I was spawned, one stormy day,

When my mother decided to play

Somewhere along Tornado Alley.

She bumped into my dad,

Spawned me, and I was glad,

And they gave me the name of Sally.

We left the tropics at the end of March,

Lush greenness embedded in our minds.

The swaying palms and the flowering shrubs

Showing colors of all kinds.

As we traveled north the colors changed,

From Kelly Green to Forest.

Higher elevations brought changes as we drove,

We began seeing branches at their barest.

The Howler Monkey, how they cry!

With their screaming growls racing through the sky,

Like a charge from the light brigade.

The sound is very loud,

And they seem pretty proud,

Of the fact that they can be heard for miles.

Some friends walked by our garden gate and stopped to exclaim,

“Come look at this spider’s web!” Their tone had no disdain.

A fascinating spectacle, of that, there was no doubt.

The spider had made a great big edge and began to fill it out.

Rain, rain won’t go away,

And will be back another day.

Our roof has large leaks galore,

Especially when the heavens pour.

Its great big heart out

To give us more

Moisture,

The soil a drink,

The lakes to restore,

Levels of their normal reserves.

What is it we seek,

When the world looks so bleak,

With all the hatred, chaos and strife?

I seek to be like a bubble we blow,

That can put on a great show,

As it meanders and changes...like life.

If only I had practiced my beloved guitar,

After learning the cords, I coulda been a big star.

But I would only strum,

Making up songs with a hum.

When the mood hit every now and then.

Touch. Such a simple yet powerful action.

Not a poke or prod. Those have negative connotations and effects. They are to get attention and are harder. Who wants to be poked?

A touch is softer. It can say, “Hello, dear friend. It’s so good to see you!”

Or it can say, “Hi, my love!”

Or it can say, “You are so special!”

When does a traveler get tired of traveling?

When does a writer get tired of writing?

When does a doer of anything get tired of doing anything

they love?

A big damn bird flew in front of our car,

As we drove down the road to Seville (Sayveea).

It landed in a field but was too far

To see what it might be-a.

Was it a giant bird or small plane?

I chuckled to myself.

That thought was silly and quite inane

Yet I knew it was no elf.

The Doctor said, “Alas, but no,

The flu should now be done.

I suspect that it has slowly turned

Into an in-fec-ti-on.

For the next six days, you’ll need a shot

In your fleshy bum

As you wait to see what transpires -

You might want a shot of rum.”

Seven days ago, I woke up in the night with some powerful shivers

I felt I was riding an iceberg down many long rivers.

I was so cold my teeth chattered uncontrollably

And my body was shaking so bad I could hardly see.

What the hell, I thought, as the rapids grew worse

The feast we held was for our friend’s return

To our tropical home in wintertime, no fires to burn.

We go up north mid-spring, too hot here in the summer

We come back at winter; cause staying North’d be a bummer.

Our celebration of their return was going to be sublime

For we all felt the bliss in this wondrous tropical clime.

We had our table all set up with salad, lasagna and meat.

The smells were so darn good we wanted to plop in our seats.

I loved.

An unplanned happening

Of my heart, soul and being.

I didn’t mean for it to happen;

It was something just for fun.

But it happened,

Slowly,

Gradually,

Fully.

What is a palapero? One might ask.

A builder of palapas honed for the task.

But what is a palapa, they then say.

An open-sided dwelling in which to play.

A roof that is thatched with dried palm leaves

Or grasses that are bundled in small, dried sheaves.

From my window I did see,

Movements, peeking erratic-ally.

Who is looking in at me?

Someone that should not be?

I feared to seek

The one to sneak

and take a peek

To be a freak

Or too meek

To meet one as chic

As I am thought to be.

Asking the dusky midnight

With full moon shadows

The dark-lightness is seen with tugs

Of days gone by,

Nostalgic days,

Loving days,

Precious days,

Ne’er to live again,

Only to capture anew.

Have you ever watched the morning grow

From total darkness, no light to show

The bare outlines, which are around

that slowly merge into profound

Shapes and forms, no details yet,

just subtle hints that you regret

not having them remain?

The Hills & Plains, Oh my!

To travel ‘cross

This desert plain,

While heat is bearing down

Naught for miles

But shadow’s stain,

No water to be found.

‘Til we see a glistening sea

Just barely up ahead

Let’s hurry, I beseeched

For thirst doeth abound,

But no matter the hurried speed,

Or the distance we would go,

that sea would ne’er be reached,

a truth filled with woe.

As iced-rain pelted against darkened glassed pane,

scarcely preparing minds-eye for morning’s sight,

as creaks, snaps, cracklings rent the consciousness

to envision the fractured members of stately timbers;

the morning’s find only half predicted.