When out the door on my sunrise stroll
When natures wonders before me unfold
When I spot a rabbit climb from its hole
When I see a wild horse tending its foal
A commune with nature is what I love best
Mind, body, and soul, all fill with zest.

When a flock of birds take sudden flight
When the brook bubbles music to my delight
When a frog hops to it with legs of might
When ducks swim by in the misty light
I always thank God I live so near
Before turning for home till tomorrow is here.

It landed softly,
squarely between us,
not wanting to take sides
in our latest fuss.

Lets listen to nature,
so smart from day one.
The leaf has told us
that neither has won.

I’m happy with that,
I respect your view.
It differs from mine,
no reason to stew.

I can learn from you,
you from me,
and strengthen our bond
when we disagree.

This disco is well known for finding romance,
and Bob plans to deliver his favorite line.
He strolls over with a smile and a sideways glance,
then looks at her straight with “Hi, what’s your sign?”
“I’m Joan and I’m a Leo” replies the face quite divine.

In seconds they’re boogieing away on a pulsating floor,
loud music keeping beat to its lit squares, blue and hot pink,
as they Hustle, Bump, do the Robot, and a few more.
The dee-jay overlaps several records in perfect sync,
with not a moment between tunes for one to even blink.

Around the disco vivid lights flash off the wall,
their colors bouncing on chrome tables and the bar,
which fronts a psychedelic mural nearly ceiling tall.
Some say a disco is really a bit bizarre,
but to most that kind of thinking is a bit sub-par.

The dee-jay announces it’s time to line dance,
so Bob and Joan grab a spot in the third line of five.
Joan, disco dress and platform shoes, has Bob in near trance,
as they sway in unison to The Bee Gee’s “Staying Alive”,
then to Gloria Gaynor and her big hit “I Will Survive”.

They dance nonstop for hours, discoing the night away.
Now the fog machine’s on, haze billowing to their knees,
as they “Bus Stop” ’till closing arrives much to their dismay.
Bob invites Joan for a malt at the all night Dairy Freeze,
“No thanks, but I had fun” she says, leaving in a breeze.

“He’s weird, just look at those warts,
and his skin is so horribly rough”
said one, and as if that wasn’t enough,
the other replied with more ugly retorts.

Two milk cows on the farm,
talking about another in the next stall.
Saying her milk was inferior as I recall,
and other words designed to harm.

Two St. Bernards at the dog show,
discussing the Chihuahua next in line.
“He’s so puny” they agreed with malign,
“No chance” they said, “he can’t even grow”.

Two bright parrots in the pet shop,
conversing o’er a  sparrow they once knew,
didn’t like her feathers, such a boring hue.
“As a bird”, they agreed, “she’s a total flop”

Two co-workers on a lunch break,
talking about another with the same job,
“Look how he dresses, what a dreadful slob”.
Laughing hard, they ate their chocolate cake.

Many things said are hurtful and bring only harm,
and, really, is there any sense to that,
should talking about others resemble combat?
Always best to impart charm not alarm.

Listen up dear readers, large, medium and small,
there’s a moral to this story, as I suspect you knew.
It rings loud and clear, and although trite it’s true,
If you can’t say something nice, don’t say it at all.

He gazed sadly at the dark gray Holly Oak,
where he spent fond Summers of days long past,
in the tree house his dad had helped him build,
playing “make-believe” as if it would forever last.

This backyard tree is large, some forty feet tall,
with the canopy width not very far from the same.
But it’s terribly ancient now, untold years old,
and disease and oak moths have laid their claim.

John, in his fifties now, grew up with this Oak,
and refers to it unabashedly as almost a friend.
Even as an adult he greatly admired it’s smooth bark,
and each Summer, on yellow flowers and acorns depend.

But on this day John knew he had no choice,
and picked up the phone to call a tree service.
He could easily tell his tree was surely ailing,
doubts it can survive making him somewhat nervous.

As it turned out, John’s premonition was right,
the Oak was just too infected to try and spare.
The tree company removed it, grinding the stump,
and in it’s place planted an Idaho Locust there.

