We were young and a pair of fools,
Who played hard, when we could,
Breaking all the known rules.
Frank was my close friend.
He became my best man.
We would go out to drink beer,
From bottles, not from a can.
Frank had a 47 Ford, Turtleback
And mine was a 47 Plymouth Coupe.
We would cruise through the 'Burg,
Around the block, doing a big loop.
We liked the noise of the cars
And would exchange our mufflers
With Smittys, glaspaks and
Were nice sounding with Echo cans.
We would cruise the town, like LeMans.
Noise from the Smittys were not crass
And when we cruised by the stores,
We could rattle the window glass.
Those were the days; no more to see
For most of my friends
Are now sweet history.

A gentle breeze blows across my brow
as I dig holes for fall plantings.
The problem, I have, with
planting European Bluebells,
is the many roots that grow,
beneath the tree. Not big,
just small roots that must be cut.
Instructions are to plant under a tree
and they will multiply.
I'm anxious to see the results
next Spring.

Sometimes when I'm writing,
I would swear, my mind
Has thoughts of it's own.

With pen in hand, I write
The words that pop into
This brain of mine.
Writing fast, scribbling here,
Unable to read the words
As they fly by, as I attempt to
Write. Oh my goodness
There is no period in sight
To end all this rambling
Prose. There. Finally one
Did appear, but what happened
To the commas?
Did they disappear?
I wish I knew, for it would
Make it clear, that my
Writing sense is not here.

Some sunny days,
Some cooler nights.
Down came the rain
To my delight.
No watering needed by me
To keep the plants
And grass so greenly,
Except the plants
Under the umbrellas.