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Night Sky over the Duck Pond
The moon climbs high into the night The sun has gone to bed I’ve a long walk home in fading light To rest my tired head The stars reflecting on the pond Set my mind at ease As though the sky itself was fond Of strolling ‘mongst the trees
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Cats and Beans and Sinking Ships
Secrets big and secrets small Can you keep them secrets all Cats in bags can get loose To speed around on go-go-juice Once they’re out you will find Your honor has been much maligned Beans that have spilled on the floor Can find their own way out the door To try to bring them back again Is a fight you’ll never win Loose lips that let secrets slip Have been known to sink tight ships The souls that go to Davy Jones Will tell of woes that you have sown Gossip leads to a big fall So keep your word and stand tall
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The Journey of Art
A story told by poets and bards Should touch the hearts of men who read it And make them feel as though they’ve starred And not some character going through it The better the bard the stronger the feeling And some truly leave the reader reeling Art is about conveying emotions To make the blood hot or show true devotion Scenes are painted stroke by stroke To take you away to far off lands Introduce you to other folk Separated by time’s sands
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500 Years From Now
I’ve often wondered what men might think 500 years from now If they should find my humble abode while turning with the plow The earth that builds around my home and covers it through time. Will they sift through the sherds of pots and wipe away the grime And take the time to see the riches that I have gathered round To read the words that I have writ that seem to me profound Or will they merely write an ode about a mouse seen afield And speak of plans gang aft agley ignoring what was revealed
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No Pain, No Gain?
No pain, no gain I say is wrong, For pain is loss and does upset The poor, the rich, the weak, the strong. It gives them each a cause to fret. And that is not a gain I say That leaves them with a debt to pay. Gain can be found without the pain, And outlast fleeting benefits Obtained by means you can’t sustain. The slower way means longer fit. Good habits come from long practices, But pain makes one seek poultices
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The Gift of Sight
While most would think it heavenly To see into others minds I think it would be devilry To have that gift of sight To know their inner secrets All their hopes and fears The things they most regret Throughout all their years All that they cannot admit Not even to themselves Yet they find they must submit To those who wish to delve That I should know another’s thoughts Better than they could know their own To see the things that they forgot Is an act I can’t condone
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A New Year’s Eve to Remember
Dust off the dance floor And roll out the barrels Dance till your feet are sore And sing all your carols It’s been a long, long time Since we’ve had so much fun I’m telling friends of mine My work is nearly done I’ll bring my fiddle You bring the dulcimer Sal’ll call some riddles Franky will fall for her We’ll have the kind of night All will remember It’s gonna be a sight To end December
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Fearless Fantasies
A girl I knew had trouble reading Dyslexia had her tied in knots I watched her try but end up weeping This was something she couldn’t be taught She was scared her classmates would find out I told her not to fret what they said That in herself she should not doubt If she tried she’d overcome this dread I sat next to her and as we worked She began to regain some self-esteem She read some words right and up she perked Together we can build a dream
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Private poetry time
The poems I share With you out there Are poems I dare Offer as my ware The poems I keep Home in a heap Are poems that seep Into my sleep Although they abound They’ll never be found To be so profound As others around They’re simply mine And I find them fine
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Writing Space
In a quiet room by candle light I scribe my poems in the night And hope that what they have to say Can hold their own at break of day Of the author not much is known Wise man or fool, I know not which Scratched on paper for one alone Written for pleasure not to be rich.