The birds started
singing at ten to four
this morning;
coaxing the dawn on
with their song.

The *** would be
great on the clouds
that I saw yesterday.
They looked like
rows of fresh
cauliflower.
Every position would be
a little miracle;
perfect depth and
perception.

The sweat stung
my eyes as I
smoked in the
sweltering July
sun.
I wish I could
live in the clouds...
No job
No taxes or tired back.
Just relaxing in
that puffy white
perfection.

When turning back is impossible
  the crossed bridge had broken down
  you are left alone to your resources
  and standing on shaky ground-

the horizon is dim and misty
tortuous and rough is the path
bitter winds are buffeting your face
testing your every courage and trust--

this is the moment
that will determine your fate
it's the fight to survive or fall
an encounter you'll never forget.

Night descends with its shadows
with the forces of a fiery foe
it will be  long hours of a bitter struggle
will you emerge victorious upon the morrow?

At This Time of Year

At this time of year
Winter is coming
A fresh new start is on the way

At this time of year

Holiday trappings are everywhere
Trees are waiting for a home
Children are anticipating Santa
Presents are wrapped

At this time of year

Choirs are singing
Churches are full
People are feeling good cheer
Smiles are bigger
Special meals being served

At this time of year

Let’s be more kind
Let’s be more positive
Let’s laugh more and criticize less
Let’s be grateful

At this time of year

Let’s remember what’s about
Let’s come together
Let’s love harder
Let’s assume the best
Let’s forgive more

Let’s remember we are all one

At this time of year

No, she isn't a poet
has never inked one
she takes off my weight
gets my things done

so I have enough time
to afford in a way
the luxury of rhyme
clever wordplay!

No, she isn't a poet
not written one line
clean is her slate
sees I'm fine

so I have enough space
and hour of my own
to indulge the grace
of thoughts mind grown!

No, she isn't a poet
no way she would be
she does her best
to see I'm happy

so my words run smooth
poems are easy born
truth and half truth
are spun night and morn!

No, she isn't a poet
cares not a bit
from her toil's sweat
my poems birth sweet

poems aren't her art
in the sun and showers
she grows from her heart
our garden's best flowers!

A jogging man from Bude
was most incredibly rude
being greatly endowed
but imprudenly proud
he did something silly
he trod on his willie
now he's never about in the ****.

TOBIAS