The Rhino

I just wish to live a life that’s simple,
Roaming the plains from where I was born,
But there are those that look at my pimple,
Thinking it’s not right for me to adorn.
So I have to spend my days in hiding,
Keeping careful watch for these greedy men.
My problem is my eyes are short-sighting,
Making it hard to see where I have been.
This gives the advantage to the hunters,
Creeping nearby me in the undergrowth.
I will never know about their saunters,
Thinking of a tree as neither and both.
That’s why I keep secret my location,
Keeping horns safe from another nation.


It will only take a tug on the thread
Before another one will come undone,
And soon on the ground, gathered in a bed,
Will be left a weaving that was once spun.
Focusing on one not to pull and pick
Will leave someone else to give a try,
Doing nothing big, just a little flick,
Allowing the rest of it to comply.
You run over there before it’s too late,
But that will leave other idle hands free,
A battle ‘gainst inevitable fate
For a carpet that’s never meant to be.
Still you do your best to clean up the mess
As a model of calm under duress.


It is time for us to say our goodbyes
While standing in the middle of the road.
I laugh at how our time together flies,
And our time apart bears a heavy load.
As we stand at the gate for departures,
Me with my bag firmly in my hand,
To me, a stark revelation occurs:
These moments have a limited demand.
But I have to live with the choices made,
And engage within the fare thee well hug,
And though my emotions, right now, are frayed,
I pass it off with a casual shrug.
You may not think I saw the tear you shed,
‘Cause I was busy with my own instead.

The Vikings

We have made our home across the black sand
Where we have beached our sea-faring vessel.
We hold the might to tame this bitter land
By using resources for our castle.
The lava stone will build a mighty wall
That will frighten away our enemies,
And if they pursue an untimely fall,
We can cut down this forest of pine trees.
From their wood we can fashion pointy spears
That will give it a formidable sight.
We can project an atmosphere of fear
When we yell from the rampart with our might.
Our renown from these hills will always ring,
And they will know that we are the Vikings.

The Aisle

It takes courage to walk across the aisle
To make the best out of what you work with.
We often complain that it’s not our style;
It might change the character of our pith.
But we should not buy that superstition;
Instead, look into the fear that we hold
Because we will always avoid that migration
Because we do not wish to be so bold.
When we make that walk something great happens
That benefits more than just our ego,
Instead we get to see the grateful grins
On the ones who we’re supposed to help grow.
Why did you start this job in the first place?
Was it so you could see their smiling face?

The Land of the Midnight Sun

As the sun finishes another lap
In the northern sky, I watch the shimmer
Of its light glimmer on the ocean’s sap.
I know the night will only get dimmer,
So I can sit out here a bit longer,
And from my well deserved drink, take a sip.
As a distant brewing storm gets stronger,
And threatens to give the air a sharp nip,
I will breathe in deeply this last moment
As I wait for its coming arrival.
For the sun in the sky has not been spent;
I will bear witness to its survival.
What else can I do on this grassy shore,
But enjoy the scene that’s been laid before?

Getting Wet

What harm can come from walking in the rain?
Most folks I know would rather stay inside
As if getting wet causes severe pain,
Holding on to the safety of their pride.
I enjoy the world without company,
Pretending I own all the puddled streets.
I think it funny, they need it sunny
As my footsteps complete the splashing beats.
An umbrella will provide no shelter
As I walk on such a beautiful day,
For it washes away all the clutter
Of what it means to experience play.
So let the clouds continue with their tears,
For the city is mine until it clears.

Raindrop on a Bench

The drops of last night’s rain cling to the bench,
Hanging on to a fear of letting go.
Ever since they fell from the sky, they clench
To the only rail that they ever knew,
Beading into an individual
Bubble that appears like all of the rest.
They know that if they lose their grip and fall
Originality found in the nest
Will be lost upon reaching the puddle.
All those little things that made them distinct
Will be gone, gathered within the huddle,
When to the bench, he is no longer linked.
To continue to clutch on or to fall,
The choice that determines the fate of all.

Antique Clock in a Storage Unit

For years, my springs have not been tight enough,
And I have been lying around dormant,
Sitting amongst all this forgotten stuff,
Given no one to deliver my rant.
One day that sliding door opened to light,
So I could run my hands across my face.
My innards wanted to put up a fight
To let you know that I was in this space.
You moved on to browse the other junk,
And I wanted to make my voice be heard,
So with the rhythm of a ticking punk,
I shouted out my only chiming word.
I did not know it would give you unease
To hear from rarely given vocal tease.

The Happy Camper

The kitchen is over in the corner,
And the water comes from pumping by hand.
The dining room table is a loner;
It wobbles when you wish for it to stand.
Across the way is the room for living
Which is really nothing more than a couch.
Underneath it you can keep your clothing,
What we call our convenient storage pouch.
At night, it turns into a single bed
Where two of you can cuddle together.
The back door id where you will rest your head,
Safe against the cold, Icelandic weather.
In here, across the island, you’ll scamper,
Ready to become a Happy Camper.