Magazine Posts

I feel lost and alone,
when around you.
I ask myself what
I can do,
to make your life better.

East of Ellensburg in Kittitas County
Is an irrigation facility; The Whipple
Creek Pumping Plant exists
To pump water up the hill
As part of theCounty's Irrigation District's
Management of the Highline canal,
Which begins in Lake Easton,
As I recall and is one of the main sources
Of water to irrigate the County farmland.
My grandfather, on my mother's side,
Managed that facility. When I was young
My two cousins and I would spend
Summers there. We could play,
Go fishing or swim below the pumping
Plant. Inside the Plant were huge
Pumps, that propelled the water, up the
Hillside, through huge pipes. It was quite
The project, in it's time.
Our grandfather would also, ride the ditch
Banks for inspection and remove animals
That fell in. I remember, on one trip,
My grandfather pointed out some
Pronghorn Antelope in the Sage brush,
Distance. This was back in the late 40's.
The land East of the Pumping Plant
Is now fenced off and his part of the
Yakima Firing Center.
My cousins and I would go hiking
There before the fence was erected.
We looked for petrified wood fragments.
On several occasions we would find small
logs or branches, 12 inches long. We would
retrieve and take them back to the main house.
The logs may still be there. I hope they are.

In years past, I travelled for work.
At that time in life, it was a small chore,
To leave home Monday morning and go afore.
Sometime by plane, but mostly by car.
Being the newest to the job, I got the oldest car.
It ran OK but leaked oil and smoked a bit.
When at a light, it was a sobering scene.
The smoke all around, the color of cream.
Smells from the engine would run amok.
You could smell me coming for almost a block.
I talked to my boss on many a day.
He told me to park on the lawn and I would
Not have any crab grass. A joker he was.
Complaining a little, was all I could do.
Then I received news of a car that was new.
Drove to Seattle, as quick as I could,
And a new Chevy Bel Air, I quite understood.
Those were the days of good cheer
And good friends. Of small happenings
As the love did long endear.

A tiny creature, lives in that house,
Scurrying about, exploring; the tiny mouse.
An unusual creature, so little, so small,
Kind of short; certainly not tall.
Roaming about on his tiny little feet,
Searching, searching for something to eat.
Looking in cracks down on the floor,
At last he arrives at the Pantry door.
Finding food particles, he ate and ate
Until his tummy, he finally did sate.

I am a simple man
with a complexed mind.
I write these words
to enable me
to cope with life's
reality and to deal
with this emotion,
deep inside, that
is worried by the
slow decline of
someone close to me,
who no longer
can use reason
or logic, to think.
I love this elderly
child, I see
is now a dependent
on our family and me.

For once in a lifetime
Of memory filled days.
There comes a moment,
Emerging from the haze,
Of all the stored visions
And in many ways,
Will always be there
Until the end of life's phase.

Here I am, a Native Son,
Resisting the invasion that has begun.
I am small and shades of brown.
Now there are some Greys in town.
I run along the fence, so quickly,
Much faster than in a tree.
My name is Walter Earle,
I am a Native Washington Squirrel,
Not a Chipmunk, I must say
But a Native Squirrel, every day.
The invasion came, years ago.
Not sure how, but they did show.
Grey Squirrels, coming from the East,
Eating our food; it was a feast.
I fight very hard for specie survival
Against the Grey, my arch rival.
Who will win, that's hard to say,
But I know that I'm here to stay.

Want not. Don't you worry
Slow you down,
What's the hurry?

Old Clown
Promises he won't keep
Lie he must.

Where are you now, my mysterious child.
We met years ago, when we were wild.
In an age when long hair was offensive,
While the romance at times was pensive.
Do you remember the longest hair,
Bell bottom pants, tie dyed shirts to wear?
Those times of so called "Free Love"
With alcohol infused thoughts not from above,
Determined our views between right or wrong,
Many of our words became a protest song.

My mind is going
I've lost command.
My feet not moving.
Stuck in the sand.

Sand all around,
Creeping in on me.
I must run
But cannot flee.

A riddle you say?
That might be the case.
All that I know is,
I must leave this place.

Here I sit, not looking pretty
Trying to write words for this ditty.
Must I awake, during these early
Morning hours, 3:30 AM, thoughts are swirly.
I need to return to my bed
Letting the pillow cover my head.
So off I go, as quickly, you see
Into the bed that is calling me.