Magazine Posts

Be Prepared,
is the watchword for today.
Be prepared,
in each and everyway.
Be prepared,
to do what you say.
Be prepared,
that was the Boy Scout way.
Be prepared,
now that life has gone away.

Why are we here, on this planet Earth?
Is it to appease others, bringing forth mirth?
It could be but I will now pray
our resident clown, just goes away.

Across the barren land, he strode,
searching for a place to build.
Up he went, into the trees
of Douglas Fir, Cedar too,
when he came to a spot
among the Ponderosa Pines.
There was a running stream,
flowing below the crest.
A flat piece of ground
with a view of the land below.
Down the stream was a dam,
built by Beavers.
A pond had formed, quite large,
with Cattails and rush, near the shore.
The plot of land; I'll build my home
for I roam no more, to a foreign land.
I will stay here until the end of time
and with that statement
this line will rhyme.

Watching Bear Cubs
play in the park,
was an enjoyable event.
Funny, nimble but awkward.
Still they stumbled and
ran chasing each other
as if playing tag.
What a joy seeing
young animals that play.

Life's journey passes by.
All the memories,
all the sighs
of missing friends
and of family
who have said
their last goodbye.

I write for me.
That's what I do,
but I also
write for you.

If you agree
or if you don't,
a few words
will help me.

Use the comments.
They can still
be good or bad.
Give me a thrill.

Sometimes I write the words that flood my head, not thinking, just writing.
Here is an example.

Words that cling,
words that fled,
have caused an avalanche,
in this old head.
Words we use every day,
are here now, and
here they'll stay.
Words that stick like Velcro
or like "a rolling stone."
No Moss to gather, all alone.
What is this gibberish
that you write,
are these words wrong
or are they right?
Talk to me now,
you Spring delight
for I will not leave
without a fight.
OK then, say what you will
but for me now, it's Good Night.

Dance with me as you did before;
A slow dance with music you adore.

Off in the distance,
I hear a sound.
Not knowing what or where
a sound so unique,
of soft and loud.
Melodious for my ears,
long will I remember
the sound I heard.
I won't explain
it now to you;
for it matters not,
as you must know
the sound of life
in a death throw.

Walking along a spill of Shale,
each step left a broken trail.
A careful step, you must make
or a slow ride down, you will take.
There is nothing like it, men and boys
as it surely makes a lot of noise.
The choice of paths that you made
becomes a path; a noisy parade.

Many, many years ago
to Chatsworth, California I did go.
It was raining hard.
The streets were wet.
I wondered where the water went
for there were no gutters
or storm drains for the rain to take,
so water ran mostly at random
down the street with sheer abandum.

There is a strange feeling
that comes over me.
A feeling or connection to
the person I'm with.
I don't understand what
is at work at that moment.
I only know the feeling
is good when you are near.