I was left in the flood waters of Hurricane Milton, to fend for myself, The future looked bleak as the waters began to swell. Then, a Trooper with a heart I caught his eye, Rescuing me, now my spirit can fly.
I will never be the same, I know it’s true, With love and care, my life starts anew. I am so proud Trooper is now my name, A symbol of hope, a life reclaimed.
I was lucky, a tender heart set me free, But there are many cousins still waiting like me. At your local shelter, they long for the same, For a chance at life, a brand-new name.
It is what it is, they say with a sigh, No sense in asking the how or the why. Life takes its course, and time will unfold, Stories of joy, and moments untold.
It is what it is, as the days drift away, Some battles we fight, some prices we pay. But in the stillness, in the quiet night, We find our peace, and we hold on tight.
It is what it is, the ebb and the flow, The highs and the lows, the things we don’t know. Yet through it all, we find strength within, For every ending begins again.
It is what it is, and that’s how it goes, Through seasons of loss, and when love grows. We rise, we fall, and then we stand, With faith in heart and hope in hand.
The Election will come, the Election will go, Promises made, but what will they show? Will we be better off, or lost in the fray, As leaders rise, then fade away?
Voices will shout, banners will wave, But is it progress or just a charade? Change on the horizon, or more of the same, Who will we trust, and who’s to blame?
The Election will come, and soon it will pass, Leaving us asking how long it will last. Will hope be restored, or doubts still grow? Will we be better off? Only time will know.
A strange old lady has moved in with me, I can't quite place who she could be. I never invited her, that's for sure, One day she appeared, a sly saboteur.
She hides in shadows, she’s stealthy and keen, But in the mirror, she’s always seen. When I check my reflection, there she stands, Obliterating my face with her wrinkled hands!
I've shouted at her, screamed in despair, But she just yells back with a devilish glare. She won't pay the bills or share the rent, Yet my cash is mysteriously spent.
She raids my fridge, my sweet stash is gone, And somehow she’s making the scale turn wrong! I swear she fiddles with all my attire, My clothes shrink up as she conspires.
She messes with papers, my files a mess, And blurs all my reading, I must confess. The TV mumbles, the phone whispers low, She’s twisted the volume as part of her show.
The stairs are steeper, the bed's too high, She glued down the jars, oh how hard I try! Shopping for clothes? Forget the fun, She hogs the mirror and spoils the run.
But worst of all, when the camera flashed, She jumped in front—my photo trashed. This old lady’s crafty, clever, and sly, I just hope she never stops by *your* eye!
If the person I vote for doesn’t win, I believe in tomorrow, where hope begins. For in the ebb and flow of days, There's always light in future ways.
A single loss is not the end, For time will heal, and hearts will mend. New voices rise, new dreams take flight, And through the dark, we find the light.
Though outcomes may not go my way, I trust in what the dawn will say. For every season has its turn, And through it all, we live and learn.
So if today my choice may fall, I believe tomorrow will still call. In faith, I plant tomorrow’s seed, For hope remains in every deed.
In the quiet woods where shadows fall, A woodpecker's tale begins to call, To the task at hand with patient care, Finding a tree that stands tall and fair.
The deadwood trunk, a hollowed prize, Beneath the gaze of autumn skies, Becomes the canvas, rough and true, For a winter's feast in every hue.
With careful beak and measured pace, The woodpecker starts to carve its place, Each hole a cradle, snug and tight, Neither too large nor small in height.
Too wide, the thieves would have their way, Too small, the bounty would decay, So, in between, with master’s hand, The woodpecker crafts a storage grand.
Summer's end, the work complete, The ripened acorns, smooth and sweet, Are tucked within the wooden walls, In secret chambers, nature’s halls.
Fifty thousand, a mighty store, The woodpecker's winter—famine no more. And as the cold winds start to sing, The bird will rest, content with spring.
A testament to patience, skill, And nature’s will in seasons still, The woodpecker's legacy, so fine, Is etched in bark, a steadfast sign.
In shadows deep, where wild winds sigh, A pack emerges, howls to the sky. We are the guardians, hearts unchained, To save the wolves, our spirits trained.
In forests dense and mountains high, We hear their calls, their mournful cry. With strength and grace, they roam the night, A symbol of nature’s ancient might.
Our small band, with hearts so bold, A tale of love and care unfolds. To repopulate, to save, to mend, These noble creatures, our dearest friends.
We bring them food, we bring them cheer, To keep them safe, to keep them near. No hunter’s snare, no poacher’s game, Shall dim their light, or taint their name.
For in their eyes, a world we see, Of wild and free, of destiny. With every step, with every breath, We stand against their threatened death.
Together strong, we forge our way, To brighter nights and safer days. A promise made, a vow to keep, To guard the wolves, awake, asleep.
So let the world hear our refrain, A song of hope, amidst the rain. For we, the pack, shall always strive, To keep the spirit of wolves alive.
In July's embrace, the airwaves come alive, From July first to seventh, hams strive, A celebration of history and the thrill, Of the thirteen colonies' spirit and will.
From New York’s echo to Virginia’s call, Special stations rise, one for all, K2A to K2M, their voices soar, Across the ether, tales of yore.
On HF, VHF, UHF bands they play, In CW, SSB, and digital display, Operators gather, young and old, In a contest of stories retold.
Certificates await those who seek, Thirteen callsigns, unique and sleek, QSL cards, a treasure to behold, In the hands of those, brave and bold.
A bonus station here, another there, WM3PEN and GB13COL's flair, Reminders of allies and history’s friends, In this contest, where learning blends.
The 13 Colonies, a test of might, Connecting the past with signals bright, Promoting the hobby, a bond so true, Uniting operators, old and new.
So tune your radios, set your gear, For the 13 Colony Contest is here, A week of challenge, joy, and quest, In the spirit of ham radio’s best.
