Magazine Posts

I remember, when I was a young boy.
We had moved to Seattle, during the
"big war" or WWII. My father, God rest
his soul, had taken a job as an electrician,
at Todd's Shipyard, where they were
building, Destroyers (DD's).
I saw the launch of one ship. Don't
recall the name, but the launch was memorable.

After the War, we moved, from the housing
project, at High Point, in West Seattle.
Dad bought a trailer park, just off of Hiway 99.
I went to Showalter. He also built and opened,
an electrical repair/retail store, on 99.

I remember how much I liked to fish. Going by
myself, fishing this stream, rolling down the
hill to green meadows, then into the Duwamish.
The green was the former, Golden Arrow Dairy, which
today has become, South Center Mall.

Of all the things,
in this Worldwide,
the most precious are,
when you are by my side.

When the high, winter winds,
brush the treetops, high,
takes me back, as a boy,
when I wanted to fly.

Flying, did happen,
but not on my own,
as I stopped taking lessons,
when we bought our home.

It is cold,
and dreary.
Why then are
my eyes teary?

Away you go.
away from here.
Stay you loose,
have a beer.

People I know,
are unlike me,
they are patient
and think free.

I was born,
a simple man,
with simple tastes,
living a simple plan.

I have learned,
through years, many,
the finer things,
in life, are plenty.

Do you understand,
as I try to say,
I'll love you always,
until I have gone away.

Dodging bullets,
yes, it's what I did,
my luck is all gone,
tested positive for Covid.

You said you would go with me,
I know I would try.
For all of your promises
your statement was a lie.

Your words, were appealing,
your charm did amaze.
You swayed my emotions.
What was the phrase?

I'll always love you,
as you said it to me,
It's what I will do,
but you left when I went to sea.

Blue eyes or Hazel,
it remains to be seen,
if it is ok to be happy,
if they aren't green?

What kind of theory,
what type of dread,
compels me to write,
about words in my head?

I wish I could tell you
but I'm unclear to say,
do I write this dribble,
before I go away?

It's 430 am,
why am I here.
I need to sleep,
as dawning is near.

A hodge-podge of words,
spill from my head,
down my arm to paper,
so they can be read.

These words, now
precious to me,
will help me explain,
what I would like to be.

I hear music, not
a song or a hymn,
but more of a classical,
more like a whim.

A piano concerto,
rings in my head,
telling me to return
to my bed.

What kind of nonsense,
is this I write?
Not words so precious
but words, quite trite.

Eye of Newt,
serpent tail,
and roasted snail,
too churn thy
stomach until
it wails, "Please
let me be."

What kind
of dribble,
are these,
old words,
I write,
bordering
on absurdity.

I stare through
the broken glass,
of a misplaced,
windowpane
wondering how
I arrived in
this place of pain.