Neighbors cutting grass
Riding their mowers around
seeking checkered flag
This morning, because it was such a beautiful day; I decided to take my coffee to my garage and look East to the Mississippi river which is less than a mile away.
Bald eagles Flying High
Eagles find updrafts
above the Mississippi
A true bird’s eye view
In the USA the one who brings the mail
Is referred to as the mailman even when named Gayle.
Some people find this weird
Mail lady is a term that’s almost never heard
In France they have a different name
To which they do refer
No matter if a guy or gal
It’s always le Facteur
In Germany that soul is known
by a name which is full of labor
for there they call that person
Simply der Brieftraeger
In Italy it’s il Postino, usually a man
But if it were a woman, I would be a fan
In Spain it’s el Cartero
Who brings a greeting-card or bill
and sometimes a love letter
to make a still heart thrill
But no matter who brings it I think we all agree
A letter in our mailbox is what we like to see
So right away, write today a short note to a friend
Or someone who is ill it will help them mend!
STORIES IN RHYME No. 32
Humpty Trumpty where have you been
Off to London to visit the Queen
Humpty Trumpty what did you do there
I hope that they were things that you can share
I know you’ll say her Highness was fab
But I hope you refrained from trying to grab
At one part of royalty you’ll never see
Swampking Donald’s the best you’ll ever be.
And if we look at more of your trips
We learned that in Melbourne you made a terrible slip
You talked about Sweden and their event seen on FOX
Events that were history you got from the box
Is it true you watch TV six hours a day?
That’s more than kids with their parents away!
The DEMs and now some of the GOP
Are beginning to ask “When will we see”?
A glimmer of truth come from you and your gang
Something that doesn’t land with a clang
The nation is weary of alternative facts
Your fabric of truth has too many cracks.
You’re making it up as you go along
Your fine-tuned machine is singing your song
The chorus however is allowing some leaks
Stuff you try to cover with tweets.
A month has gone by and your house is a mess
Even your guests feel under stress
At a recent luncheon with a New Jersey oaf
You ordered for him your tasty meat-loaf
You reveal yourself as one who controls
Not good in the long run for you in the polls
It’s a trait shown by demagogues of yore
It’ll see you dismissed to your Florida shore
The nation doesn’t need a pandering goof
Not someone who’s a few tiles short of a roof
We need a leader both honest and true
Who comes from a state which is both strong and blue
Note: This was written before Trump made his on again/off again visit to the UK. Then I mislaid the USB drive I saved it on. Today – found!
Stories in Rhyme No. 31 – Wanderlust
I had a nagging urge that told me I must write
And so, sitting at my keyboard I began to type.
At first the words came slowly Then gradually not at all
My mind it would not function, nothing to recall.
A thought then came to me, it was an awful shock
I had been stricken with this thing, they call it writer’s block.
This was not the first time, it had happened oft before
And so, I searched my memory for a quick and simply cure.
I began to think of old times, the days of distant past.
Days upon the high seas spent before the mast.
From Angola round the cape to a place called Zanzibar
With rum culls and Lascars and one, one-legged Tar
But now those days are done, no more do I quest
To view a new horizon from a place they call the nest
A garden plot is my place now, it’s where I ply my sport
Planting seeds I gathered up from many foreign ports
I have not seen every seed, there are many still unknown
But those taken and to my plot consigned were well and truly sown.
Did they grow to manhood or plant maturity?
Not always, but it was a wonder just to see
God’s miracle emerging from the soil
Green shoots searching sunshine, with just a modicum of toil.
Ampalaya, a bitter gourd has a taste to be acquired
A vegetable so good to eat, of which I’ve never tired.
And then Kamote, comes purple and it’s sweet
The original potato another tasty treat
With a glass of wine at hand, it’s good to reminisce
]and write down pleasant memories so the grand kids will not miss
Reading of adventure and so learn firsthand the truth
What grandpa was up to in the days of his youth.
And therein lies the use (perhaps) of stories told in rhyme
Many years from now will they stand the test of time
And become the stuff of legend or forgotten and then lost.
Or worse, consigned to boxes, (as I have done) to be buried in a loft.
What fun it is to find them, to blow off gathered dust
And relive forgotten moments and days of wanderlust.