Honey Bee and Me
I watched a honey bee who flew
Into
a flower and I knew
That he'd emerge engorged and fly
Back to his hive, someplace nearby
And so, upon a sudden whim,
I
thought that I would follow him,
To find his honey and to take
A little for my Johnnycake.
He must have sensed my
wily plot,
Because he flew around a lot
And I got tired, lost and hot,
But found no honey for my pot!
Robin, Speaking
I have a nest up in a tree
That nobody
can even see,
But for another bird, like me.
It's made of moss and twigs and grass.
Some spider webs I couldn't
pass.
I think it has a touch of class!
I felt quite pleased when it was made
And then my light, blue eggs were
laid,
Well sheltered in the leafy shade.
In two weeks they will hatch and I
Will spend my days up in the sky
To
search for any food nearby.
Their appetites will keep me out
Just hauling grubs and such, no doubt,
Until they
learn to get about.
Then on the day they finally spring
Into the air on each new wing,
I'll sit and watch them
and I'll sing!
Moonlight gilds each village roof.
In the meadow, every hoof,
Where placid cows raise shining eyes
And chew their cuds and here there lies
A polished pond and all the leaves
Are turned to gold upon the trees.
Magic fills the country air.
Moonlight glimmers everywhere.
Over hills and through the valleys,
Runs a road that dips and dallies,
Like a thong of silver leather,
Drawing all the farms together.
Overhead, the country moon,
Rises like a freed balloon!
Published in Oatmeal & Poetry, 1995
Ripe Wheat
The wheat field stretches far and fair,
With many bushels waiting there.
The farmer strides within to hold
One fruitful head of wheaten gold
And through the stalk, he feels the beat
Of living earth, beneath his feet.
It satisfies an inner need
To till the soil and plant each seed.
In years like this, when all goes well,
He feels a great elation swell
Inside his heart, to see such yield,
From every crop in every field.
That makes the toiling all worthwhile.
He lifts his head and with a smile,
Surveys the glory of his wheat,
That ripens in the summer heat!
It stretches off to meet the sky.
The threshing crew will soon come by
To reap the crop. The year departs,
Another planting season starts!
Published in Tale Spinners, Alberta, Canada, 1999
A Rhyme of Roses
Wild roses, growing by the stream,
Are like a pink and fragrant dream.
The banks are covered with their sprays
And as the early sun's first rays
Awake their beauty to the morn,
A multitude of blooms are born.
The buds are darker hued and curled.
Here and there, the dew has pearled
The pinnate leaves and on the air
Their perfume's wafted everywhere.
They are a poem that nature made
And even when they start to fade,
The memory will linger on,
Though all the flowers may be gone.
Published by Drury's Publishing, 1999
Sunflowers
Along the path, sunflowers, tall,
Bend their heads. Their shadows fall
In criss-cross patterns on the ground.
The dark seeds in their center mound
Will draw the birds and people too,
When their ripening time is through.
As we plant them every year,
I think of how they will appear,
When their growing is complete
And towering to fifteen feet!
The gold of sunlight trapped in each
Giant head, whose flowers reach
Two feet across. From down below,
The petals seem to send a glow
That warms the air. From where I stand,
They could be in another land!
Stretching high above my head,
From their earthy garden bed.
Published by Drury's Publishing, 2000
Edge of Autumn
Rush of wind and song of water.
Breath of autumn on my cheek.
Cloudbanks building o'er the hilltops.
Quacking ducks, drift down the creek.
Singing leaves and shifting shadows.
Cooling nights and hazy days.
Stealing all my dreams of summer.
Forcing me to change my ways.
No more lazy hammock swinging,
Back and forth, beneath the trees.
Half asleep and barely hearing
Yellow warblers, busy bees.
Swoop of swallow, scream of blue jay.
Squirrels cutting cones from pines.
Quiet dawns and flaming sunsets.
Air that smells like mellow wines.
Hoot of owl and cry of coyote.
Stars that shine with prismed light.
winter's coming, chirps the cricket,
Creeping closer, every night.
How I feel the edge of autumn
In the country all around.
How I'm savoring the season
And enjoying every sound!
Published in The Sunday Suitor, 1998
Rhyme Time Magazine, 1985
