A Stroke of Bad Luck
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The elderly Elmer Brown dwelled alone, like a solitary tree on a hill,
Loving quiet, glazed life still, in burgundy, sunset moments of until.
A widower, Elmer Brown had generations of offspring, living far away,
Feeling fresh, foreign breezes, in fruitful terrains, younger than today.
Though retired, Elmer had his hobbies, which gave much satisfaction;
Like a storm of sudden, scathing terror, afore a red hot sun reaction.
Elmer's friends told tales, of truth and fiction; like dream chronicles.
They found time for pool and sports, and arguing over news articles.
Fumed flower fields of fantasy, aflame in red, greeted family calling;
For the first time since last seen, like a suddenly perceived longing.
Elmer lived in the house of glad leisure, like yellow sunshine siestas;
Or the lazy clouds of slow motion, heading for the dusky, red deltas.
Orange or green sailboats could be seen, from his street like confetti,
With colors from somewhere, everywhere about, looking very pretty.
Noisemakers hit a happy note, with neighbors on the Fourth of July,
Who nibbled on many niceties, unaware of instant time, twinkling by.
'Crimson star' flowers glittered red, as wild strawberry days on Mars,
And 'stars and stripes' blooms swore allegiance, despite stormy scars.
'Twitter' scent was left on social media, like a giddy deja vu encounter,
When 'red rim' plants lived life on the edge, like peril's only daughter.
Elmer indulged his hobby of cabinetry, on a stormy evening like today.
He firmly attached it to his wall; then only had to get the pulls to stay.
But, he bent to retrieve his dropped tool, then carelessly stood rapidly;
And banged his head on the new cabinet. The work ended unhappily!
He'd had his supper, so he was soon to bed, while silvery rain deluged;
And Elmer snored like a foghorn, until sunlit, rosy dawn's pastel hues.
Still sore that summer morning, Elmer took a day off from everything,
Except for needed rest and reading, as life, like colors, is ever varying!
How Elmer's tale got told is still mystery, like so many nursery rhymes;
Still loved by generations of children, lending wonder to modern times!
'It's raining, it's pouring.
The old man is snoring.
He bumped his head and went to bed
And he couldn't get up in the morning.
It's raining, it's pouring.
The old man is snoring.
He bumped his head and went to bed
And he couldn't get up in the morning.'
Copyright © Evelyn Judy Buehler | Year Posted 2025
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