Wednesday, August 31, 2011



When evening cools a torpid land
The day’s dormancy starts to stir
Footprints mar the cooled sand
Showing where strollers once were

Walking the evening beach
The scent of ocean in your nose
Wishing you could reach
The starlit sky that glows

A fragrant ocean breeze
Carries a familiar smell
Whispers through tall palm leaves
And the sound of a distant buoy bell

A sunset gift wraps another day
And sends it to the night
While you find your quiet way
To the warmth of morning daylight
©8/6/07Terry Sutherland

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

A Word For Autumn, by A. A. Milne

A Word for Autumn

by A.A. Milne

Last night the waiter put the celery on with the cheese, and I knew that summer was indeed dead. Other signs of autumn there may be--the reddening leaf, the chill in the early-morning air, the misty evenings--but none of these comes home to me so truly. There may be cool mornings in July; in a year of drought the leaves may change before their time; it is only with the first celery that summer is over.
I knew all along that it would not last. Even in April I was saying that winter would soon be here. Yet somehow it had begun to seem possible lately that a miracle might happen, that summer might drift on and on through the months--a final upheaval to crown a wonderful year. The celery settled that. Last night with the celery autumn came into its own.

There is a crispness about celery that is of the essence of October. It is as fresh and clean as a rainy day after a spell of heat. It crackles pleasantly in the mouth. Moreover it is excellent, I am told, for the complexion. One is always hearing of things which are good for the complexion, but there is no doubt that celery stands high on the list . After the burns and freckles of summer one is in need of something. How good that celery should be there at one's elbow.

A week ago--("A little more cheese, waiter")--a week ago I grieved for the dying summer. I wondered how I could possibly bear the waiting--the eight long months till May. In vain to comfort myself with the thought that I could get through more work in the winter undistracted by thoughts of cricket grounds and country houses. In vain, equally, to tell myself that I could stay in bed later in the mornings. Even the thought of after-breakfast pipes in front of the fire left me cold. But now, suddenly, I am reconciled to autumn. I see quite clearly that all good things must come to an end. The summer has been splendid, but it has lasted long enough. This morning I welcomed the chill in the air; this morning I viewed the falling leaves with cheerfulness; and this morning I said to myself, "Why, of course, I'll have celery for lunch." ("More bread, waiter.")

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness," said Keats, not actually picking out celery in so many words, but plainly including it in the general blessings of the autumn. Yet what an opportunity he missed by not concentrating on that precious root. Apples, grapes, nuts, and vegetable marrows he mentions specially--and how poor a selection! For apples and grapes are not typical of any month, so ubiquitous are they, vegetable marrows are vegetables pour rire and have no place in any serious consideration of the seasons, while as for nuts, have we not a national song which asserts distinctly, "Here we go gathering nuts in May"? Season of mists and mellow celery, then let it be. A pat of butter underneath the bough, a wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread and--Thou.

How delicate are the tender shoots unfolded layer by layer. Of what a whiteness is the last baby one of all, of what a sweetness his flavor. It is well that this should be the last rite of the meal--finis coronal opus--so that we may go straight on to the business of the pipe. Celery demands a pipe rather than a cigar, and it can be eaten better in an inn or a London tavern than in the home. Yes, and it should be eaten alone, for it is the only food which one really wants to hear oneself eat. Besides, in company one may have to consider the wants of others. Celery is not a thing to share with any man. Alone in your country inn you may call for the celery; but if you are wise you will see that no other traveler wanders into the room. Take warning from one who has learnt a lesson. One day I lunched alone at an inn, finishing with cheese and celery. Another traveler came in and lunched too. We did not speak--I was busy with my celery. From the other end of the table he reached across for the cheese. That was all right! it was the public cheese. But he also reached across for the celery--my private celery for which I owed. Foolishly--you know how one does--I had left the sweetest and crispest shoots till the last, tantalizing myself pleasantly with the thought of them. Horror! to see them snatched from me by a stranger. He realized later what he had done and apologized, but of what good is an apology in such circumstances? Yet at least the tragedy was not without its value. Now one remembers to lock the door.

