Magazine Posts

Thinking back to days to days gone by
And of those that I knew then.
Many were friends, some were not.
To reflect on this present day,
Of the friends that have gone away.
Away from life and all it's challenge.
Who am I, to stay here so long?
When many of our close friends are gone?

A right of passage, it was then
To get up early, don your gear,
Get in the car, for dawn is near.
The first day of stream fishing, this year.
We went up the Menashtash Creek, I recall
The water gurgling on rock and stone.
It was quiet, for we were alone.
The ice had formed on the stream edge,
Best fishing then, the first of the season,
No worms or lures, no given reason.
Bait up the hook, cast in the pool,
That was the method and it was cool,
For you as a boy, whose passion to fish,
Was the great fulfillment of his only wish.
Limited out, on this opening day,
Fresh trout on the menu, in early May.

The veneer of my patience,
Has been wearing thin.
My shortness, is at the point,
Where it soon may begin.
I don't want that as it wouldn't please
As I know it's not her, it's the disease.

What do you say?
What do you do?
What happens on the day,
Time is up for you?

The life that we had, once before,
That diagnosis of Early Onset Dementia,
Has changed the way we must deal
With emotions of anger and how we feel.

The fear of dying, I understand.
The fear of living, I cannot.
Face your worries, day by day,
For it will come, when it's ready.
Live your life, the best that you can,
As there are others, worse off than you.
Feel blessed for what you have.
Worry not about what to do.
Just keep at it until you're through.

I am always amazed at what I see
The hidden strength, inside of thee.
The joy we have, in this life a kilter,
Is spiced up, as you have not a filter.
You speak your mind, there is no doubt
And you do it softly, not with a shout.

A flower is just a simple word
For a beautiful display of vivid color.
Colors that enrich our live, so short
A time here on Earth. Then it's gone.

It happened so many years ago,
And from the corners of my rusty mind,
A thought appears of a remembrance.
It may be just a small string,
That if I tug, pull or peel
Back the layers of ancient dust,
Will reveal the event and then
The memory will ebb and is gone again.

Sunny Day
Daffodils are gone
Tulips aren't

Curiosity, can be your friend.
Ask the questions; again and again,
Until the truth comes to the fore,
Then ask again, for answers more.

Patience, you are my friend.
Without patience, I would amend
My ability to stay in control
And not respond, at least not to all.
For trying my patience; what I see,
You know not what you do to me.