The seasons indeed aren't behaving,
and, so, I'll attack with fresh raving.
Dear Winter, be warm,
yet silence each storm
that makes not much daylight worth saving!

Good limerick, Kevin!
Your friend,
David Fox

The seasons are off of their kilter
(Try straining fresh hail through your filter)
With Valentine's Day
Through the heat on its way
Tornadoes can freshen your philtre

As Nature stays tricky to handle,
so must be the children we dandle.
We bounce lives around,
yet, though safe and sound,
worlds treat us like parts of some candle.

To manage a tan in the sun
The cloud sheets must be undone
But here they stay drawn
So we are forlorn
And we all miss out on that fun.

All modicums now should assemble
whichever new bits bid worlds tremble.
Each woman and man
might manage a tan
as good as are strengths that dissemble.

Perplexing the various lights
had given the sky days and nights.
Confusing all reason
had lent each new season
a chance to obtain bigger bites.

Fine beef must be mighty good meat,
though leg of nabbed thief might compete.
When fish is in question,
the fact of digestion
says much for fresh squid full of heat.

The best recipes involve beef
Or perhaps the hind leg of a thief
It isn't the matching
What counts is the catching
Or fishing near yon coral reef

One usual recipe for
delight is warm tea on the floor.
Such tea is a stainer
that, put through a strainer,
may foster fine truths by the score.

I'm sad that I mentioned that fact
that brings on an oversized act.
I, too, tend to suffer
from being a huffer
some food seems to strip of fine tact.

Don't mention those bad words 'ice creams'
That substance is part of my dreams
For if I could truck it
I'd eat a whole bucket
And find my clothes bursting at seams.

To me, past and future are dreams,
and now is a ghost that just seems.
We act in large fashions
persistence quite rations
as if to fake better ice creams.

The past may be written in lead
(Much more solid than stone, so they've said)
Radioactive remarks
Can quell all the quarks
For the future? It's time to be fed!

Our past if we wanted to change it
Would we know how to arrange it
I feel fairly sure
We'd do same as before
Or find ourselves down in a strange pit.

Our attitudes help us outlast
each sorrow's desire to cling fast.
Mere limerick rhyming
may bring on the timing
that lets us reshape all the past.

Things are nearer than mirrors re-view
And catastrophes come in a few
Bands of some brothers
And uncles and others
But I slay all my "probs" in a slew!

Along the dry path an old tire
kept shouting that humans are dire.
Some people were nearer
than how the next mirror
might slowly insist all admire.

I'll cultivate cheerfulness now,
although I may seldom shout "Wow!"
Since natural being
could seem downright freeing,
I really should strive to endow.

A smile on one's face can be wondrous
Attacking all grief with a blunderbuss
Large caliber shot
Reduce sorrow to naught
And it's better to smile than to cuss

I'm guilty of staying too sad,
as if utter death were my fad.
The facts of all matters
may really be platters
quite heaping with nothing too bad.

Slings and arrows against grief are best
Even maces and spears past the test
Please cease with this tear-up
I beg you please cheer up!
(I shall now give "Dear Abby" a rest)

A very good weapon is grief,
which often results in cold beef.
An ultimate sorrow
occurs when we borrow
the knowledge that breathings are brief.

A machete is better than razor
Since I'm lacking access to a laser
But best for my rambles
Through Platonic brambles?
My brand-new tip-top Occam's taser!

There once was a fiddler named "Nero"
quite fond of a sandwich named "Hero."
To round this tale out,
I'll speak of my doubt
when goslings appear and shout "ZERO!"