Que?—Star Runner

She moves, with grace,

among the stars.

And gallops down

galactic clouds

With tossing head

and streaming mane

On hooves and legs

all strong and sure.

By Rich Richey


I think that I should like to lay

On a lily pad and dream all day.

Gently float, mind miles away,

Peaceful, quiet, here to stay.

But wait! What’s that I see?

A huge big eye staring down at me.

Below that eye, a monstrous tongue

Zap! Splat! Oh no….

I’m gone.

By Melinda Louise


The sparrows have nested in the front patio.

They dwell in the shrub that spills over the wall.

I watch from the kitchen window,

amused by their antics.

They’re not early birds.

Their day starts around 8:00.

A rusty colored male ascends from the tangled thicket.

He scans, rotating his small body

checking for adversaries, danger.

Then descends

and calls the all clear.

The females flit up.

Simple gray, small balls of feathers,

the cute cupfuls chatter and fuss

like ladies hanging out laundry.

More join, puff up,

fluff themselves.

I need to prune that bush.

Dead branches distract me,

but the sparrows live there.

Today I’ll wait and watch

By Mary DeSmidt


You say it's only Wednesday!

Oh No! That can't be true

This week has been 10 days long

and it's only half way through!

By Eddie Sampson


Staring through his lonely eyes,

everything he says is all lies.

The wall he puts up will have to fall;

he will have to answer to his call.

This game we play needs to be stopped,

before all of my tears have been dropped.

He looks past me like I'm not there.

I hope he knows that I do care.

My heart lets out a silent weep,

because he's no longer mine to keep.

He will always have my heart,

but now our paths have come to part.

Will we ever have what we had before

or will he continue to choose to ignore?

These questions I'm unable to answer,

they pollute my mind like a cancer.

Does he care as much as I,

or was it all another lie?

Am I holding on to false hope?

I don't think I can learn to cope.

Will I ever be rid of this pain,

or will it shower my soul like rain?

The answers are what the future holds.

How long must I wait until they unfold?

By Serena Rodabaugh

Warriors World

The way of the warrior,

a coming storm resisting and torn.

With cold days approaching,

a maelstrom of emotions well worn.

With youthful expectations on the brink,

a fight for glory with determined face.

Soon the clashing of warriors will begin,

Voices and a victor’s song hard to erase.

As warriors grow strong and hardened,

excitement speeds up the pace.

Lured by hormones and bluster,

they engage in sport, bloodletting,

not much grace.

But, even as bitter the dreadful fight,

or agony of defeat on the field,

nothing compensates the warrior,

like injures concealed and unrevealed.

Flashbacks in snatches, a full array,

of youthful vigor and hostility,

angry movements from a remote ballet,

resulting in complex images of takeaway.

And as the beginning becomes it all

while muted songs paint a distant heart,

and bugles sound their clarion call,

deep down every warrior wonders,

is this way of living really smart.

By Jim Hassell

Days Nearly Over

He was old, said he was dying with cancer

I had inquired, and that was his answer

Thought it might have been a snake bite

Was pretty swollen up, didn’t look right

Never asked his age, never ventured a guess

He seemed pretty calm, when his life a mess

He ambled along with his friend, his best pal

I brushed on passed, along the dry canal

I didn’t look back, wasn’t sure if I should

A short time later, I turned and I stood

Almost out of sight, between houses he slipped

I stared into space, “cancer,” he had quipped

About two weeks more, the time he was given

Squeeze in a few more walks, and call it livin’

Never complained, not much was even spoken

His English at best, was probably broken

He wagged his tail, had given me a lick or two

I didn’t forbid — what else would I do

His dog days nearly over, no need to plan

This old yellow dog and his very old man

By Kirt Spencer


There is a Valley in Arizona covered with Green

When the poppies bloom and the cacti flower

One thinks there in a dream.

The mountains frame a picture that only God can paint.

The sunrises and sunsets are worth early up or stay up late

Yes, Green Valley is heaven on earth, something to behold

If a winter visitor or full time resident, the Green turns to Gold

By Bob Cripe


Ben Franklin observed,

"In this world nothing can be

said to be certain,

except death and taxes."

We now add "Global Warming."

T. S. Eliot

was possibly prescient

on ending his poem:

"This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper."

Slowing climate change

matters more than anything.

It's not dramatic

to insist it's a matter

of life or death for us all.

wishful denial

is a potent narcotic

against the hard facts

of quantitative study

by the science community

Only governments

with unselfish earnestness

can take all the steps

to quit using fossil fuels

for the sake of grandchildren.

Important as well

is worldwide waste reduction

and green policies

to ensure water supplies

and air we can all enjoy.

Standards of living

must be lowered, requiring

painful sacrifice.

But that will still be better

than utter self destruction.


we can add back luxuries

with solar power.

And life on Earth can become

better than ever before.

And Eliot's warning

may be postponed forever,

though it's quite likely

Franklin's dire resignation

will continue to be true.

By Richard Ramette


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