Turning Up The Hate

Uncivil rancor

has risen to fill the void

left by the death of statesmen.

~

And so we swelter under

blazing political hate

of this changed climate.

A Man of Meager Mettle

He hands out pyrite

in seeming oblivion

that his glitter has no gold.

~

…and, still, fools grovel

in sycophantic ardor

of his worthless dross.

Slow Dawning

Horror and betrayal warred

At Grandpas barked guffaw,

Unexpected insult heaped

Upon Mother’s recent wound.

Was he still a babe in arms

Needing mom to wipe his chin?

No! He was a man and grown…

Or very nearly so, at ten!

Drying mirth from ancient eyes

O’da laid confusion rest,

“At luncheon this day ‘twas I

Pullin’ yon face to me own marm!”

Slowly came his dawning-

Forever, Moms will be Mom’s.

Pastoral Passtimes

Rest beneath these watchful trees

Sheltered from both rains and rays

Welcome balm for agonies

Brought by endless plowing days.

Breathe the musk of ochre furrows

Rising from the fresh turned ground.

Watch the playful muskrats burrow.

Hear the crickets festive sound.

Regard the rows with satisfaction

Stretching toward the distant wood.

The work’s not done- not by a fraction

Even though the labor’s good.

Though I’d bask long, amid this splendor,

I’ve more toil yet to render.