John was a bit disappointed about his Oak “friend”,
but didn’t let it bother him for more than a day.
After all, it’s not the same as losing a person or pet
so he bid the Oak goodbye without further dismay.

John was happy to have the Idaho Locust now planted too,
a tree that produces loads of pink flowers each Spring.
Of course it’ll take some time to reach full maturity,
but one day clusters of magenta happiness it will bring.

To my right, the narrow strip of new and tender lawn
is dotted with wild blooms of mixed vivid hues,
and just beyond, the crystal lake mirrors the light of dawn.
I wave at a couple engaged in a chess match, she moved a pawn,
both are sprawled on a blanket with kicked off shoes,
near the trail by the lake in the wood.

The drizzle has stopped now and I continue on my way,
tying the arms of my flimsy jacket around the waist,
as the sun emerges from behind clouds in warm display.
I hike less than 1000 feet more, and marvel at my lucky day,
as I spot 4 new ducklings behind their mother, with one displaced,
and watch gleefully from the trail by the lake in the wood.

I hear a soft rustle in my left ear, and quickly turn my head
to pick up the sound on the woodsy side of the trail.
There among mighty oaks, mature pines, and a few others instead,
there where Spring seedlings of trees, plants, and flowers are spread,
I see that the gentle noise was made by Spring bunnies, newborns still frail,
to my left of the trail by the lake in the wood.

I amble on leisurely, enjoying the untold wonders of nature,
in the season of new birth and fresh hope, I enjoy the fact of Spring.
The wood and lake are teaming with life, and I savor the adventure,
at least for this day in every way, my troubles have met their closure.
Worm in her beak, a mother robin flies by, hungry babies await her wing
above the trail in the lake by the wood.

It’s easy to understand I’m in no hurry as I fully circle the blue lake.
A family of four frogs hop in fresh grass, I see a deer with her fawn,
loveless for reptiles, I manage to smile at a mother and baby garden snake.
A squirrel scurries up a green tree, fresh nuts her young to partake,
and I continue to marvel at nature, and the plan God has drawn,
on and about the trail by the lake in the wood.

It’s often said all good things must come to an end,
and the pleasures of my visit must halt for this day,
so reluctantly I turn for home and responsibilities there to attend.
But Spring lasts three months, there’s plenty of time here yet to spend,
and tomorrow will find me again amazed, when I eagerly make my way
to the trail by the lake in the wood.

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PoetryMine.Com – All rights reserved
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POET’S NOTE: The word “wood” rather than “woods” is correctly used in this poem. One of the definitions of “wood” in the dictionary is, verbatim, “A dense growth of trees usually greater in extent than a grove and smaller than a forest”. I chose “wood” because it provides a better meter/rhythm in the refrain of the poem. – Eugene N. Wells 

His time on earth having not reached its end,
he wanted to see his wife, his best ever friend,
while he was an eagle with wings to fly.
She had left him abruptly, had it really been a year
since illness had taken her into God’s sphere?
Onward he flew, and up, ’till flying o’er heaven’s gate,
in eagle form, with no way to verbally communicate,
but thoughts of simply seeing her bringing him cheer.

Life without her had not been close to complete,
the love in his heart for her still fully replete.
He would do his best in this God given dream,
to beam his love down upon her, allow it to stream,
envelope love on his angel from her head to her feet.
He was an eagle now, gliding o’er streets paved with gold,
all the angels below him a marvelous sight to behold.

Each exuding happiness as if God’s work was play,
bright smiles on their faces as they knelt down to pray.
He was an eagle in awe, momentarily on hold.
His eagle eyes took but a minute to pinpoint his wife,
she was leading a choir of angels, all with eternal life,
and blissful and blessed, euphorically content.
He missed his wife terribly but the sight eased his lament,
finding heaven had no such thing as sadness and strife.

He concentrated hard to telepath affection and love
to the very inspiration below for his eagle’s flight above.
At that exact second in time she stared up at him straight,
smiling the silent message “I’m forever your soul mate”.
In death as in life they fit like a hand in a glove.
Suddenly rudely shaken by his alarm clock’s rings,
he awoke feeling his chest for feathers, his arms for wings.

