Magazine Posts

My Father would tell me
when I was a boy,
"You must play with a stick,
there's no money for a toy."
We used our imagination,
as only young children can
and we played for hours.
all running to kick the can.

There lives a deadness, inside of me.
This life of ours, may never be,
A time of love and I see,
You no longer know of our history.
I say to you and tell you all
Or say as much, as I recall
About the joy and beauty of life.
How we met and became man and wife.
You say to me, in a simple tone,
"I don't remember, as I am now alone."
The feeling now, inside of me
Is we no longer share our long history.

I literally, tripped and fell the other day
over a pile of words, where they lay,
upon the floor, unused but alive,
to be placed in sentences, crude or fine
and I'll use the words, just in time,
to write about this World, ours to own,
with no Internet or Smart Cell Phone.

I jump away, not to hide
but to avoid the word "Decide."
For I must, on one bad day,
decide if you go or stay.
I do not want to make the choice
of where you go. I fear the voice
of worry; the words of fate,
as soon, I will have to berate
a decision I may need
to make and then proceed.

The wax and wane, of life today,
tugs at my heart, in every way.
I care not for what I see,
for this World is not for me.

Before another tear is shed,
Be certain, there is no dread
Of living the rest of life,
Alone, without your wife.

It's 2 am,
I'm awake again,
writing words
I don't understand.
Please help me now
and I will stay
with you my love
'til the end of day.

Another nice night on the deck.
Enjoyed listening to music and
talking about how long the next door
neighbor lived here. The family just
moved out, a week ago, so we are
still having the same discussion
about how long they were here.
Four nights in a row.
I am saddened as I no longer have
an adult who can carry on a conversation
or just be here to talk with.
I feel so bad as there is no cure that
can help her memory. Just a burning
need for me to have patience.
It was still a beautiful time for me
to be able to spend time with my wife.

Water rushing down the bed of rocks.
The sounds that come from water noise,
brings back the memories, of long ago,
when I, a young boy, not a man,
would grab my fishing pole, dig up
some worms; placing in an
old, Prince Albert tobacco tin.
A can that fit perfectly in a shirt pocket.
I would take my fishing creel, hop
on my bicycle, riding to the
area nearby where I believed
I could catch some fish.
Fishing, to me, was a relaxing way
to be alone and away from crowds,
other children or adults.
The quiet serenity of "stalking the
native Rainbow Trout, was mine.
I don't recall catching a trout, but do
remember catching "Bullheads", as
we called them. A small fish that
looked like a Catfish.
I would release them back into the stream.
The creek I fished came down the hill, in
the Riverton Heights area, from Highway 99,
ending at the Duwamish River. The stream
had turned into a ditch as it passed through,
The Golden Arrow Dairy pasture, which is
close to the north end of the South Center Mall.
A great memory, coming from this old mind
of mine. Long may I remember.

Perhaps I need to write of laughter again
and of love for the many friends,
who are now gone.
Another name was seen today;
we will not hear his voice
as we pass by his home.

Is there pain, when a heart breaks?
When infatuation of a first encounter,
has worn thin and mixed emotions
have become calloused, much too soon.
Those feelings of a long lost love,
resurface for reasons, I know not why.
Perhaps to rekindle, a long ago flame.
No matter the reason or the cause,
the feelings of loss arise once more,
leaving you to wonder and ask why?

To hear the sound of your voice,
brings pleasure to me.
It always has, when I hear thee.
The lilt of your laughter
when we talk and I see,
your eyes are aglow,
with love's own humility.
Unlike before, you aren't near
and I haven't had a hug
for now; a half of a year.
Keeping a Social distance,
is so hard to do,
when your remaining years
are down to a few.