Original Poem: My Times.
Some stories are set in wartime.
There are bombs, drunken songs.
Friends and foes, times of woe.
Still others are ocean-bound
There are waves and wharfs,
Beaches and bluffs,
sinking and swimming.
Alternatively, I write of the trail.
Twisty turns over crumbling buildings.
Less blue, more green.
My crow's nest is a hilltop.
Trail mix is preferable to a gun's pop.
I'm not this way for ease. Or for peace.
But for goodness. For trees.
For Time-Tested. And Bridges Mended.
For Grace Given.
And Drifting, Drifting, Drifting
ENDED.

Comments
Post a Comment