I am like a pinball machine
My brain, my heart
The ball

All life’s different facets,
Like bumpers
On the wall

The flippers are my will
The way it rebounds,
Chance

The soundtrack and
The sound effects,
The universal dance

And when I hit my target
I add more to
My points!

But when I get distracted
Or stiffness
In my joints

The ball goes tumbling
Down the drain
And I must start again

But I don’t have to
Treat myself
With critical disdain

Looking through the window
doesn't always guarantee
a beautiful view nor
would necessarily show
a pastoral landscape;

there could be no dreamy plains,
nor creeks, nor placid streams,
or sleepy lakes,

but it'll often offer
a view onto the life
of the indolent,
of the cantankerous,
of the coquette,
the gauche and the bold.

More than once
you'd feel the pain
and touch the softness
of the lenient, forgiving air.
You'd smell the fragrance
of innocence.

The sun beats down without mercy
here in the depths of the old south
drawing salty sweat from out of me
leading to a dry and yearning mouth.

Yet one more drop of sweat pats down
on dusty ground from my big nose.
The salt in my eyes makes me frown.
There's no dry spot on my work clothes.

I pause to wipe my soaked bald head,
look at the sky, replace my hat,
hoe a few more weeds from garden's bed
and curse myself for getting fat.

On the sidewalk
she laid there,
a delicate island
surrounded by stone.

How long had she lain
In fear of being trampled
by important, impatient
people, I do not know.

But when she saw me
it seemed, I could be wrong,
but colors seemed to brighten
and her sweet scent exuded.

She came into my hands
thankful -her bruised
and tender head.

But such sweet scent,
her lovely face,
were more thanks
then ever I could repay.