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.

We have two friends who are always ready to help,

Whenever they are needed.

Knowledgeable and direction oriented,

Their advice is always heeded.

They work tirelessly and endlessly,

Until the work is done.

And my trying to keep up with their amazing pace,

Is a battle I have not won.

We hopped in our golf cart and went for a ride.

Decided to see the sea since it was high tide.

When we arrived, it was windy as heck,

Which did keep the skeeters from nibbling my neck.

We brought cocktails for our beachside happy hour,

And a bowl of popcorn that we could devour.

But when we started eating our buttery delights

Before getting to our mouths, the corn took off in flight.

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.

Ah, the chirrups, tweets, whistles, and trills,

Which come from such tiny little bills,

That I hear each morn when I arise

The musical conversations I apprize,

And value each, and every note.

I saw a man running, early New Year’s Day.

I grinned at his determination,

to start his goals with intention,

But wondered if they would continue ‘til May.

The problems with resolutions are not the intent.

It’s when we let life get in the way

to slow down our resolve to pay

For those sins we fall back on to vent.

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.

My favorite time is early morn,

In the hot tub before starlight fades.

The half-moon is shining bright,

As I lay back to gaze.

I see a satellite pass by the moon,

And soon the brightness showed,

A meteor shooting past,

Its long tail and embers glowed.

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.

Graffiti all over the buildings, Oh my!

How can they let this go on?

The colors covering spaces we walked by,

Miss-matched browns would have covered each one,

If we were in the States, that is,

For graffiti is not condoned.

But in España it’s encouraged, it ‘tis,

Because it was there wherever we roamed.

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 looked out the window to check the atmosphere.

Was it misty, foggy, smoky or clear?

I wondered, upon arising that pre-dawn morn,

Knowing the smoke would make me feel quite forlorn

For those thousands of acres that had already burned

And breathing in smoke can be harmful, we’ve learned.

Unable to enjoy the outdoors this beautiful fall time...

Doing anything outdoors would be less than sublime.