The funny thing with roses, they start as just a bud;
Some take so long to open, they seem like just a dud.
But no amount of wishing will make them open up,
Like no amount of wanting removed the bitter cup.
The Rose
The Battlefront
Boom! Boom! The cannons echo; around you lays the gore,
Carnage left by countless battles in this eternal war.
All who have ever lived, have been enlisted in this fight—
The fight of good and evil, the fight of wrong and right.
Both sides call you to join their ranks, but choose most carefully,
For what you choose will chart your course for all eternity.
Grandpa, the Mulberry, and Me
Author note: I posted this on the one-month anniversary of my Grandpa’s passing. Enjoy.
Once there was a mulberry tree—
Planted when the kids were young;
And like the growing family,
It also upward sprung.
Remember Him
I do always remember Him—
At work and play, home and gym
I do always remember Him—
Deliberate, consistent, not on a whim
I do always remember Him—
Now and still when eyes grow dim
I do always remember Him—
My heart, all pride, I strive to trim
I do always remember Him!
The Game
Sticks and Bricks
We all know the story of the three little pigs—
Two built houses of straw and twigs;
Not wanting to work in the heat and the sun,
They chose instead to play and have fun.
And they mocked the third pig for his planning and care
When he laid out a structure that was sturdy and square.
For he didn’t fall for the quick, flimsy fix,
But carefully built a house made of bricks.
Perspective
It’s not right at all—in fact, it’s wrong,
Like a misplayed note in a perfect song.
It’s a blighted stain that shouldn’t be,
Like spilling crude in the open sea.
Back to June
Minutes make an hour, hours make a day;
Days make months and then a year as time goes on its way.
April has a birthday and blooming spring as well;
June is time for marriage with announcements in the mail.
A concert in the part, a folksy sort of tune—
We get that thing in August, and then we’re back to June.
Potential
The breeze washing over me, from where does it come?
The passing bumblebee, how does it hum?
The chasing birds, how do they fly?
And why is it blue—the heavenly sky?
Of Mice and Media
Out of the darkness comes the sound—
A scraping and gnawing and scurrying around.
Damage and destruction is all he makes,
He never gives but always takes.
In the shadows and corners he will hide,
A tiny field mouse that snuck inside.
