Douglas E. Frame

Roaring brook, what’s your name?

Is it “babbling”, or “gushing”

caught between a rock and a hard place

yet never forgetting its place, moving downhill?

In the morning a scrambling knave, forever starts and stops

rambling through the days, as a ne’er do well.

Lost in a quandary, perplexed by a puzzle

Finding something lost, but never returned

And a babe in the night crying, held close