Magazine Posts

The Moon hides behind the cloudy wisps
As it plays out it's Solar game.
Air is chilled, as a Northern wind
Places frost on window sill and pane.
The false Spring encouraged plants to grow.
This cold snap, a test of will,
Should soon be over, so warming Sun,
Heats the ground, creating many colors.
My inner feelings tell me to till
The soil; sow the seed and plant
The Primroses to brighten the drab garden,
Until the perennials are in bloom again.

Long years ago, with days no more,
Became our history and "days of yore".
Tales we could tell of our adventure,
Would more likely, be one of censure.
These stories could stand on their own
And probably never be told at home,
For life, which can be a mess,
Can also be one of happiness.
That my friend is up to thee
And your choice is for eternity.

I was young. It was Spring.
The Seattle Times, did this thing
That challenged youths pitching skill.
A wooden frame, of rectangular shape,
With a middle cut out, or "strike zone."
The object, was to throw strikes,
Until you threw four balls.
The contest winner, was the one
Who threw the most strikes,
Before they did finally succumb
With four balls or a walk you see,
And it was fortunately me.
A big event in the eyes of mine
A picture of me throwing strikes
In the Sports section, Seattle Times.
A great memory for me to share
About a success, where they weren't aware.

Do the words, I write, touch you?
If they don't, it's OK, to turn away
From this page and plan to renew
Your own vows to live another day.

Life is like a leaky boat,
With a goal to keep afloat.

Where do I go,
What can I do,
With all the love,
I have for you?

Have you ever been on a Snipe hunt?
If yes, you know the elaborate drill
Of going out at night and the thrill
Of the stalking of the elusive Snipe.
In early evening, while still light,
You would go out, with your flashlight
And a burlap bag, called a "gunny sack",
Out in the field, quiet as you can,
This little ritual that will make you a man.
Open the sack, prop it up with a stick,
Very clever and a real neat trick.
Place the flashlight in the back of the bag.
Be very quiet and wait for the bird.
They're attracted to light and will go inside.
Be patient, it won't be long and you'll see,
The Snipe approaching quite cautiously.
After waiting a half hour or more,
You go back to the house and
Hear the laughter roar.
You have been "snookered" it was a hoax
But for you it was an adult joke.
Could you get me a left handed monkey wrench?

Of all the jobs, that had no fuss,
Was when I drove a yellow school bus.
It was a Superior body on a Kenworth frame.
A rear engine, seventy six passenger, it came,
With the drivers seat, at the front end.
When I turned a corner, I did extend
Out to the other side of the street
And that, in itself was an exiting feat.
Our job, was to pick up all the kids
And take to the schools , which we did.
Afternoons, we would go to each school,
Taking them all home, that was the rule.
Dropping off the kids at homes, far and near,
When I looked up into the big mirror,
I saw this small head, above the seat,
So I went back to the Barn, to repeat
My story to my boss and he did say.
We need to take him home, right away.
It was his first day, going to school,
Missed his stop and I broke the rule.

I found a support group, you see,
I thought it might be good for me.
Boy was I wrong, it was much worse.
For me, it brought out all the misery
Of loss that Caregivers, face every day.
I know, I felt so lucky to be
With my wife who has many issues
Of losing most of her memory,
Not one who yells or swears at me
But the gentle soul, who still loves me.

Alive I have been, for many a year.
The waking up part is not a fear.
Some aching, creaking parts of body mine
Have started and continue the aging decline.

Here I go,writing now,
so I can go to sleep.
If I don't, I'll nod off,
shortly after, I do eat.
What a waste, I say to you,
that are all complicit in,
no matter who your are.
Don't tell me your history,
about Bush, Clinton or Obama.
Your hate filled words
are just a poor reflection
about your hate of others
not like you.

Can I write without doing a rhyme?
Or is it my burden to carry on?
Writing for me, frees up my soul
And allows the expression of my joy
Or sorrow, of what happens in life.
A freedom to write, of what I'm thinking.
I need not publish, my thoughts to you,
But I can if I wish or if I want
To let you know, how my mind works.
At least those are thoughts in my head,
For this very moment and at this time.