In South Carolina, where spring breathes anew, Nature awakens with a vibrant view. The mountains call with their timeless grace, Inviting the soul to a higher place.
Beaches whisper with waves serene, Golden sands where thoughts convene. Boats dance upon the river's flow, Carrying dreams where the soft winds blow.
Lakes offer solace, a peaceful retreat, Fishing lines cast, the moment complete. Every park a story to tell, Where earth and heart gently swell.
Plan your escape, let spirits embark, On a journey through South Carolina's park. In the cradle of spring, find your delight, Where every path brings joy to light.
In the silent hours of contemplation’s realm, Where thoughts like mighty ships take the helm, There lies a truth, both stark and bare, “Failing to prepare is preparing to fail,” they declare.
Upon the canvas of the night, stars in alignment, Whispering secrets of success and confinement. For those who in foresight’s garden gently tread, Harvest dreams alive, not shadows of dread.
A lesson taught by time, ancient and wise, That only the prepared meet the sunrise. While others sleep in the bed of procrastination, They wake to the storm of missed realization.
It’s the weaver’s loom, the builder’s square, The navigator’s map, through fog and air. A principle, simple, yet profound, In every endeavor, let preparation abound.
So gather your tools, your plans, your might, Under the moon’s soft glow or the sun’s bright light. For the path to victory, narrow and steep, Is found by those who sow, while others sleep.
In this world of chance, of chaos, of storm, Let preparation be your standard, your norm. For in its embrace, you’ll find the grail, And remember, “Failing to prepare, is preparing to fail.”
Life is like a roll of toilet paper, so they say,
A humble, unassuming guide through each day.
At first, it seems endless, round and full,
Each sheet a possibility, life's beautiful pull.
In the beginning, unwinding slow and sure,
Each moment savored, each experience pure.
The roll bulky, promising, a bountiful supply,
Unaware of how quickly time can fly.
Midway, a realization, the spindle spins with ease,
The days slipping by like a soft summer breeze.
What once seemed a mountain now a dwindling hill,
As we chase dreams, aspirations, and thrills.
Closer to the end, the pace picks up speed,
Each sheet more precious, as we acknowledge the need.
To make every moment count, to live fully each day,
As the roll nears its end, in its humble, fading sway.
Life, like the roll, moves faster towards its close,
Reminding us to cherish each high and weather each low.
For in the end, it's not how long the roll was, but how we lived,
That measures the life we've had, the love we've given, and the joy we give.
March 18, 2024
Created by
MarkWaldrop
In a corner of the world, under a window so bright,
Amanda R. Waldrop shares a tale of delight.
Mark, with a thought so tender and able,
Gifted a squirrel picnic table.
Perched outside the window of her home office view,
A scene unfolds, fresh as morning dew.
Where nature's little jesters, in their playful spree,
Feast upon their table, in pure glee.
Molly, the kitty, with eyes wide and keen,
Watches the squirrels, in a world serene.
Together they sit, day by day,
In silent camaraderie, in their own special way.
Amanda, with Molly, finds joy so profound,
In the simple pleasures that abound.
A squirrel picnic table, a window, a sight,
Turns ordinary moments into pure delight.
So here's to the small things that make life sweet,
To moments of peace, our hearts' retreat.
For in the story of Amanda, Mark, and Molly's grace,
Lies a reminder of the beauty in our space.
March 17, 2024
Created by
MarkWaldrop “Grandpa”
I'm just an extra in somebody else’s play
Being an extra I have few words to say
Being an extra is an honor I must say
To be asked to be in anyone's play
I follow the directions the director gives me
Always being ready when he calls on me
Maybe I will get a chance one day
To be famous in a well-known play
February 3, 2024
MarkWaldrop
Happy Groundhog's Day, twenty-twenty-four!
With eager eyes, we all did explore,
Punxsutawney Phil, the seer of time,
Gave us a forecast, oh so prime.
He did NOT see his shadow, so it seems,
Spring is closer, in our dreams.
