There is still one thought, I cannot see.
It pertains to the rhyming of poetry.
No matter the journey; No matter how far,
My task is putting my thoughts into a jar.
A jar that when I remove the lid,
Will emit words of the adventures, I did.
Writing down this most random thought
I am always interested to see what I wrought.
Sometimes these words are just sitting there,
Magically they would appear, out of thin air.

Upon this sacred ground, he did trod
fighting for his only God.
This will keep me here today,
then he kneeled, as if to pray.
Great God in heaven, so far above
please send to her all of my love.

A silver tipped pen.
A page that is blank.
Words soon to come,
To set the stage.
A stage that holds
A lifetimes parade
Of pleasurable moments
And great times of pain.

I was in a restaurant the other day
when some Christmas music started to play.
It was Bing Crosby singing,
"I'll be home for Christmas."
I had a flash back to my years before
when I was alone on Christmas, first time.
I had just turned twenty in
San Diego, a U.S. Navy, enlisted man.
I had gone to dinner, alone
and did find a phone to call
my parents and wish them a Merry Christmas.
We celebrated the event of Christmas Eve
and would open presents, then off to
church for a Midnight Service.
I was alone, lonely and missing my family.
Not old enough, by law, to have
a drink. There was a feeling that
I still recall, when Bing Crosby started
to croon, "I'll be home for Christmas."
When ever I hear that song it takes
me back to that lonely time
in San Diego.