Tom Appleseed

Tom Appleseed

Tom Appleseed woke from a dream in a wood.
After bread and berries for breakfast,
he felt refreshed, put on his cloak and his hood,
grateful for the gift in his hand,
to pluck and strum the strings of his lute,
and with his song, like birds in spring,
bring mirth to the air and the land.

On the back of a cart, he wheeled into town,
stood by a stall in the market square.
The apples were green and the berries were brown.
All in harmony as he planned,
he plucked and strummed the strings of his lute,
and with his song, like birds in spring,
brought mirth to the air and the land.

And where are you now, Tom Appleseed?
Have you returned to your dream in the wood?
Do you sleep warm in your cloak and your hood?
Do you still have the gift in your hand,
to pluck and strum the strings of your lute,
and with your song, like birds in spring,
bring mirth to the air and the land?

Bring mirth to the air and the land.

 

 

Cat and the Butterfly

Cat and the Butterfly

My present interest in nostalgia
I take as a good sign.
It means I have not lost my memory
and like to keep my roots in line.
The music I liked best in my youth
has stood the test of time.
You cannot beat a good tune
welded to a decent rhyme.

As I look out my kitchen window,
I see clouds shift and pass,
sparrows pecking at sunflower seeds,
and a black cat sat on the grass.
I watch it glare at a butterfly
that flutters by the shed.
Like a winged twig it rises
above the black cat’s head.

That cat will never catch that butterfly
but that cat does not know that.

If you live near a volcano
you hope it won’t erupt
in an avalanche of lava,
sparks and smoke, lethal and abrupt.
It would chase away the tourists,
scar the land and choke the air.
You don’t want to feel a shudder
when you’re climbing up a stair.

But one thing is certain,
that cat will never catch that butterfly
but that cat does not know that.
No, that cat does not know that.