Gone soon, the winter's icy tether,
All thanks to a rodent's weather.
Yes, science abounds in meteorology's task,
Yet, for Phil's prediction, we eagerly ask.
Funny, isn't it, how traditions entwine,
With forecasts and futures, all align.
So celebrate the coming of spring's sweet call,
Phil's decree, a shadow's fall.
Happy Groundhog's Day, let's all cheer,
For spring's warmth is nearly here!
February 2, 2024
Created by
MarkWaldrop
Life on the farm is relaxing, I must say
Sending the cares of the city away
The smell of freshly new-mown hay
A hot cup of coffee to start the day
The midnight hours of birthing a calf
It brings happiness and far less strife
Life on the farm melts my many concerns away
Close to God’s creation is where I want to stay
January 29, 2024
MarkWaldrop
Penned for my friend
Dean Ewing
In the heart of Ohio, 'neath the wide Buckeye sky,
Was born Annie Oakley, in eighteen-sixty, nigh.
In a log cabin dwelling, near North Star's gentle light,
Phoebe Ann Moses, a star in the night.
Her childhood was marked by scarcity and loss,
Her father, a farmer, died from frost's cruel cross.
In a terrible storm, he met his untimely fate,
Leaving young Phoebe to wrestle with a heavy weight.
A sister too, in time, would pass away,
Adding to the hardships of Annie's early day.
But from these trials, a sharpshooter arose,
With a rifle in hand, she faced life's imposing foes.
At the tender age of eight, or so the tale is told,
Annie learned to hunt, brave and bold.
She'd shoot with a grace, so natural and free,
Supporting her kin with game from field and tree.
Quail, rabbit, squirrel, her aim always true,
In Cincinnati, at fifteen, her renown only grew.
A shooting match won, against sharpshooter Butler,
Her future husband, none could out-flutter.
Annie's skill was such, surplus meat she'd provide,
To markets and hotels, her fame did glide.
Her mother, resourceful, sold the game with pride,
Ensuring their survival, with Annie by their side.
Then came the year, eighteen eighty-five,
Buffalo Bill's show, where legends come alive.
Annie Oakley, the star, in a spectacle so grand,
Joined the Rough Riders, a rifle in hand.
Sitting Bull, the great chief, with respect so rare,
Named her Watanya Cicilla, in the open air.
"Little Sure Shot," a title of honor and might,
In Buffalo Bill's Wild West, she was a brilliant sight.
Outshooting Cody, winning hearts far and wide,
Annie's fame soared, on a celestial tide.
Admired by all, from McCoys to Hatfields,
In an era of feuds, her legend never yields.
But time marches on, as all stories tell,
In nineteen twenty-six, Little Sure Shot fell.
November's chill wind whispered a mournful sigh,
For Annie Oakley, under the Buckeye sky.
Her legacy lives on, in tales and in song,
A woman of courage, undaunted and strong.
In the heart of Ohio, 'neath the wide Buckeye sky,
Lives the spirit of Oakley, forever to fly.
January 29, 2024
Created by
MarkWaldrop
The Old Dive-In brings back fond memories of yesterday
Sitting in a warm car a great place to make hay.
Concessions just a short step away
Hot popcorn cheeseburgers little to pay
A night out of the house spelled freedom for us
The big named stars on the big screen were a must
The fond memories of yesteryear bring joy, sometimes a tear
Thank God our memories last throughout the years
January 28, 2024
MarkWaldrop
I faintly remember the distant past.
Smells of the dusty road, the creek, and newly mown grass.
Smells didn't matter much when I was a kid
Too engaged with other things, Heaven forbid
We were poor as church mice. We had no shoes.
We were happy as could be just singing the blues.
In the one-room school, we sang in harmony.
Miss Marie, the School Marm taught us our A B C’s
After school, boys swam in the creek.
I learned many lessons most I can't repeat.
The good old days were better then.
It seems I have trouble remembering them.
January 25, 2024
MarkWaldrop
