
It’s hard to catch and hard to keep
Some search for it all night long
Only to find it at break of dawn
Some avoid it only to find
It sneaks up on them in the night

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Bike Soccer

The lot was empty, no cars at all
The perfect time for a game of ball
They hopped on their bikes two to a team
For a game that many consider extreme

They pedaled their bikes as fast as they could
Trying to get the ball twixt two pieces of wood

The screech of the tires as they make their turns
The squeal of the brakes as they pull up short
All of these actions made their hearts churn
All the excitement in the name of the sport

Bobby hit the ball with his back wheel
Timmy kicked it as he whistled by
The game was played with much zeal
Neither team wanted to end in a tie

Billie stretched up and took a header
While Jimmie blocked with his body and bike
It was hard to tell which team was better
Both of them played so much alike

All these shenanigans under the sun
Was just the act of kids having fun

The ball went up and down the lot
The contest was tough and well fought
All four were victors there in the end
’cause all had fun playing with friends

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What’s in a Dream

Ofttimes dreams are shadows of our lives
We try to make sense of what happened through them
Even though as hard as we strive
We still have trouble seeing through them

We look at them backwards and sometimes sideways
We turn them around to see what can be found
Only to see they’re made out of clay
Perfectly molded and very profound

Some dreams are a way to clean out a wound
So deep inside us we know nothing of it
We prod and we pry while safely cocooned
In a warm bed with blankets upon it

When we awaken, the dreams that we had
Slip through our fingers as though they were water
And as quiet as the softest foot-pad
Tiptoe away to scheme and plot more



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