Laid back or laziness

                                          A laid-back life is like a breeze that moves the willow tree, It keeps you calm and gives you room to breathe and just be free. But laziness is like a fog that keeps you in your bed, It takes away the open road and leaves a cloud instead. The peaceful mind enjoys the sun and watches clouds roll past, It knows just when to take a break and when to move at last. The lazy heart forgets to plant the seeds that make us grow, And misses out on all the joy that busy people know. One is a choice to slow things down and let your spirit rest, To look around at what you have and feel that you are blest. The other is a heavy heavy weight that holds your feet in place, And keeps you from the happy path and finishes the race. So rest your bones beneath the shade when all your work is through, But do not let the sleepy dust take over all...
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Uncertain Times

A shadow follows, shapeless and unseen,

It whispers threats of things that are to come.

The steady ground beneath is no longer green,

But cracked and barren, leaving us undone.

A frantic search for footing, for a place,

To build a wall, a shelter from the wind.

But every effort leaves a trace

Of how the sturdy framework has been thinned.


Lost in a fog of future's grey unknowns,

We drift from shore, a compass spinning wild.

Each familiar sign the water erodes,

Leaving us stranded, fearful, and exiled.

The maps we held now burn to ash and smoke,

And every landmark is a crumbling stone.

With every turning, certainty is broke,

And we are strangers, desolate, alone.


A knot of static hums within the chest,

The mind a whirlpool, a frantic, churning din.

An endless, anxious, agonizing test,

The future's face, a hollow, taunting grin.

The hands are shaking, and the breath is shallow,

A silent scream that struggles to be freed.

Each question blooms, a fear in which to wallow,

And every answer is a poisoned seed.


And then the fire, a bitter, blinding rage,

For promises that bent and then they broke.

A furious script on an unwritten page,

A primal fire, a burning, helpless yoke.

At whom is blamed, and who must be held high,

For all the fractures and the gaping holes.

The easy answers fade against the sky,

As anger hardens all our fragile souls.


These are the seasons of the falling leaves,

When all we know becomes a foreign land.

A fractured mirror of what the heart believes,

And what the broken, fumbling hands can hold.

But somewhere in the wreckage of the fall,

Is still a pulse, a stubborn, human beat.

The strength to rise, despite the looming wall,

To face the bitter, and to taste the sweet.


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