Magazine Posts

Where to go. What to do.
My life's a mess, nothing new.
The one I love, will soon arise,
Bringing forth a new surprise.
Will she remember about her life
And recall she's my wife?
I don't know, but this I must
Be aware . In God I trust.

My mind is gone.
My soul lies barren
On the ground alone.
The fear inside of me,
Will soon overcome my core
Strength. I weep through
Tearless eyes and yet
Cannot deny or answer why.

The puppet goes
To meet his master
Stringless disaster

I'm on the ground
Down on my knees,
Covered with filth,
Fighting off fleas.
What did I do
To deserve this fate,
But come to America
To improve my state.
A terrible thing, this, you see.
It's happening now
And it's happening to me.

Mass of Daisies
In a state of new bud
Standing tall.

I'll not write of snakes or fleas,
As I prefer the birds and bees.
Nature provides all with many a thing,
Some with beauty and some that sing.
The color we see, in the morning light,
That disappears in the darkest night,
As life goes on, a single item.
It's a great World, ad infinitum.

The morning air
Cool, crisp and clear.
Breathe deep.

Wind with rain
New plantings knocked down
Wet ground.

The days draw short
Years move along
Quite rapidly.
Much like a song,
A very sad song
Of life's short time.
Memories that fade
And are gone, sublime
Is the mood,
That I see.
Please dear God,
Please help me.

East of Ellensburg in Kittitas County
Is an irrigation facility; The Whipple
Creek Pumping Plant exists
To pump water up the hill
As part of theCounty's Irrigation District's
Management of the Highline canal,
Which begins in Lake Easton,
As I recall and is one of the main sources
Of water to irrigate the County farmland.
My grandfather, on my mother's side,
Managed that facility. When I was young
My two cousins and I would spend
Summers there. We could play,
Go fishing or swim below the pumping
Plant. Inside the Plant were huge
Pumps, that propelled the water, up the
Hillside, through huge pipes. It was quite
The project, in it's time.
Our grandfather would also, ride the ditch
Banks for inspection and remove animals
That fell in. I remember, on one trip,
My grandfather pointed out some
Pronghorn Antelope in the Sage brush,
Distance. This was back in the late 40's.
The land East of the Pumping Plant
Is now fenced off and his part of the
Yakima Firing Center.
My cousins and I would go hiking
There before the fence was erected.
We looked for petrified wood fragments.
On several occasions we would find small
logs or branches, 12 inches long. We would
retrieve and take them back to the main house.
The logs may still be there. I hope they are.

I am a simple man
with a complexed mind.
I write these words
to enable me
to cope with life's
reality and to deal
with this emotion,
deep inside, that
is worried by the
slow decline of
someone close to me,
who no longer
can use reason
or logic, to think.
I love this elderly
child, I see
is now a dependent
on our family and me.

Here I am, a Native Son,
Resisting the invasion that has begun.
I am small and shades of brown.
Now there are some Greys in town.
I run along the fence, so quickly,
Much faster than in a tree.
My name is Walter Earle,
I am a Native Washington Squirrel,
Not a Chipmunk, I must say
But a Native Squirrel, every day.
The invasion came, years ago.
Not sure how, but they did show.
Grey Squirrels, coming from the East,
Eating our food; it was a feast.
I fight very hard for specie survival
Against the Grey, my arch rival.
Who will win, that's hard to say,
But I know that I'm here to stay.