Only when we have felt, even once,
the clawed caress of strife,
do we value the soft warm hand
of peaceful days in our life.
Give me boredom and humdrum
over adventure and interesting times;
a quiet corner in a calm house
to write and edit my rhymes.
Oh, war has driven the pen stroke
and sorrow versed in the bomb strike,
but I’d rather read all about it
in a book and only imagine what it’s like,
than breathe the smoke of burning -
the death scent of a home.
I do not need to personally bleed
to scratch out a war-time poem.
Better to write of cows and apples,
than Flanders field and poppies;
to write of a Luve like a red, red rose,
than a requiem for the Croppies;
and though the poet much values his words
I’ll bet that each war-torn bard
would’ve chosen to write first hand in the soft
than ink pain in the trench of the hard.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 3:06 AM UTC
When I’m at my greatest
then only will I be
less than the least
in the Kingdom of the free.
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 5:18 PM UTC
Jack sprat grew more fat.
His wife became more thin.
His staple led to less of her,
and hers, to more of him.
He tasted what she used to love
and desired a richer plate.
The more he took from her sweet fork,
the less his woman ate.
See them now walk hand in hand;
and neither plump nor lean.
A happy balance has been reached
yet still the platter’s clean.
Equal wear upon their bed,
upon the stair and everywhere.
Opposites attract to make
a different kind of ‘share’.
Familiar now has bred content;
a healthy middle found.
If they could do it perhaps we all
could find some common ground.
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 12:19 PM UTC