Welcome everyone to another poetic adventure. I’m not quite sure what kind of adventure. Some are good, some perhaps not so good. But they are all me. I think. I wrote them anyway.
Stress Is Mess
As I walk along the trail,
All my stress begins to pale.
Stop, and see a tiny flower,
Sun or storm it lives with power.
Watching now the river flow,
Bringing life to make things grow.
Towering pines, such majesty,
Filling the upper canopy.
Then looking down I see below,
A soft thick mat of moss does grow.
There, sitting on a branch in view,
A little bird in brilliant blue.
The songs of others fills the air,
Singing so loud without a care.
So why do I hold on to stress?
Sing aloud and forget the mess!
© 2019 Steve McLeod.