Magazine Posts

I don't wish to write about Politics.
I do want to comment on the dirty tricks.
I know for me, it's been awhile,
But Politics are so juvenile.
When lies are truths, according to them,
My mind coughs to get rid of mental phlegm.
Tell me please, what you will do.
Don't disparage all your opposition,
I only care about your personal opinion.

My mind is swirling, racing about,
Trying to be quiet, with nary a chance.
I have pen in hand, writing the thoughts
That are in my head. I try to write
Them down to paper, fast as can be,
For it is now a quarter past three.
That's in the A. M.
Even early for me.

The impact of this life of ours
Is measured, not in years but in hours.

Who are you?
Why are you here?
Where are we going?
I don't know, but will ask
Questions of this ongoing task,
To find the support, I need for thee
So you are healthy, happy and free.

Navy life was a time for me,
To learn about life and our Country.
On board our ship DE699,
Life was good and it was fine.
A Destroyer Escort, the USS Marsh.
Built in Michigan, 1n 1941, I recall,
Floated down the Mississippi, for launch and all.
The Navy routine, at Sea or in Port,
Was a constant chore to maintain
The appearance of this Ship of ours
And we chipped and painted for hours.
Chip off the paint with a hammer,
Then use a steel brush,
Apply Red Lead, as a primer,
Then cover it all with Battleship Grey,
Put on in a slather.
This was an ongoing task for our Ship
As the pride for our Ship was Hip.
There were other tasks that we did too,
Depending upon specialty rate and you.
I was a Radarman Petty Officer 3
And the resident Postal Clerk for our DE.
Pick up the mail when we weren't at sea;
Selling stamps and money orders on pay day.
My Post Office was a nice little room
And gave me some space, the size of a tomb.
Those days, long gone, sometimes come to me
And I hear the "Sirens Call, Return to the Sea."

Where would you go, what would you do
If the one accountable, was just you?
No responsibilities, no duties to share,
Nobody telling you, what to wear.
A Utopian view, of this World divine,
To relax in the Sun or shade for a few,
Would be a sublime feeling for me,
How about you?

It was in Hawaii
In the Kona Hotel, that
I saw my first, Feral cat.
Long legged, grey with striped fur,
Strutting about; Putting on an air
As it ambled as if it didn't care.
As I sipped on my Mai Tai,
In the evening Sun.
I recall a friend saying,
"Bet you can't drink more than one."
I ordered another, got up from my chair,
Went to the Loo with nary a care.
When I returned, walking wobbly about,
I said to our host, "that Devil Rum
In this Mai Tai, you serve here,
Is clouding my head", I had a fear
That I must start walking away from the scene,
As I anticipate an hangover
That was going to be mean.
I made it to bed early that night
And remember that I didn't sleep tight.
The lesson learned and I do not try
To ever again, drink a Kona Mai Tai.
At least not more than one.

There he was, so wan and pale.
Born with long ears but no tail.
A rail thin, spotted dog was he,
Full of love, simply wanting to be
Your companion, that you'd look
At endlessly, while doing what it took
To offer him shelter and protection,
He would bring love and affection.
Some people laughed at him, being unaware
That he was plain but didn't care.
The love of humans he did choose,
A love that he would never lose.

Do we rush into senility?
Is this life's final humility?
It is nothing, no futility
But will end a life in finality.

I recall when I learned to ski.
Went and bought equipment for me.
Boots, bindings, skis and pole
And sweaters, ski pants, you could see.
I looked the part, of a skier, of course,
But needed lessons to assure me
That I didn't break a leg or hit a tree.
Down the hill I went for a spin
Not realizing the trouble I was in.
Snowplow, she said over and over to me.
A basic move to do on that day,
To slow my descent down the hill.
I tried my best in my own way.
The following weeks, I learned to adore
The snow and the slope, like never before.
Making cutting turns, became a breeze,
When I did the right thing with my knees.
My Son skied with me; remember I can't;
Until I hit a bump and did a head plant.
My days of skiing are now years past,
But the memories hang on and will last,
To the end of my days, please let it be,
While I remember the first day I did ski.

A spirit lies deep within
To help my resolve
As I face each day.
The sorrow I see
When she is awake,
Is more than this
Grown man can handle.
A confused look in her eyes
As she tries to recall
In her mind,
The pills she must take;
The things she must do.
Task that we do from rote
Are not there for her.
She can still shower
And dress herself,
But will sometimes
Ask for my help.
"Something is wrong", she'll say.
I'll respond, "Put on your shoes".
That's not always the case,
But my choices are few,
As some issues are
Clothing related.

I see your refection in the mirror.
You don't see me, as I stare.
A mirror is an object that captures
Images but retains them not.
You look in the mirror; See an image,
Then it's gone. Much like life
Is on these days of remembrance.
Why does the fragile nature of life
Cease to enrapture and keep
All those things we hold dear?