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My youngest playing with her chicks.

Ooh! So sweet. Thank you.

I'm sorry, boosts cost $10 for a 1% and $40 for a 5% boost. You can send me the cash via Paypal, and I will send you the Mood boost! :D

A few of my poems that might tickle your funny bone, or just carry you off to another place for a bit.

On the Virtues of Candlelight
When power fails to flow through tungsten wires,
candles are seen by all in better light.
We curse the brightness lost from turbined fires
when power fails to flow. Through tungsten wires’
pervasive presence, modern life aspires
to constant day. In vain—for in the night,
when power fails to flow through tungsten wires,
candles are seen by all in better light.

OPPORTUNIST
For three minutes, maybe, rain pelted
parched ground with drops
driven like nails
through the viscous air,
then slackened to mist
before dust had sucked enough
damp to slump into mud.

Undaunted by final drips wrung
from the stingy clouds,
I passed the gate, entered
the bustle of a county fair.

A barker, taped, trolled the crowd
with tireless voice, Free petting zoo!
Come in and see our Highland cattle,
miniature donkeys, the baby zebra
six months old.

The shade of a canvas roof,
vast as two tennis courts,
turned llamas to silhouettes deep
in the maze of cages,
past pens where herds
of goats pressed to the wire
for gifts of grain.

Around the corner, a camel leaned
forward, its neck craned up
toward the canopy's edge, and caught
in the cup of an outstretched lip
a meager stream gleaned from the rain
and trickled, tempting,
over the shelter's rim.

The Equinox Ball

Spring dances down the stream beds with a roar.
Emancipated snow banks take the floor
and swirl in floodplain polkas, while they spread
beyond the banks of rivers, overfed
by tributaries emptying the store

of highland waters. Catkins by the score
jig along breeze-tossed willows. As a corps
of coltsfoot startles from its gritty bed,
spring dances.

It whistles blackbirds north. They can’t ignore
the season’s invitation to explore
waltzes of courtship. Great blue herons tread
pond minuets, but peepers sing, instead,
evening gavottes, mazurkas—piping more
spring dances.

SACRIFICE

Burn on beneath October skies,
brave trees,
frost-kindled incandescence
to light gray days,
or blaze
against the endless cobalt depths
as though these short-lived, costly flames
would warm the air
and ward off winter’s chill.

Burn on,
until black boughs alone reach up,
your wealth of leaves
all spent on summer’s pyre.

Yet who dares chide
such glory with futility?

I had my first interview today. Got the go ahead for a face to face tomorrow morning. I think I found what I'm looking for.