Yes, I can face the winter with calm. I suppose I had forgotten what it was really like. I had been thinking of the winter as a horrid wet, dreary time fit only for professional football. Now I can see other things--crisp and sparkling days, long pleasant evenings, cheery fires. Good work shall be done this winter. Life shall be lived well. The end of the summer is not the end of the world. Here's to October--and, waiter, some more celery.

"A Word for Autumn" by A.A. Milne appears in the essay collection Not That It Matters, 1919.

Monday, August 29, 2011



I stood in a pan of the balance scales;
in judgment
I was pleased with the amount of gold
in the other pan
Smugly, I watched more gold added
as my pan climbed

The content of good in my life
across from me, weighed in gold
Then I stepped from the scale
The fruit of my soul emptied from me;
the package was small

I stepped onto the pan again
nearly the same amount of gold
To raise me
the tare was deducted

When all was reconciled
I owed

©2/17/10Terry D Sutherland

Saturday, August 27, 2011

When Summer Ends

When Summer Ends

As if stitched together with clouds spun to thread, the ruddy edge of the topaz sky fastened to the golden rolling prairie and melted into the jagged edge of the world.  The sun poured its molten rays onto the dry hot summer earth.  The landscape was adust.  Meadow Larks called in the distance and grasshoppers flew in short bursts, their wings crackling in the thick hot summer air.  The summer had perfunctorily and ceremoniously worked its way to transformation.  Fall was in the air.

Soon the milk weed pods would release their fluffy prodigy to be carried by the prairie wind; hospitable or not, to a springtime nursery.  The grasshoppers would soon lie motionless on the hard baked prairie floor; their eggs deposited where they will rest the winter.  The doves fly south.  Now only the throaty crow of a ring neck pheasant will break the silence of a crisp fall morning.  Later geese will gather in golden fields to feed before their long flight.

The timeless prairie wind persists.  Its hot breath takes on a crispness and carries summer into the colorful arms of fall.

copyrightTerry Sutherland

Four Generations

Four Generations

Thursday, August 25, 2011

New Sport

Sisters Denise and Diane invent a new form of Team Lawn Bowling, or in some circles, known as North Dakota Bocci Ball

Blow Softly the Harp


Blow softly the harp; by the crackling fire
Close heavy eyes; rest the long night
Remember those loves; friends you admire
Early in the morning you’ll continue the fight

Dixie’s your home; your love and your life
Blow softly the harp; sweet song of Rose
Tomorrow the cavalry will wield the knife
Who may survive not anyone knows

Blow softly the harp; by the crackling fire
Close heavy eyes; rest the long night
Remember young Rose whose heart you desire
Tomorrow you’ll march proudly; for Dixie you’ll fight

Dixie’s your home; your love and your life
Blow softly the harp; sweet song of Rose
The blue devils would make this your last night
Fight for the South and the love of your Rose

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

The Quiet Man


The medals that he won in the war
Rested sixty years in the chest
His uniform hung on the closet door
Next to his suit of Sunday best

He never wore his uniform
Nor the medals in the chest
He thought someday, they’d adorn
His tired body in final rest

He lived his life in silent pain
No complaints came from him
For all the days he’d seen rain
His face grew gaunt and thin

A life measured in quiet thought
Both good and bad were held within
For every day the battle was fought
Over and over and over again

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Diane, Dan, Denise and Dennis

Patriotism by Alexis de Tocqueville


by Alexis de Tocqueville (1805 - 1859)

There is one sort of patriotic attachment which principally arises from that instinctive, disinterested, and undefinable feeling which connects the affections of man with his birthplace. This natural fondness is united with a taste for ancient customs and a reverence for traditions of the past; those who cherish it love their country as they love the mansion of their fathers. They love the tranquility that it affords them; they cling to the peaceful habits that they have contracted within its bosom; they are attached to the reminiscences that it awakens; and they are even pleased by living there in a state of obedience. This patriotism is sometimes stimulated by religious enthusiasm, and then it is capable of making prodigious efforts. It is in itself a kind of religion: it does not reason, but it acts from the impulse of faith and sentiment. In some nations the monarch is regarded as a personification of the country; and, the fervor of patriotism being converted into the fervor of loyalty, they take a sympathetic pride in his conquests, and glory in his power. There was a time under the ancient monarchy when the French felt a sort of satisfaction in the sense of their dependence upon the arbitrary will of their king; and they were wont to say with pride: "We live under the most powerful king in the world."

