A tiny spider in my bed 
Did weave above my sleeping head

A silken web of beauty bright
Within the hours of the night

Apon awakening I find
A pretty tangle in my mind


If my poems end up sounding trite 
That's cause I write them in the night

And if (Part way through) they sound dumb
That's cause I write them while I hum

BUT, if the come out terrible,
There's nothing I can do at all.


The Danger Of open Air Markets.

An apple took I from the stand,
and gripped it firmly with my hand,

But I knew something up was fishy,
for in my hand it felt quite squishy

But then there came the fruit man's lassie
and with her lips so prim and sassy,

said "if you eat this it will trigger,
health and wealth and vim and vigor!"

Said I "your fruit must be amiss,
For, this doth taste of the abyss,


Snowy Ramble-tramp.

 The rabbit trails have interwoven been,
With hordes of booted children,
Who, having no place else to spend their power,
Have taken to the hills this snowy hour.

Back on track and farming like a pro.

The days are so busy, now more and more
Each day is more busy than each one before,
I don't have the time to write thoughts from my head,
And when I make time my thoughts are stone dead.

So give me a break! I work forty hours!
I'm not made of steel and I lack super powers!
I'm doing the best with what little I've got.
two poems a week is a decent-ish shot

Once every Tuesday and Thursday again
We'll see if this works, a poem campaign.