To Store a S'more

As his sister reaches toward

he grabs the plate of s'mores

and carries them indoors

while banging the screen doors.

 His sister, she implores,

implores and now she roars,

but still does he ignore

as he quickly glances for.

And looks and looks some more,

and finds and then he stores,

 the gooey plate of s'mores

 pushed under a closet door.

 While still his mom she snores

 on the bed in the room next door.

 She won't ignore sticky doors and floors!

  His little sister cries some more.

 He returns to those sitting outdoors

Children stare at him in horror

 as with  composure he implores

 to the neighbor from next door,

" Please Sir, can I have some more"

 s'mores

Poems Born in the Morning

Before breakfast is warm

like babies poems are born,

in the wee hours

 of the morn.

Pouts and shouts

not about anything

just to hear

the sounds sing,

Sounds abound

swinging up.

Sounds are found

swinging  down.

Rhyming and timing,

right word unique.

A run of aces high ,

or four trump to seek.

But they come

in a drizzle,

and they come

in a streak.

Another poem to run,

to roam.

Finding its

 way home.

Rain outside, rain inside.

They whine,

they flip, they sign,

they skip.

Another poem to play,

to  play today,

or come again

another day.

Out of a Deep Sleep at Three (AM)

A few weeks ago

I canned pickles to go 

to my family I was going to see.

Out of a deep sleep at three,

I swung my feet to the edge of the bed,

and around the side

to slide into sandals in front of me.

Now, how was I going to get my toes

to fit in the canning jars just so?

I could fill the sink with brine,

dangle my legs beside

on the edge of the basin ledge.

"But how do I climb that high?"

I said, to nobody else but me.

Oh!...dear me, just a dream!

This morning

Out of a deep sleep at three.

I swung my feet to the edge of the bed

and around the side

to slide into sandals in front of me.

I must get the car

take Dad to the ER

For a stroke it appears to be.

He has trouble

walking toward me,

and cannot

understand me.

He is frail and quite old you see,

He would have been

one hundred eleven

but he died in 1987!

Oh!...dear me, how real a dream!

If I went to the ER,

they would admit not him, but me!