Members of the message board posted the following poems and musings for the topic "Green".














Dreaming Green Horn


By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)




He was just a little fella
Hanging by the chutes,
Had his very own ten-gallon,
He and Dad in cahoots.


The bull riders and the clowns
Were his favorite exciting show,
Though he liked the bucking horses,
And the cowboys they tried to throw.


He dreamed of waving his hat,
With his legs all taut in the saddle,
Showing off for little Wendy,
Who caused his brain to rattle.


How many days before I grow enough,
And I’m not a green horn any more.
I’m itchin to harness old Smoky, and
Take over that rodeo floor.











New Almanac Page




By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)




Here and now Spring is breathing
The world is whirling green,
Chartreuse and emerald and teal,
To challenge a painter’s dream.


Foals prance among happy mares,
Wildflowers punch through the loam,
Cattle lowing grass sated,
Lum’bring slow to their barn home.


Time to rock on the porch a bit,
Watch a new sunset spring night warm
A “good” tired from plowing rows,
To be softened by predicted spring storms.


The almanac tabs to a brand new season,
And new earth of hope fills the air,
Making it through life’s jagged winters,
With a Maker who truly cares.











Courting Frogs




By Phyllis (Starbird55@comcast.net)




Froggie went a’ courtin' .
She, her feelings were a’ sortin'.


Frowns were upon their green faces that day.
Too many bugs the night before, I'd say.


The bench where they were sitting was as hard as stone.
She wanted to get up and let out a moan.


Stiff as statues they sat without a sound.
To courtin' they were duty bound.


Mom and Dad Frog had set the pace.
They had to propagate their froggie race.




Frog Legs




Frogs legs are green.
They get frogs around town where they can be seen.


Some have great pads and are quite bold,
While others live for dives, I’m told.


Frogs have funny voices, but some achieve fame.
A couple made commercials and were not at all lame.


No matter where you go, frogs are sure to show.
They don’t like their legs in frying pans, this much I know.










By Cottage Lady (Patience@bresnan.net)




When I think of St. Patrick's Day I think of the years of St. Paddy's Day parades in New York City that we were required to march in, not cold or snow or sleet would deter us from marching up Fifth Avenue, past St. Patrick's Cathedral in an effort to win the Bishop's trophy given to the best Catholic School marchers. For weeks before the event, we were dismissed early to head to the 168th Street Armory to practice marching led by a retired Army drill instructor. We won a lot of years too. I think the parade went from 34th Street up Fifth to somewhere on 96th, lots of blisters by the end. One year it was bitterly cold and snowing and our mother would not let us go. The boys schools had uniforms and heavy jackets but all we had was our uniforms and could not wear jackets or sweaters or anything really warm. The school won the trophy that year and when the news was announced, all those who marched were sent to the cafeteria for free ice cream and those who did not were made to stay in the classroom as outcasts.








By Sharon (ByGolly25@aol.com)




Thinking Green




You can find a pot of gold
At the end of rainbow I am told
Before I am dead
Give me it now instead
To ease the fact that I am old




Four leaf clover of green
Not often is it seen
A lucky man
Finds it if he can
But if not then enjoys what's between




If you aren't rich than don't cry
Look up to the lovely blue sky
Enjoy what you see
Much of it is quite free
Nature has ever so much beauty









One Playful Fairy

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)




‘Ahangin’ on the moon in Kerry,
Is a pot of gold hung by a playful fairy,
She jigged along a rainbow’s yellow,
Happy to be found by a leprechaun fellow.


She rose to the sky on her mothy wings,
And joined a choir where the fairies sing.
So beautiful was her earthy sojourn,
For her leprechaun she began to mourn.


So our playful fairy drifted to an emerald forest,
Joined to her love dancing on moss carpet,
Found a home in the misty dark nights
Spreading the floor with twinkling fairy lights.


The pot still hangs on the fingernail moon,
Its coins spilling from noon to noon,
Some Irish believe they’re shooting stars,
Or you might like to think they’re angel cars.










 








Tire Swings and Ponds

Pussywillow

Old Memories and Young Hopes

Under the Table






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