But, like all instinctive passions, this kind of patriotism incites great transient exertions, but no continuity of effort. It may save the state in critical circumstances, but often allows it to decline in times of peace. While the manners of a people are simple and its faith unshaken, while society is steadily based upon traditional institutions whose legitimacy has never been contested, this instinctive patriotism is wont to endure.

But there is another species of attachment to country which is more rational than the one I have been describing. It is perhaps less generous and less ardent, but it is more fruitful and more lasting: it springs from knowledge; it is nurtured by the laws, it grows by the exercise of civil rights; and, in the end, it is confounded with the personal interests of the citizen. A man comprehends the influence which the well-being of his country has upon his own; he is aware that the laws permit him to contribute to that prosperity, and he labors to promote it, first because it benefits him, and secondly because it is in part his own work.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Denise's Flowers

Denise's Flowers

The Whistle, by Benjamin Franklin

The Whistle
by Benjamin Franklin

To Madame Brillon

I received my dear friend’s two letters, one for Wednesday and one for Saturday. This is again Wednesday. I do not deserve one for to-day, because I have not answered the former. But, indolent as I am, and averse to writing, the fear of having no more of your pleasing epistles, if I do not contribute to the correspondence, obliges me to take up my pen; and as Mr. B. has kindly sent me word that he sets out to-morrow to see you, instead of spending this Wednesday evening, as I have done its namesakes, in your delightful company, I sit down to spend it in thinking of you, in writing to you, and in reading over and over again your letters.
I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and with your plan of living there; and I approve much of your conclusion, that, in the meantime, we should draw all the good we can from this world. In my opinion we might all draw more good from it than we do, and suffer less evil, if we would take care not to give too much for whistles. For to me it seems that most of the unhappy people we meet with are become so by neglect of that caution.
You ask what I mean? You love stories, and will excuse my telling one of myself.
When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.
This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don’t give too much for the whistle; and I saved my money.
As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.
When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, this man gives too much for his whistle.
When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, "He pays, indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."
If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, "Poor man," said I, "you pay too much for your whistle."
When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, "Mistaken man," said I, "you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle."
If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, "Alas!" say I, "he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."
When I see a beautiful sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, "What a pity," say I, "that she should pay so much for a whistle!"
In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.
Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the whistle.
Adieu, my dear friend, and believe me ever yours very sincerely and with unalterable affection.

Sunday, August 21, 2011



Mesozoic monkeys fall from trees
While dinosaur eggs turn black
Honey comes from foot long bees
Carrying yellow pollen on their back

Ferns grow tall and emerald green
While deep blue oceans rule the land,
Mountains of lava grow from streams
In a million years reduced to sand

What are the chances, when these decay?
Their rotted flesh can fuel our cars
When we die, will we come back some day?
Oozing black from earth’s deep scars

What will fill the void that’s there?
From sucking black ooze from the ground
Will there be a human being to care
Or will there be no intelligent life around

Saturday, August 20, 2011

I Had a Dream


I had a dream last night
I was older than I am
I saw what should have been
And the great celestial plan

I saw the stars at war
As they darted through the sky
I wondered what they battled for
I asked the question, Why?

The universe was silent
No secret did it tell
Just the quiet violence
Of the sky as it fell

I learned a profound lesson
I think we all should learn
When you ask the question
No answer will be returned

Friday, August 19, 2011

An Obituary

An Obituary

The Captain is dead, my love
He died early morning today
He was hoping to meet God above
But I think he went the other way

He knew of God’s grace, my love
But then, he gave it all away
He looked for the pure white dove
But found suffering and no reason to stay

The Captain is finally dead, my love
His name will be forgotten today
He lived simple and quiet, my love
No image will be cast in clay

The medals he won in war, my dear
And the friends he made on the way
Will fade away without shame or fear
And be buried, to be exhumed some day

