Our Little Trailer

In amongst these huge RV’s,

Our little trailer seems out of place,

And of the sun it hardly sees,

Row on row it can’t keep pace.

Not at all like the Joneses,

Our little trailer in their shade,

But our trailer makes no boneses,

‘Cause it knows it’s fully paid.

Then there are our funky lawn chairs

So un-modern like the rest,

And though they see the snooty stares,

They know our butts are the best.

So we wander unlike the Joneses

With our tiny trailer and funky chairs,

And we’re happy with what we ownses

And all the rest who really cares!

Little Birds

Little birds I could not name,

In the bushes at my feet;

Flitting, flitting all the same,

Busy while I text and tweet.

And though myself I try to shush,

Another tweet I’ll be damned;

And now with two in the bush,

I see the worth of one in hand.

Across the ether words I fly,

Flitting, flitting all along;

While little birds I’m sitting by,

Instead of tweeting lose their song.

Now out of hand little birds,

They seem to mock me in the dirt,

And while I send my silly words,

Instead of tweeting at me they chirp.

Whistle a Merry Tune

Whistle I will a merry tune,

Strolling my way down the street,

For here I am over the moon,

Thinking my life is pretty sweet.

Yep, I’m walking without a care,

The birds are singing just for me,

A happy dude is mine to dare,

Of my sorrow I’ve broken free.

And so this tone is mine to set,

I’m the measure of my own man,

And with a smile I won’t forget,

There truly is no better plan.

Close to My Chest

With my cards held close to my chest,

Why don’t I say what I’m thinking?

At avoiding issues I’m the best,

From my feelings always shrinking.

But perhaps too large are the stakes

And I worry if I have enough.

So I deal like so many fakes

And all my actions are a bluff.

Dare I put my cards on the table,

Or as always am I meant to fold?

And to say it if I were able,

I fear I could not be so bold.

These feelings like my cards to share,

Where across the table we have met,

And if only I had a larger pair,

Upon my honesty I would bet.

The Snow is Falling on the Lake

The snow is falling on the lake,

Before the freeze up cold and grey;

So very quiet each new flake

Touches down and shrinks away.

While in the trees the snow it stays,

The cedars now are trooped in white,

Like paratroopers in the haze,

These random landings are a sight.

I’m thinking ‘D Day’ if you will,

Falling over the French countryside;

Paratroopers from this hill,

I watch them drift from side to side.

In the lake to disappear,

Or in the trees or on the ground;

And why it is most unclear

Which snowflakes live and which are drowned?

Down a Dairy Lane

I met my love down a dairy lane;

The fairest milk maiden was she.

With the evening sun on the wane,

Upon that cow path she came to me.

But something was wrong, I could tell.

Her face held not its usual laugh;

While in her eyes the tears did well,

And at her side was no pet calf.

‘Twas then she spoke her wretched words

As I gazed upon the forest floor,

And for the first time I saw the turds,

When she said. “I don’t love you anymore.”

So my milk maiden, she went away,

And left me standing all alone;

But for her return - I’ll await that day -

‘Cause she promised,

 “When the cows come home.”

A Grand Old Painter

A grand old painter in the evening hush,

Is sitting weary, hunched and rheumatoid.

With shaky hands, he gathers up a brush,

And stares into the canvas’ grey void.

When after much time, he lets out a sigh,

As though at last he’s made himself ready,

And it’s as if what’s seen in his mind’s eye,

Has allowed his old hands to grow steady.

Now from his palette the colours that pour,

His genius moving from mind to hand;

And beautiful brush strokes he lays before,

As though some power he draws on command.

This grand old painter in the evening hush,

By definition, he defines the truth.

And steady of hand, of mind and of brush,

He works this self-portrait of him in youth.