When They Take Me Away

I love when the air whistles through,

A breathy yet quiet, “Whoo, whoo”,
Then tittles up there,
 In the trees in the air,
Their peaceful sweet whispers subdue.

The sun sets upon sapphrine sea,

All ambers and bronze do I see,
The waves subtle sound,
 And your spirits abound,
In airs of sweet tranquility.

Each day please let all nature ring,
To my ears and my eyes may they sing,
I will pray for the day,
When they take me away,
 You feel joy in calmness they bring.

Peter Lowell Paulson
February 20, 2012

You Move

You Move,

You Groove,

That skirt, oh my, my, my,

You catch my eye,

Each time you walk by,

And me,

All I can do is sigh,

Yah, yah, yah, baby,

Look my way,

Eye to eye,

And smile to smile,

“Would you like to dance?”,

Step out onto the floor,

Wow!

Sweet moves across that floor,

Turn, turn, turn,

There she is,

The one that I love,

I have found her,

No, she has found me,

That’s the way it works,

Man looks, and woman finds,

Hunter, Gatherer,

Whatever, baby,

You’re mine; I’m Yours!

‘Til the end of time.

Oh, yah!

Oh, yah-h-h!

Peter Lowell Paulson

February 20, 2012

Soup du Jour

I am not the biggest fan,

Of soup that comes out of a can,

And if my meal is only soup,

My spirit really starts to droop.

But add a muffin or a roll,

Its virtue now I will extol,

And, soups on diets never fail,

To bring a smile on bathroom scale.

Now with a flair as a side dish,

To compliment; it is delish,

You never, ever take a risk,

To try a cup of lobster bisque.

Clam or oyster chowder’s great,

Once ordered I will salivate,

Now stir the oyster crackers in,

The thought of it can make me grin.

And finally a soup with kick,

Is one that I will surely pick,

Yes, I will beam and gladly sigh,

If tears are rolling from my eye.

So now you know how soup will win,

Within my meal plan's regimen,

It can be pleasing; that’s for sure,

Let’s give a cheer for “Soup du Jour”!

Peter Lowell Paulson

February 12, 2012

Our Grandson at Two

I reminisce with tear in eye,

With only two short years gone by,

My daughter; husband; newborn boy,

My grandson here, and what a joy.

My grandson speaks few words like, “Ba”,

But beams, he screams, “Gra-ma”; “Gra-pa!”

And what that does to inner heart,

Completes life’s final puzzle part.

Now in red wagon; him in tow,

As walking to the park you go,

To place him in a yellow swing,

You love to see him smile and sing.

Or in the mall at a bookstore,

As he adventures you adore,

And you ignore the patron’s looks,

As he say’s “Gra-pa”; hands you books.

With Grandma close; your hearts just swell,

You spot a twirling carousel,

With vibrant music off you speed,

And he so proud upon his steed.

Now nighttime comes so Mom and Dad,

Pour o’er events the day you had,

With goodnight hugs and kisses blow,

To your grandson; you love him so!

Peter Lowell Paulson

February 4, 2012

The "OG" Poem

This a little silly ditty,

It’s quite short and barely witty,

Think of all the words with “ogs”,

Dogs on logs, and frog in bogs,

Think of two wet soggy doggies,

Froggies come from pollywoggies,

Just one more to make you groggy,

Hogs that roll in mud are soggy.

If you take jogs with slimy hogs,

Then you’ll end up with grimy togs,

I think my brain has slipped a cog,

Oh yes, I’m tired and in a fog,

I'll say, “Goodnight”, to all my kitties,

And, go to sleep and dream of ditties.

Peter Lowell Paulson

February 2, 2012

Hasenpfeffer!

Went to market with my mother,

Grandma, auntie, sister, brother,

Need some hay to feed our heifer,

And some things for Hasenpfeffer.

Father sought to catch rabbit,

Set some snares so he could nab it,

Caught a hare and he’s a winner,

Now we’ll serve him up for dinner.

Now we need some burgundy wine,

Beaujolais is also quite fine,

Onions to be cut in slices,

Mustard, bay leaves; other spices.

Mix the marinade together,

Smells so good in any weather,

Mother says that it’s so tasty,

Simmer slowly; don’t be hasty.

Strain the marinade and add it,

To the thinly sliced up rabbit,

Marinade a day or better,

Long enough to knit a sweater.

Dredge in flour; brown in butter,

Hungry people start to mutter,

Soon we’ll sit to salt and pepper,

Taste delicious Hasenpfeffer!

Peter Lowell Paulson

February 1, 2012