There's a little frog
In the garden beds
Beneath my balcony.
Each morning, he greets
With his peep, peep, peep.
A spoonbill crane,
In its rose-colored cloak,
Swoops down to steal
A tasty meal.
But my little frog
Will sing its morning song,
On and on, still.

With tiny feet
Stuck on dead meat
You proboscis-probe
******* juice;
And yet, you are
Beautiful.

Words mean what they mean, I ask?
But, ah, they can be nuanced or veiled.
They can be soft as cotton, feather-light,
Or hit like the proverbial ton of bricks
Dead on the nail head hammering
Their impact home.  That's the power
Of the weight of words.  Weigh them carefully.

You dope
To push the envelope.
I'll throw no rope.
You need to learn to cope
Or stop acting foolish.

Dear Bigot,
Best check what DNA
Has to say.

Many of us have
A little wink-wink
In our background.

Besides being horrid
You might condemn
Yourself!

What's it like to be so free?
To fly so high, high, high in the sky?

But even you have limits
That I don't have.

The homeless man
Across the way
Is going to wake up
Dead one of these days.

Then like a worm in my brain
It will begin to eat away.
And I will tell everyone
I saw him day by day lay

And rarely move.