He never learned to pray, my dear
He thought it a waste of time
He suffered no natural fear
And committed the ultimate crime

Watch what the Captain did, my love
And don’t do what he had done
Live life to the fullest, my dear
And prepare for kingdom come

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Gardenia Morrelli


Gardenia Morrelli had written a song
Lyrics were lengthy it was two hours long
Singers worked shifts to sing it all through
What it was about they didn’t have a clue

The chorus sang it so loud and so clear
The audience listening all had tin ears
The more they listened the clearer it was
Gardenia had written it just for because

The song writer’s guild had warned her once
Never write songs that last through lunch
She edited the song and song-writing manner
Now it sounds like the “Star Spangled Banner”

The patriotic overtones, Gardenia had built
Would be sung much better by men in kilts
It’s still two hours at thirty three and a third
When the men sing it at seventy eight it’s a blur

Wednesday, August 17, 2011



Brynn was a flower child
She was lovely as could be
Her youth was free and wild
Like a tempest on the sea

She lived for the day at hand
She had no worries or cares
She sang for a folk song band
And sang ballads when she dared

She hoped the world to change
With her music and her style
But nothing changed except her age
After she’d been at it for a while

Now Brynn’s long hair has grayed
She moves slower now they say
She reminisces with friends she made
And they talk of the good old days

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

A Childrens Story: The Donkeys of Dragonfly Pond

The Donkeys of Dragonfly Pond 

Dale was the donkey of Dragonfly Pond.  He ate grass and flowers on warm sunny days; but on rainy days he stood in the corner of the pond with his back to the weather. 

Dale loved his summer days when the grass was green and the dandelions were yellow.  He had everything a donkey could want.  He had mud on the edge of the pond that he could roll in when the flies were bad. 

Sometimes the children from down the road would stop at the fence along the pond and feed him sweet green apples that they picked from the tree outside the fence of the pond----just far enough away that Dale could smell them but couldn't reach them.  He always had a friendly hee haw for the children when they came by.

The meadowlarks sang to Dale every morning of the summer.  The duck family that lived at the pond always had a friendly quack for Dale.  Dale had everything at the pond----everything except his donkey friend Strawberry.  Strawberry was spending the summer in the farm house pasture.  Sometimes other donkeys would pass by the pond and Dale would bray a mournful goodbye as they disappeared from sight hoping that one of them would be his old friend Strawberry.

One morning as Dale watched Mrs. Duck and the ducklings paddle to the center of the pond he heard a familiar sound.  Farmer Dan had driven his old truck to the pond.  In the bed of the old truck stood Strawberry; Dale's old donkey friend from the farm house pasture.

Dale and Strawberry brayed joyful brays at this happy reunion.  Dan helped Strawberry back out of the bed of the truck.  He led Strawberry through the gate to be with his old friend Dale.

As Farmer Dan drove away he yelled out the window of the truck, "You boys enjoy the next few days.  I need you both for the fair next week.  I'll be by again later to load both of you in the truck".

Both Dale and Strawberry were "Show Donkeys" and they always worked the local county fair.  Their specialty was pulling their decorated cart in the parade.

The fair was a gala event for the donkeys and the children.  The children decorated the cart with flowers and colorful paper ribbon.

Dale and Strawberry loved getting ready for the fair and brayed their favorite donkey songs for the occasion.

Nanny and Billy goat also pulled a cart in the parade.  The children took special care decorating their cart.  They made sure that the decorations were far enough back on the cart.  Nanny and Billy were not beyond snacking on the decorations within their reach.

The day finally came and Farmer Dan came early in the morning to load Dale and Strawberry.  Dale and Strawberry waited anxiously at the gate while Farmer Dan backed the truck to the gate.  Farmer Dan dropped the tailgate; with one swift jump Dale was in the truck and Strawberry followed.

On the road to the fairgrounds Dale and Strawberry felt the wind in their manes and sniffed the summer air.  They brayed a happy donkey song.

