Magazine Posts

The water swirls and gushes
Over rock and stone.
I stand on the bank
But I'm not alone.
There are trees of Pine
And some Bramble bush,
While the water moves
Quickly, with melodic rush.
I stand there, fly rod in hand
Making cast after cast,
Seeing where the fly will land
In the right spot,
The back of the eddy.
With fingers touching the line,
I await and am ready,
For the tap, from a fish,
That wants this fine morsel.
If it bites, I'll have my wish
And soon be on my way,
With a most delectable fish.

Some yellow Columbine's bloomed into view.
A true color, exotic shape I see
And then another one, with a smaller flower,
Black as night and has the power
To keep me going; looking all around
And discover another Columbine, that does abound

If you encourage me to write,
It will bring new energy to me
And I will provide better writing for thee.
I'm not asking for you to like
But any comment, will help me
Write, more (or less) of what you see.
Is it my Ego, that asks you, of this
Or just one old person you might miss.
Comments will work just fine
I'll read them with a glass of wine.

Many years ago, I was a hunter.
Into the woods we would saunter,
Looking for Elk, on this particular date,
Which was opening season, in Washington State.
Walking quietly, through forest and glen,
This tested our manhood, way back then.
Moving along, I came to a dense thicket,
So heavy with trees, brush, thick like a wicket.
Moving along, as quietly as you please
Sometimes I had to get down on my knees.
Head down and moving quite slow,
I looked up, into the eyes of a Doe.
We were both surprised to see another
And we stopped to stare at each other.
Slowly, quite slowly, the Doe moved away.
She was the only animal I saw on that day.
Another day of not getting any meat
But a memory of encounter, was a treat.

Cascading water, a most peaceful sound.
No crowds of people, hanging around.
Colored blanket, laid on the ground,
A picnic lunch with meat, cheese and thine
Along with a few bottles of wine.
What more could I ask on this day
But to enjoy the moment, in this way.

A midnight meeting; a rendezvous,
A quiet setting, for me and you.
Excitement as blood coursed thru my veins.
The sight of your beauty still remains
Locked in back of this aged mind,
Recalling you. Your exotic way,
To this day, I must now praise,
The friendship, that was ours to choose.
Still remains here, win or lose.

Rain falling
Puddles all around
Wet feet

Did I tell you or just suppose,
That I have my grandfather's nose?
What does that mean, you ask of me?
It just another part of our heredity.
To borrow the looks, face or hair
From others of which I'm not aware.
Truly a marvel, in this day and age,
When as we get older, we become a Sage.

I am fascinated by an old car.
A Model S2000, from Honda you see,
Get's the blood pressure up, for me.
Not too practical for me, to be at
But reminds me when I had my Fiat.
A Fiat Spyder, Model one twenty four,
French Blue in color, four on the floor.
A convertible top with two latches to click.
I could drop the top, sitting in traffic.
A great toy, that I did really enjoy.
The S2000's I see, makes be feel like a boy.

A beautiful flower
Appears. I'm unaware
Of where it came.
Friendly bird?

There are some stories, quite old,
About going prospecting for gold.
I'm sure you have heard them before,
As they are now part of Western Lore.
Searching through forests and bare hillside;
Walking most always but an occasional ride.
Searching and searching in rocks that erode,
Looking for the very elusive, "Mother Lode."
Hearing these tales, while around a fire,
Trying to determine if true or a liar.
No one will tell you, where it is found.
Only one place, deep in the ground.

It was at 5, in the morning hour
When a flash of words, did occur,
As I laid in bed. Four lines did emerge,
Written in my mind; no compelling urge
To arise from my toasty warm bed
And write them down, while in my head.
Alas, they are gone, far away from me
And now lost. No longer my reverie.