Magazine Posts

My feet slide through the dry needles,
Lying on the forest floor.
My destination is a pond or lake,
Just that, nothing more.
I search the trees, that lie ahead
And I see a eagle, soar.
The love I have for this great land,
Is all our land and much more.
Protect this land from those abusers
Or the land will be gone forever more.

Many years ago, my friend, Ed and I
Decided to run the Moss Bay, 10K or try.
We thought we were in good shape and more,
So we ran the Pt Defiance, 10 K the day before.
The next day, Sunday morn, as I recall,
Ed said, "Let's get to the front of all."
You don't do that, as you go by the pace,
That you will be able to run the whole race.
We did get in the front, cool as ice.
The gun went off and we ran for our life.
It wasn't our best run as you see,
But on the front page of the paper, was Ed and me.

Why would a sane man, that was alive
Run marathons, at the age of fifty-five?
A glutton for punishment, in a relapse,
For training run after run of many laps.
The first run was Vancouver, Canada, in early May
Second, the Seattle Goodwill Game, July, I say.
The heat was oppressive, on this long run,
As there was little shade but lots of Sun.
Next was Portland, a most lovely event,
With a lot of people and music in a tent.
We finished in Portland, at a good pace,
And relaxed and unwound after the race.
My last race was the Seattle Marathon.
Starting at Marymoor Park, up the
Burke-Gilman trail.
It was cold and rainy, but I did prevail,
As we finished at Gasworks Park.
It was quite a run, not a lark.
As a note to all who have read this funk,
It was the same day the floating bridge sunk.

I think of you and I pretend
That we are friends, once again.
You know me as I know you.
Our friendship grew as did you.
We drifted apart, I don't know why
But I am willing, to once again try
To be that friend, you want me to be.
An arms length friend, is what I see.

Outside Moscow, Idaho,
By Clarkia and Elk River,
The forest majesty, is in view.
Under the tall canopy of trees,
Are massive Fern Glades.
The view is not cluttered with
Brush and you can plainly
See the grandeur of these
Trees, quiet serenity
Is what I felt. A religious moment.

Wind and rain
Blowing sideways
I'm wet

There is a kindness, I see in thee,
Your reaction, when a young child you see.
You will stop and compliment, to the Mother,
About the cuteness of the outfit or another.
Nice words, that becomes this legacy,
Of the love you have, doing this part
Defines to me, your beautiful heart,

My Mother told me; young was I
To be respectful of others and to try
Being polite, when spoken to,
And when leaving, say adieu.
Open the doors for others,
Especially women or expecting Mothers.
Give up my seat, when on a bus,
To any female and not to cuss.
Walk on the outside of the walk
And to be sure and listen, not to talk.
Thank you, Mom for what you taught me.
I learned a fine lesson, thanks to thee.

Some sharped toed boots
And brand new pants.
A clean white shirt,
A high school dance,
A teenage boy's.
His first romance.

When you are ill
And care no more,
For that sound
Of a closing door.
Many friends, are gone
Not here, anymore.
Our children now,
Do ask and implore,
To reduce the amount
Of earthly goods,
As we prepare to
Downsize, where we live.
The chores that
I did with ease,
Are harder now
And hurt my knees.

Keep back the night.
Hang on to the light.
Mar not my sight,
Seeing this day's delight.

Sometimes I feel that life's a game
And we are but actors, on this stage.
The roles we play, were not ours to choose,
So some will win and others will lose.
Is that what life is all about?
Do we go silently or with a shout?