Magazine Posts

Sometimes I become confused.
Unsure if it is the disease.
I know when it happens,
it brings me down to my knees.

My strength seems to be failing.
I raise the flag, to fight.
The journey is becoming harder,
because I can't sleep at night.

I need sleep, I know I do,
but it won't come at night,
so, I lay in bed, in fitful sleep,
which doesn't help my plight.

Walking down the Primrose path,
towards the end of day,
when you realize and understand,
this beautiful setting will go away.

Remembering the eighth grade at Emerson Grade School,
in Ranier Beach
I was in the eighth grade and my father was a partner in,
the Looking Glass tavern, on 45th Ave, in the UW district.
Located just a few blocks west of the Blue Moon Tavern.

The Blue Moon was the closest bar to the UW campus, after
World War II. It was a natural event for the returning GI's to
go there to quaff a beverage of choice. Usually a beer.
But I digress.
My father had brought home a few cases of some local beer. It was
in the basement. Probably Olympia or Ranier.

One evening, I borrowed, two bottles. One for me and one for my
friend. We lived a few blocks from Lake Washington.
My friend and I borrowed, (there's that word again), a rowboat,
moored at the foot of the hill, on Ranier Ave. We elected to row
across the lake towards Mercer Island, as we enjoyed our,
borrowed beer and rowboat.

We returned to the marina and left the borrowed rowboat, where
we found it. There was no mischief or property damage, of property,
except for the missing beer.
I'm sure my father knew, but in all his living days he never brought
it up. Of course, neither did I.

To wax poetic,
about those simple things,
which, to us all,
a pleasure brings.

So many joys,
in this tired life,
of missing friends
and my wife

I would state,
so long ago,
when a word came to mind,
and to paper it would go.

I have reflected now,
seeing the word, like a trick,
throwing it at the paper.
For some reason it would stick.

I wish I could say to you,
writing is a craft,
but when I write words,
sometimes it's just a laugh.

So, laugh away,
you all are my friend
and at this end, you will see,
what you read, is not let's pretend.

I realize my days are numbered.
I know it very well,
not looking for empathy,
on my perditions road to hell.

I need to have support,
but also need my time,
so, I can do my thing,
and avoid doing a whine.

Oh woe is me, was said,
to many, one and all,
but I will not bury my thoughts,
for all of us will fall.

When the world,
is beating at your door.
When you are at the stage,
where you don't care anymore,

you need to strengthen
your personal defense,
arranging your own time,
to improve and get off the fence.

You must fight,
for it is not a sin,
but you must fight,
if you are going to win.

It's a philosophy of life.
it's needed every day
You must always fight,
or you may go away.

An early morning rising,
to go and fish the Still*,
a northern river, with steelhead,
to land one is a thrill.

I have fished this way,
on many a winter day.
Hoping to get a strike,
with my first cast away.

*Stillaguamish, a river by Monroe

Running across the meadow,
grass up to my knees,
when I realized, rattlesnakes,
like the meadow breeze.

Out of sight, from perdition,
which soared the early sky,
for I am in the grass, a snake,
awaiting my passing by.

I jumped, up in the air,
my feet never touching down,
going another yard or so,
before they touched the ground.

Are these my last days of summer,
as we approach the autumn days,
or in the other world, fall.
If it is I will catch my last sunny rays.

There is a life's tenant,
which I find is true.
I need to care for myself,
before I care for you.

When I'v ignored my need,
and helped another,
it's as if I was crazy,
to help my brother.

There is a fine line,
when pondering about the who,
for I am more important,
to me but not to you.

Is it hard and cruel?
I suppose it's true.
Not taking care of me,
then I am nothing too.