The fairgrounds were all a bustle.  People were coming and going.  All of the animals you can imagine were there.  Herman the prize pig was there wearing his lat years blue ribbon.  Little girls brushed and groomed their rabbits.  Jenkins, the prize rooster practiced his crowing.  Gert, the lead sheep, rang her bell in celebration.  Lilly and Bob, the Australian Shepherds, sat behind the sheep and panted in the warm sun.

Farmer Dan had freshly oiled Dale and Strawberry's harness and it looked shiny in the sun.  Farmer Dan hitched Dale and Strawberry to the harness and they knew it was almost time to start.  The children slipped Dale and Strawberry's top hats over their ears and set them on their heads at a jaunty angle.  They put flowers on the harness near the silver buckles and put carnations on the leather collars and shined the brass hames.

Finally Mayor Wilkins, who was this year's parade grand master, started putting the parade in order.  Yes, Dale and Strawberry would lead the parade pulling their cart with Mayor Wilkins holding the rains.  Eight flower girls followed the cart tossing rose petals that they carried in their baskets.

Right behind the flower girls was Nanny and Billy.  Their cart was decorated and riding in the cart dressed in royal robes was this year's parade queen, Elise, the poodle.

BoBo the clown followed Elise's cart juggling three red balls.

A menagerie of animals followed BoBo.  Herman the pig, Emma the cat's two newest kitens scampered about in and out and between the marching geese.  Jenkins crowed proudly as he strutted along.  Gert rang her bell as she led the res of the flock down the avenue.  The last in line was Eleanor the cow.  As she walked along chewing her cud, her cowbell clanged and end to the parade.

Dale and Strawberry won the blue ribbon for best entry for the fourth straight year.  They brayed a joyous "Thank you" and bowed as the Grand Master placed the ribbons on their halters.

And now the parade was over for another year.


copyright Terry Sutherland

Monday, August 15, 2011



Vista had a tiny place
Three rooms and a bath
She never needed the space
Just her and her cat

She never hosted holidays
No fancy dinners at her place
She always used a TV tray
No table cloth with fancy lace

Her cat, on the other hand
Entertained every night
The floor was a table set
For three cats cooking mice

Vista ignored her cat and guests
She watched the evening news
But she thought those cats a pest
When they came in with muddy shoes

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Terry and Denise Celebrate Forty Years - August 14, 1971 - August 14, 2011

40th Wedding Anniversary for Terry and Denise


Contemplate the hollow silhouettes
That house the empty likenesses
Look deeply to the souls
Does an ember yet smolder?
Bellow the spark and clear the smoke
See the brightness and the warmth
Nurture it; fuel it with kindness
Watch it grow to conflagration
Be consumed; feed it always
Keep it alive with adoration
Strengthen it with anticipation
See how the fire stays
When it is fanned in loving ways

Thursday, August 11, 2011

A Prairie Storm

A Prairie Storm

The wind across the prairie
Filled the hot August day 
The pregnant wind had carried
The dust from miles away

Green clouds high in the sky 
Held buckets of pounding hail
The hail fell on a land parched and dry
And left a destructive trail

But even hail renews the land
Leaving moisture and sewing seeds
Quenching the prairie's hot fire brand
And starting the new life it needs

The hail stops and the rain comes down
Washing gullies and eroding hills
Torrents with lightning and thunder's sound 
Then suddenly everything is still

copyright5/18/08Terry Sutherland

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Blue Collar


On the eighth and waning hour
Of a poor man’s working day
He’ll have earned his sugar and flour
And gilded the rich man’s way

He’ll have gone forward two steps
And then taken one step back
His hands assemble the concepts
Of the thinkers at the top of the stack

He is the backbone of American life
He is the staff of his modest home
He’ll endure censure and strife
So that the rich can adorn their throne

Long live the blue collar class
Americans joy and pride
If it weren’t for his guts and brass
We’d all be living outside

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Sundance Cottage

A new face for Sundance Cottage.



