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Stanwood, WA • All Posts

The fog was thicker than a stray dog with fleas.
We were leaving a Mission Bay Bar, if you please,
But the fog was so thick you could probably seize
Big hunks of it that clung to our car
Like tufts of cotton candy you see at the fair.
We had to drive with the door open so we could see
The yellow line on the street, below our knees.
This was in the 50's, on our way back to base.
Driving slowly was all we could do,
So it was a very slow pace.
There were no street lights, like there are today
Just the pitch black of night fog, as we went our way.

Your avatar
Loy • 02/05/2019 at 09:04PM • Like 1

I like this one a lot.

I see you. Do you see me?
Or am I cloaked, with invisibility?
As we sit at the table and await thee,
But with no recognition, you must not see
That we came in here, for a small bite.
So please understand; don't be contrite,
A simple hello or I'll be right there
Is all that I need that you are aware
Of our presence is now understood,
So we can order some items of food.

This seems to be more prevalent in some establishments.

No one will tell you, I do suppose
They know where the Red Fern grows.
High in the mountains, into the dale,
Following the path of an unmarked trail.
Down through the valley, into the glade,
It's a dangerous journey that you have made.
Past the shadows, down by the spring,
What's seen next, is a beautiful thing.
Moss covered rocks; downed logs in repose,
This is where the Red Fern grows.
Magical indeed is the sight of the scene,
Where the love of another, does not demean
What should be years, months, days and hours
Of caring for others, in this World of ours.
This wonderous place of beauty, I propose,
That all see where the Red Fern Grows.

Inspired by the Novel, Where the Red Fern Grows
By Wilson Rawls, 1961

I hear an echo of words from the past.
I'm writing them down; as they come too fast.
Down to the paper where they stick like glue.
Some are good but they number a few.
Words can be like chaff in the hay,
Some last forever, some gone on this day.
The echo of words, I hear in a song,
Brings back the voice of my Father
Who for many years has been gone.
Words that are not laced with fear
But old words that I hold most dear.

I have been here for quite awhile
And I always did, like to smile,
Seeing all the grey squirrels at play.
I would feed them every day,
Unsalted peanuts, in the shell,
Not realizing the landscaping hell,
That awaited me on the ground.

Discarded peanut shells did abound,
All over the garden and planting space.
The very puzzled look on my face,
When finding what I had begot,
As peanut shells aren't inclined to rot.
I still wanted some peanuts to feed,
So I pulled nuts from the bird seed.
They were in the garage in a bag,
And I passed by noticing a sag.
I knew that something was nigh,
The hole in the bag, had caught my eye.
I fixed that problem by buying a bin
Of plastic, to keep the bird food in.
It wasn't too long, for notice I did,
That a squirrel had chewed on the lid.
Clever creatures they are, my thought to begin
So I purchased a small container, made of tin.
I no longer provide nuts, you see
And the squirrels no longer visit with me.

After the great World War, WW II
My Dad bought a tavern
On 45th Ave, close to the U.
The name I recall, from the past
Was the Looking Glass.
A small little place
For as you walked in the door,
The bar was on the left
And booths on the right.
It wasn't unusual
For the Veterans to fight.
I would go with my Dad
After church, on Sunday morn
And sit at the bar
As Dad worked. I drank a coke
And could smell the sour spilled beer.
Vivid memories, do my mind clog,
I ate a pickled Polish Dog.
Years have passed
And the Tavern is still there,
With a different name.
Stopped in one time on our way
From a Soccer match at Lower Woodland.
Same place, Walk in the door
Bar on the left and booths on the right.
Had a small beer, but skipped the dog
A great memory for that night.

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