The Mourning Dove
by Helen George

Of all the birds who swarm high above,
the little gray-brown mourning dove
makes the sweetest sound of them all -
everything stops when I hear the call,
my ears perk up as I wait to hear more
of this simple tune that I now listen for.

I'm enthralled when I hear the first note,
trilled sweetly on the air it seems to float,
a soft coo issues forth - calm and serene,
a long drawn-out woo-oo-ooo it does keen,
everything pauses, there's a hush all around,
and I'm mesmerized by this lovely sound.

Life At Its Fullest Is A Bit Risque
by Helen George

Donegal's Bar on the corner of West
Was holdin' its first wet t-shirt contest,
The ladies pranced with a great deal of zest,
Amid hoots and hollers and jokes and jest,
But one little gal stood out from the rest,
Tilly T. Titmouse won out as the best.

Drainin' their pints they called out for one more,
Stomped and yelled and caused a ruckus galore,
A fight broke out, there was much blood and gore,
There were ugly stains on the clothes they wore,
Then, through the din, Mike the bartender roared,
"Knock it off or you'll be seein' the door."

So they nursed their troubles and drank their fill,
Bidin' their time afore payin' their bill,
Then took themselves off to homes on the hill,
Where they slept awhile, and yet they could still,
No matter how drunk, be awake at will,
To spend another long day at the mill.

Thus, life in this village was spent each day,
Whether good times or bad times came their way,
Life wasn't easy, and yet, come what may,
They were happy in their homes by the bay,
If you asked them why, they would smile and say,
"Life at its fullest is a bit risque."

Indian Heritage
by Helen George

Out on the plains my horse and I roam,
Where the teepee once was considered a home,
Where the great herds of buffalo were given chase,
Where the Cheyenne were once a mighty race.

We stop for a moment while I reminisce,
About tales that were told of vistas such as this,
About a lifetime before the white man came,
About honor and pride, a life without shame.

But the white man did come to our land,
Bringing havoc, letting things get out of hand,
Bringing greed, taking over, running us out,
Bringing damnation as they forged their route.

I bring out my flute and begin to play,
A sad, mournful tune that suits this sad day,
A melancholy salute to the spirits that bide,
A fitting tribute to a great nation's pride.

My Swans
by Helen George

My home is on the banks of a little creek,
Gazing along the edge I spot an orange beak,
Then this snowy white swan suddenly appears,
With seven little cygnets bringing up the rear.

As they float along, they bring a smile to my face,
The pen crooks her neck with such elegant grace,
She fluffs her great wings while dipping her head,
Searching out food while she silently treads.

Late afternoon brings the return of the cob,
Their beaks touch gently as on the water they bob,
They've mated for life and will nurture their brood,
Keep an eye out for predators lest they intrude.

They came last winter and decided to stay,
And the little ones arrived at the end of May,
I watch them in wonder, such a joyful sight,
Willing them to remain and not to take flight.

The Gray Wolf
by Helen George

The gray wolf is a sight you don't often behold,
He roams the wilderness, living wild and bold,
As an alpha male, he will dominate the pack,
Keep them always moving, following the tracks.

A magnificent specimen of the canine breed,
His long haired coat, which is splendid indeed,
May bear the markings of a Shepherd within,
While his face resembles his Malamute kin.

He mates for life and reproduces each spring,
The pups stay close, to their mother they cling,
Late in the summer they emerge from the den,
The pack is protective, their lives they defend.

A predator, the gray wolf's extinction seemed near,
But people intervened and over a course of years
A promising comeback was made - for today,
He's a wild creature whose freedom holds sway.