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Worry not about today,

Nor of tomorrow.

For in another day,

Short-lived will be your sorrow.


Time blessed both are

As history they will be,

Presenting another dilemma

For your mind to see.


As you concern yourself of the morrow,

And contemplate the day,

You will see that tomorrow never arrives

Because it becomes Today!

From a song on “Fiddler on the Roof”

“Sunrise, sunset, swiftly fly the years…

One season following another,

Laden with happiness and tears.”


View of Front Range, Denver, CO

View of Front Range, Denver, CO

View of Front Range, Denver, CO

View of Front Range, Denver, CO

View of Front Range Denver, CO

View of Front Range
Denver, CO


This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:

From ashes to seedling and upward into sapling,

I’ve watched you grow each day.

I’ve cheered you as your root system grew stronger,

Straining deeper and deeper,

Searching for the life-giving nutrients

Below the soil’s surface.


In my own small way, I’ve helped you indirectly

As your spreading roots took away moisture

I was desperately in need of,

And your expanding branches absorbed

Most of the energy I needed from the sun.

It was inevitable as you grew larger and stronger,

But somehow I didn’t even mind as I watched you.


Each day I became weaker while you grew into a beautiful tree.

Strong you stand now before wind, rain, and hail.

Your root system is strong and firmly established.

Your branches have spread like a huge umbrella,

Offering shade and shelter to both birds and animals.


You see, I knew this would happen

As the days passed one after the other.

In your striving to become,

My small existence went unnoticed by you.

Now I am as withered and feeble as you are big and strong.

I know this is my last season as nature waits for no one.


You have almost reached your full height and girth now,

Just as I always knew you would.

The spread of your branches is magnificent.

Soon now I’ll be diminished to a small thistle,

Floating around your branches unnoticed, my presence unfelt.

I always knew this, too.


If I am lucky, my thistle, after playing among your branches,

Will land in a sunny spot and take root.

I will live again.

The Cowboys Are Gone

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


A season for all things,

Boot prints faded from the land.

The cowboys are gone

Like Custer’s Last Stand.


No more night herder singing

A lonesome cattle call.

No friendly campfire banter

In soft Texas drawl.


No more loaded chuck wagon,

Clattering over the trail,

And no crabby trail cook

Giving the cowboys pure Hell!


No more dust and sweat,

Long hours in the saddle.

Riding swing or drag,

Always herding the cattle.


No more painted ladies.

No wild cattle town.

The sun for the cowboy

Has already gone down.


The prairie’s plowed up

Thanks to a man named John Deere.

The cowboys are long gone,

But the cows are still here.


They’re kept in large feedlots,

Fed good every day —

Never to graze on green grass

The old fashioned way.


They’ll never smell a branding fire

Or feel a branding iron.

They’ll know only force-feeding,

And they’ll sure know barbed wire.


I watched a rancher

Out in the rain and muck,

Feeding his cattle

From his old pick up truck.


It’s written that the West isn’t a place,

But a state of mind.

Yet something is missing,

Like yesterday’s wine.


It’s the end of an era,

But shed not a tear.

The cowboys are gone,

But the cows are still here.


Autumn Leaves

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


Father Time once again waves his wand,

Signaling season’s change.

Warm, sunny days surrender quietly

To oncoming snow and rain.


Leaves of multicolor profusion

Play tag upon the wind.

Her arms spread wide, Mother Earth

Awaits patiently for their flight to end.


Carried haphazardly by the winds

And scattered all around.

The winds die down, while leaves still fall,

Fluttering to the ground.


Mother Earth nurtured the trees that gave leaves birth,

Now she will stop and rest.

The leaves will decompose

In time to nurture Mother Earth.


Tree limbs now bare

Move in the wind like long but skinny whips.

Words take shape

And blend on the poet’s lips.


When leaves do fall and the wild goose calls

Backward from the fold,

Brings foreboding melancholy

Creeping o’er my soul.


Unknown to many,

Father Time has his secret reasons.

Falling leaves are just one way

He signals the changing seasons.


My life’s companion strolls beside me

Through the crisp, cold breeze.

We both exalt in season’s change

As we crunch through Autumn Leaves.

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