Magazine Posts

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.

The time draws close these days I'm alive
for in a few days I will be eighty-five.
An age I never thought I would see
with my youthful display of debauchery.
Chasing women, drinking wine in cars,
spending many hours, drinking in bars.
But in my defense, I started to run
and realized, in running, I was still having fun.
More fun than anything, that I did before,
except playing soccer when a header I did score.

The scurrying of paws
across the floor,
meant that I wasn't alone,
not anymore.
Creatures with claws, gathered
to leap,
so I rose unsteadily
to my aged, old feet.
Turning around, I had a glance
seeing my two grand dogs
starting to prance.
Glad to see me, at least on that day
and they came up to me
as if to say, " we miss you grandpa"
please throw the ball today.

Oh my God, I think I see,
Dementia will be the death of me.
Not because I'm infected so,
But it has attacked someone I know

I hear the sound
I know so well.
It is the sound
of a lonely bell.
A knell heard on this night
drives from my soul the fright
for here alone am I.
If I were to say
"please stay with me,
don't go away?"
Would you have a choice?

The petals of the flowers that bloom,
are soon gone to make more room
for the bud that grows on the stem,
that I pray, will soon bloom again.

Past adventures, as they are
Racing the Moon
in that very old car.
Oh what a life
we had then.
I miss you so,
My old friend.

Well here we are
alone at last.
Time to discuss
all of our past.

Going down a trail,
when I was young.
A trial of mud slick
ruts, on which to run
astride a Honda Trail 55.
No helmet required
for the ride. Wet clay
and mud on that day,
a good thing to stay away.
When tires are narrow
they'll slip and slide
which provides a
sloppy, scary ride.
Down the hill, did I go,
slipping and sliding,
oh what a show.
Safe at last at the
muddy bottom
on this fine day
one early Idaho Autumn.

I'm thinking back to my
Navy days.
The memories are to still
there to amaze.
I was the Mail P.O. on
this small ship.
A Postal Clerk who
distributed the mail,
from my small pantry
sized jail.
I would sell money orders
on Pay Days, to those
who wanted to save.
When in Port, my duty
was to go to the FPO
or Fleet Post Office
to deliver/pick up
the US Mail.
When we were at sea,
there wasn't any activity.
On occasion, my Superior,
an Ensign, as I recall,
would tell me we were
going to make a Guard
Mail Run. Guard Mail
consisted of Confidential
or Secret information,
that was used for
upcoming fleet operations,
or our ship movement.
When this occurred, I would
strap on my Colt, Model 1911,
45 caliber, automatic and
follow 5 paces behind the Ensign.
I was there for protections. Problem
was there was not any ammo in my clip.
If something was to happen, I suppose
I would throw my gun at the attacker.
No such event occurred, but those
were very different times.

Away all boats, that was the call.
Away all boats to the far Atoll.
This wasn't a war but that command,
was in my mind when approaching glistening sand.
Our ship was anchored in a Tropical Lagoon
and Liberty Call would be announced soon.
Liberty for us, on this Tropical Isle,
would be to walk about, for a long while;
to observe and to help where we could
and to make sure that we understood,
that those we met were simple but good.
A brief glimpse, from my aged mind,
of an adventure, that will often remind
the differences, we can now see,
between the Races, more different than we.

What thought are these?
They are not mine,
For the pain I feel
is well entwined.
Go from me, you Spirit dark.
Run away, it's time to part.

The thoughts, now in my brain
are not mine, not the same.
Stay out of my head you must.
Leave me now; turn me to dust.