Magazine Posts

Into the night of infamy,
depriving the citizens of liberty,
under the guise of "I know best",
he's trampled on the Constitution
and the laws of human kindness.
Not handling the Virus, I must confess,
the loss of life of 180,000, today
due to his negligence, won't go away.
I know it hurts and you do too,
for in November, please vote Blue.

There is a can.
There is a jar.
There is no time.
There is no car.
We will now leave
For we must bereave,
The loss of life of
A long time friend.
The word, an amend
For a life cut short,
One more time; again
As we honor him
For a life led.
I know this day,
lies in quiet dread,
The finality of life.
He died so alone,
Without a wife.

I sometimes wish, I had been born blond.
Wait; I was that color when I was young.
The hair I have, is now quite grey,
It could be white, some people say.
I love my hair but it is so fine,
It floats in my face, time after time.

Has this life made you a grump,
due to the rhetoric of one, Donald Trump?
I hate saying this about this clown,
for this coming election, he must go down.
If you continue support, like many do,
I hope all will vote for Blue.

It will soon be the Fall season,
for testing the last bastion of reason.
Here is what we must do;
Get out the vote, please vote Blue.

A Mind can be a terrible thing
for the wildest thoughts it can bring.
Do you agree? Can you not see
when sometimes it gets the best of me?

After the Big War, WW II, my Father
purchased a trailer park on 140th,
in Riverton Heights and thus
My friends and I would ride our bikes,
to Angle Lake, where we could swim.
Going south on Highway Route 99
to swim, is a great memory of mine.
There wasn't a Sea-Tac Airport then,
so on our bikes, we would go,
to swim. A beautiful area I recall
with water cold and sand warm.
A lifeguard, kept all of us safe.
I loved this place. Those were the days.

What will happen to you and I
if life gets worse; and we don't try
to change the course of our History
by returning to a life of love and civility?

I hold the pen in my hand,
wondering where or when I became
a writer of verse or prose for me.
My Paternal Grandmother wrote poems and verse,
when she worked nights in a train depot.
She was a Station Agent for the N. P.
The N. P. or Northern Pacific Railroad was
where she was a Telegrapher, of renown;
It was so in our home town.
A Telegrapher of the "key",
the clickety clack was heard
as Grandma spelled out another word.
Short and sweet she was to me.
My love of writing came from she.
Thank you Grandma. Thanks to you
for guiding me through the work I do.

Do you tire
of these verses mine?
When I may praise
and sometimes whine.
My thoughts messy,
as they can be,
for I write for you
and that helps me.

Can you be in love with another,
And another and another, not your Mother?
Does this make you, "Fickle" or to be,
Just a lost Soul, in our humanity?

A time for now
A time for then.
I'll tell you how,
Just don't pretend
To know nothing about
Crazy Donald with rants,
Raves and lies he shouts.
He cares not, but he pants
With insults while he pouts.
Grow up, you spoiled Brat.
Your not a King
And that is that.