Time to get ready for work, time to earn another day’s pay,
but he really wasn’t into it on this particular day,
his mind was on his departed wife, not business things.

He turned his head left and then right,
pulling and stretching his face,
but every time he removed his hand,
the wrinkles popped back into place.

And what were those little “feet”
at the corner of his eyes,
he hadn’t even been close to crows,
but time had delivered an unwelcome prize.

He ran his fingers through his hair,
at least the strands that remained,
and wondered how they got so gray,
a mystery unexplained.

The bright glare of the ceiling lights
made the top of his head brilliantly shine.
He couldn’t recall growing up that way,
what had he done for time to malign?

Certain he had been born with just one chin,
he could only guess chins must replicate,
but didn’t see any use for the extra one now,
why had time given him such a fate?

He patted his belly, remembering once tight abs,
and the favorite 32″ jeans he used to wear.
The ones he couldn’t bring himself to toss out,
but wouldn’t fit today on a million dollar dare.

His former “six-pack”, from thousands of long ago crunches,
somehow time had stolen and replaced with soft flab.
The sides of his waist were now horizonal,
and the front of it proceeded him, easy to grab.

“What is time anyway, and why am I its victim?”
he pondered, noting his mouth’s edges now turned down.
He didn’t like those brown spots on his face,
nor time turning his countenance into a frown.

It didn’t matter to him how often the earth circled the sun,
it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him,
he minded his own business, innocently along for the ride,
but time, wickedly, was turning his future ever more grim.

He ran out of time now, whatever it is time may be,
it was time to dress for bingo at the retirement home,
arthritis and stomach flab making it take almost an hour
to pull on his socks, but his hair only two seconds to comb.

It’s the time known as autumn, or fall if you prefer,
a pleasant time of year you’re sure to concur.
The temperature neither hot nor cold to extreme,
deciduous trees show off bright colors supreme,
and nature chose fall for primary harvest to occur.

Fruits, vegetables, grains and wheat ripe for picking
are harvested for your table while fall’s clock is ticking.
Several autumnal holidays about food mark calendars too,
Thanksgiving, Jewish Sukkot, and Moon Festival only a few
of ways to thank a bountiful earth while chops are licking.

It’s true that all don’t greet the fall with great joy,
gone are the gleeful possibities of summer to enjoy.
The skies have turned grey, they miss the clear blue,
and dread the frigid winter ahead they don’t wish to pursue,
any fall season contentment such thoughts can destroy.

Happily the remedy for such thinking is not problematic,
who would adjust their TV for snow before they have static?
It’s easy as can be, as simple as living life in the present,
so enjoy the fall while it’s here mild and pleasant,
summer will come again, winter come and go, it’s so pragmatic.

Some wouldn’t name fall as their favorite season,
it might well be winter for their personal reason.
Fun-filled summers are at the top for many,
while others relish the freshness of spring over any.
But learning to enjoy each day has proved the best lesson.

Though I was so much older now, and feeling it too,
I found the hero and heroine had stayed the same age,
as adventuresome and daring as when their story was new.
The evil villain hadn’t mellowed, still had the same rage,
as prone as before to iniquity and wickedness engage.
The shiny, swift horses had lost not even a day,
as they powerfully sped the good paladins out of harm’s way.

As I fervently read on, not capable of putting down the book,
I discovered something hard to understand, difficult to explain.
I may be old and past my prime, but it was like a grappling hook
had pulled me into the tale, and I was there on a nearby plain,
though without a part, becoming an audience of one to entertain,
living the story with it’s characters, although to them blind,
so vivid was the imagery that stirred in my mind.

I took a glance at my watch with one chapter to go,
it was well past 2 a.m. which caused me no worry,
and wouldn’t even if the rooster was starting to crow.
I vaguely remembered the ending, but quite blurry,
so I read on to the last word, without a hint of hurry.
There’s no way to hide it, no sense wondering why,
it’s clear as a bell, a really good book can never die.