Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

Bicycles, scooters
And kites that would soar
Fun for the children
Not Any More

Movies were great
No cuss words or gore
Enjoyment for families
Not Any More

Playing outdoors
Until tired and sore
Good healthy fun
Not Any More

A tune on the juke box
By groups that were four
Music was music
Not Any More

“Merry Christmas” to friends
Who shop at the store
A heart warming message
Not Any More

Worship on Sunday
Read funnies on the floor
Time spent relaxing
Not Any More

To honor a veteran
Back home from a war
A noble endeavor
Not Any More

Those times that were precious
With friends you held dear
Are memories to cherish
In a hopeful New Year

Midwinter's shivering wind and snow
evicts the creatures there below
The insects, seeds, and worms well sealed
make barren the sounds once heard in the field
As the days grow long and warmth returns
we'll greet again the birds, the squirrels,
and tasty worms.

The December Sun rides above a picket fence of leafless trees
Its burnished glow casts long shadows across a snowy field
A broad white canvas reveals an abstract image of monotone beauty
It ignites the clinging snow on every surface like crystal gems, randomly strewn to share the brilliance of its glistened work
As nightfall approaches, the December Sun ebbs,
and gently immerses in a silent  pleasance