My ObsE.R.vation

A few lovely roses, carnations, daisies too.
A special bouquet made with love that is true,
For my friend in the park, on the bench, feeling blue.
Although I never met you, and know your name not I do,
I can see that you're pensive, forlorn, alone too.
“Please excuse me dear Madam, it's so nice to meet you.
This beautiful posy I arranged just for you!"

In a time not that long ago
during days of yonder lore,
the ocean waves would spend their days
washing up pretty things ashore.

Seashells, starfish, precious coral...
were the treasures upon the beach,
searching here and there about
we would gather handfuls each.

The sand was white, pure, and clean
or sometimes pink, light grey,
depending on which beach on earth
you'd choose to make your way.

On many occasions throughout the summer
our family there would meet,
we'd jump and play and skip about
upon the sand beneath bare feet.

The ocean breeze was cool and fresh
yes, embracing it would be,
with a hint of salt and brininess
ahh, from stress we were set free.

The water there was clear and blue
and if I listened carefully,
"Come to me and be refreshed",
the sea would say to me.

       --------------------------

In a time that was more recent
perhaps last week or yesterday
I was at the beach and what I seen
is truly sad to say,

The ocean waves had spent the day
washing peculiar things ashore,
quite different than the pretty things
of the days of yonder lore.

A lonely shoe without its twin,
a broken bottle razor sharp,
a coffee cup in the state of decay
the carcass of a shark.

Plastic bottles everywhere
I couldn't see the sand,
plastic bags and candy wraps
a latex glove from someone's hand.

A plastic doll missing an arm
bottle caps and cans,
there was litter from sources locally
but much more from foreign lands.

I wore my shoes upon the sand
where I stepped, I was discreet,
lest I stepped on something sharp
and wounded both my feet.

The ocean breeze conveyed a malodor
with notes of petrol in the mix,
far from feeling ahh, refreshed
I started feeling rather sick.

The water was dark with a murky hue
and carried a thick grey foam,
dismayed and sad at what I had seen
I made my way back home.

       -------------------------

Will we yet again see such a time
a time I'm sure we all long for,
when the ocean waves again spend their days
washing pretty things ashore?

Will the treasures upon the beach again
be the things we like to seek?
Will the sand again be pure and clean
and safe for our bare feet?

Will the ocean breeze be cool and crisp
embracing our senses, quelling our stress?
Will the water again be blue and clear
enticing us to be refreshed?

Let's hope for such a time
and that it may not be so far away,
that all our sons and all our daughters
may have clean beaches on which to play.

Let's hope for such a time
when better days will be in store,
when pretty things upon the beach
will be the only things washed ashore.

©2024

The low little weed
it's leaves wide and broad,
in meek earnest prayer
made petition to God...

"My green leaves have withered,
my slender stem wilt,
my posture's stooped over,
and to one side I tilt.

Oh God please save me,
my roots shriveled and dry,
and this wicked east wind,
keeps whooshing on by.

Please summon the rain,
please refresh me with dew,
that my days might be many,
and not just a few." -

- Oh, little weed,
that cries out to me,
I've been moved by your prayer,
I've given heed to your plea.

I've noticed your pain,
I am concerned with your plight,
I am aware you are struggling,
with all of your might.

But please take up courage,
please try not to fret,
for, your dry thirsty roots,
will soon be quite wet.

I've sent my dark clouds,
laden with rain,
soon life's water you'll drink,
and you'll flourish again.

So, take heart little weed,
I will not let you die,
you're the work of my hands,
and I will always provide.

©2023

Creepy crawly in the night,
yes, the night - a bug's delight!
Whether quick or slow across the floor,
-please go away, do stay no more!
They creep up from the cellar,
crawl out from the ground;
stealthy, so quiet,
they don't make a sound.
Some bugs are big,
too, some are small,
-but I don't like either, no, not at all!
Some move crazy,
some with grace,
they make me so nervous,
back and forth I pace.
Some are dirty,
few may be clean;
you just can't tell where they have been.
Some have eight eyes, six, four, or two,
regardless the number, they're looking at you.
Some have wings,
still others have hair,
my favorite bugs though,
are the ones not there!

I had a little seed that I had found upon the ground,
I kept it in my pocket where it was safe and sound.
What may it be, this tiny little seed, now tucked inside my cloak,
could it be a sugar maple, or perhaps a mighty oak?
How will I know just what it is, this little seed of mine?
Maybe it's a cherry tree, a weeping willow, or a pine.
There is one way that I can know what this seed will be,
I'll dig a hole within the ground, place it there and see.
I'll cover it with soil, some compost, and some peat,
I'll pat it down quite firmly with my shovel then my feet.
I'll add a lot of water some sunshine and some love,
that when it sprouts and grows quite tall, it's bough may house a dove. 
Every day I came to see the progress of my seed,
but every day to my dismay I only seen some weeds.
A week, a month, a year went by, and still there was no sign,
there was no sprout, nor growth, nor life to that little seed of mine.
"Did I do wrong", I sadly thought, "when I placed it in the ground"?
Was it a waste of time and work to try to sow what I had found?
Perhaps I made the soil too wet, causing my seed to die,
or maybe there was a lack of sun, dark clouds across the sky.
Will I ever know what kind of tree my seed will prove to be? Will I ever really find out?
I thought then perhaps that this was the end, and despairingly started to doubt.
Then, late at night when I was asleep, at a time I did not know,
the little seed I had placed in the ground slowly started to grow.
Year after year it grew more and more, into a beautiful pine,
and I rejoiced to have lived to see the kind of tree that came from that little seed of mine.
Though now I am gone, my tree it still stands, from the seed I had planted with love,
and way up high on one of its boughs is the home of a handsome white dove.