Flora gathered wildflowers
On a warm and sunny day
Right before April showers
And the sunny days of May

She put the flowers in a pot
With water to keep them fresh
Daisies, Crocus and Forget-me-nots
And many others you may guess

Her favorite was the wild rose
Some red, yellow and pink
The fragrance pleased her nose
But the Northern Aster really stinks

She wiles away her winter days
Waiting for a warm flowery spring
Hoping that the sunshine stays
And the wildflowers it brings

Monday, August 8, 2011


As a young boy, Goose always wore his aviator glasses just in case he became a pilot.



How do you choose but one
Of a hundred reasons meant
Time has passed; day is done
All are weary and spent

Greatness is a virtue sold
None is greater than it seems
Of all the stories never told
Greatness is only found in dreams

Humility is most preferred
It is sensed by those without
It is bequeathed by debt incurred
It is paid in full with harried doubt

Cleansed by astute civility
Rendered benign by apathy
Blessed by a false sanctity
Spread in profane generality

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Hannah and Her Sisters

Hannah and Her Sisters



Come round, carol, dance with me
Step light to fiddle and drum
‘The Maids’ Morris’ for all to see
‘All In A Garden’ for some

Dargason and the Sedany
In Henry’s court today
Drink strong ale on the balcony
Watch the court’s children play

Country folk celebrate outside
‘Three Sheepskins’ and ‘Cockle Shells’
A special dance for groom and bride
Too poor for King’s wedding bells

Married in September’s shine
For a great harvest we toast
Your living will be rich an’ fine
A suckling pig we’ll roast

Friday, August 5, 2011



Wheat straw and barley chaff
A fine bed for a newborn calf
Morgan horses, Lou and Stan
Work all day to clear the land

When the rich new plowed field
Is ready for a crop to yield
Rain will spur the plants to start
The summer sun will do its part

In Augusts harvest, Lou and Stan
Work all day to cut the stand
Harvest crews earn their bread
Stacking shocked grain on a harrow bed

The thresher crew feeds the shocks
Separating the grain from stocks
It’s all done with the power of steam
And a fine working two-horse team

Lou and Stan work all day
Only ask their share of hay
Wheat straw and barley chaff
A fine bed for a newborn calf

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Backyard Theatre


We had a play of sorts
When I was really young
Blanket tents for royal courts
Made from clothes lines strung

Clothed our dogs in cast off coats
And knee high stockings blue
We put them in cardboard boats
Our cats the sailing crew

Neighbor girls wore mother’s hats
With veils on their face
They shuffled in the highest heels
With costume jewelry in place

The play was a parade, I think
To delight the home bound wives
Refreshment was Kool-Aid drink
The cost was one thin dime

Red lipstick on the little girls
And rouge colored their cheeks
Bobby pins held their curls
It never washed off for weeks

The boys wore Eisenhower coats
Garrison caps from World War Two
Mother’s silk scarves at their throats
On their feet, Buster Brown shoes

The play never had a script
Or a plot that I could see
But it gave all a lift
That’s just between you and me

Wednesday, August 3, 2011



Kelley was a connoisseur
She specialized in jelly
She didn’t like jam for sure
She thought it sort of smelly

Mint jelly she liked the best
Her second choice was grape
One day she prepared a test
By mixing them on a plate

She liked the taste of the two
With peach – but just a hint
The color turned a strange blue
She thought she’d name it Grint

It was grint with peach she chose
Her most favorite jelly now
The odor doesn’t hurt her nose
Like jam always does somehow

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Saturday Night Race

Saturday Night Race
He fired up his Shelby Cobra
Smoked up the starting line
Looking to the left he saw
My goat revved to red line

The starting flag a flash light
The drag a quarter mile
A full harvest moon that night
Fifty bucks stacked in a pile

We were revving at the start
The kid turned the flash light on
My goat near fell apart
The Shelby drove into the dawn

Must have been the fuel
My goat just didn’t perform
Another night we’ll duel
I’ll blow the doors off the barn

Monday, August 1, 2011



Ardis grew garlic plants
To keep vampires at bay
She knew well in advance
They avoided light of day

Her necklace of garlic cloves
She wore most every night
It worked well on werewolves
Even when the day was bright

The practice worked very well
No vampires ever showed
No witches ever cast a spell
For the garlic that she stowed

Ardis never married
She never had a beau
All because she carried
The best garlic she could grow