Sun-clad mountains glow.
White-foam currents flowing midst
Dark, damp river rocks.

Tiny yellow toad
Poised on big green foliage—
Beautiful. Deadly.

Money makes folk happy.
Money makes folk sad.
But few would e’er regret
The monies that they’ve had.
Some waste lots of money
Buying lots of things.
Then, suddenly, realize—
Money does have wings.
They find them looking back,
Feeling so annoyed—
Longing for the ton of cash
That they once enjoyed.

Mountains echo,
But brooks chatter.
Days drag
And moments fly.
The moon watches.
The sun scorches.
And earth trembles
As willows cry.

A tottering old man
With fear in his eye
Gripped his metal walker
While shuffling by.
He didn’t seem confused,
But a bit concerned.
Life no longer offered
The joys that he’d learned.
To the many changes
He now must adapt.
How'd life pass him by?
He felt less than apt.
For age greatly changes
The moorings of life.
No longer can we dance
To the tune of its fife.

Only
Yesterday you
Were here. Today you’re gone.
Tomorrow and beyond I’ll think
Of you.

Sunny, blue skies with dark clouds
O’er sunlit surface of the sea,
Where, gently, hugging huge bedrocks
Are white-foam waves—calm and free.