What of the
farmer
who harvested
my potato?

May his bounty
be given to him
so easily as mine.

To rise each day, use a curtain alarm,
it saves you from pain and personal harm.
Allows you to arrive at unhurried pace,
and celebrate slowly, coming last in the race.
Each morning a comedy, free of ill humours,
Secured in whispers, not celebrity rumours.

With stories unfolding, innuendos expand,
And every reporter, shakes dysentery hand,
To chat over cow muck, the snake oil salesman,
In game of banter, to buy and sell you again.
But I’m as happy as shit on a rock,
Late out of bed, daylight savings o’clock.

Yellow leaves
raining
onto the asphalt
with every gust of wind.
Swept up by the passing cars...

Sunbeams
glisten
through the trees...
Shimmering dew

Mountains on the horizon
The rushing river beneath me
Cool breeze blowing through my hair
Sending autumnal chills across my skin

Winter is beautiful
and so is the Spring
But I love Fall
most of all

He didn’t take a bullet,
Didn’t step upon a mine...
His body’s still intact,
And he appears to be just fine...

But inside his heart and soul,
Things weren’t as they appeared
His family and his friends,
All think he’s gotten weird...

But there’s now a major hole,
Where his humour used to be...
He’s had two tours of duty,
Or maybe it was three?

He doesn’t sleep at night,
And his days are full of dread...
He can’t shake away the images,
That keep playing in his head...