Magazine Posts

My memory is great
and quite, the game.
I'll never forget
old what's his name.

The red trike,
went zipping by me.
It's like a small bike,
but your feet touch the ground.
You sit on the seat,
and move rapidly down,
the sidewalk.
There are no brakes,
you must use your feet.
A very fun toy
but don't use on the street.

Words are peculiar.
Words which are spoken
your mind hears every day.
Words which are written,
may be corrected, if some
are in error or sound dumb.
An erasure of pencil
or where out of ink,
or deleted entirely,
faster than you can blink.
So choose wisely your words,
to avoid all embarrassment,
if your word choice is absurd.

My head is spinning.
My ears start to ring,
if I am not careful,
my heart will soon sing.
I answer the phone,
but no one is there,
just an aged person,
who when he walks,
looks like Fred Astaire,
as he bobs and wobbles,
down the path of his life,
trying to take care
of his beautiful wife.

Green light is starboard,
red light is port.
Green light is right,
red light is left.
A ladder is a stair,
a hatch is a door,
the floor is the deck,
ask me questions no more.

I love getting old,
said no one.
The aches, pain
and all those beyond.
The sudden hurt
in the back of your neck.
When you rise from
bed and your back hurts.
Go jump in the shower,
turning the heat up high.
Wash away the ache
but still asking why?
Is the mattress too firm
or too soft for me?

I'm happy the Rooster Bakery
isn't charging me rent,
for the use of of their patio
and the time we have spent.

Was it we
or just are?
No one to C,
is it our
time to flee
via a cattle car
of a box?
No matter if
you shoot par,
where did it go?
Why was it me,
who sat all alone
under the tree?
Life's the holy grail,
is not the way
to a glorious
finish, one day away.
Help me now,
Lord, if you please,
for now I await,
in the evening
breeze or a
dance, a favorite
of mine. You
know the name,
I told it to thee.
Goodbye, for now,
C U at 3.

Google cars came out with some statistics recently. Driverless cars don’t have accidents really … and the few they do have are cars with drivers running into them. Some of the boyz in the Flatheads, our vintage car club, were flabbergasted. They’re old school guyz who revel in memories of souped up engines, backroad drag races, cue ball shifter knobs and dangling dice on the rearview. They love their rods, they love their memories and they go apoplectic to imagine a future of robot automobiles they can sit in the backseat and read a paper. They have fond memories of other uses for that backseat.

“The Age of the Automobile is coming to an end,” I made the mistake of saying to Two Toke Tom at the Diner where it was overheard by half the Flatheads at the breakfast pow-wow where they’d pushed half the tables together to make room for about a dozen car enthusiasts. Their Packards and Chargers and 88’s were lined up outside the plate glass like an outdoor Museum for Testosterone, right next to Tom’s beater with the cracked windshield and the missing front quarter panel, all gleaming with fresh wax and loving care. I might have been wiser announcing we ought to confiscate guns in an NRA meeting.

Freddie, the head honcho Flathead, jerked his head in the direction of my blasphemy. “What are you drinking, man???” he practically shouted. Brenda spilled coffee on Harry’s hand, missing his cup by a quarter mile. “Yeoww!” he hollered in pain. The whole café was now on Alert. “I only mean the day is coming when cars will drive themselves. They don’t have accidents, Fred, and if they don’t have accidents, guess what the insurance companies are going to demand? You want to drive your big Dodge, fine, but guess what they’ll charge your Charger for the privilege?”

“Over my dead fender, Skeeter.” Two Toke raised his cup. “Amen, brother Fred, Amen.”

“All I’m saying, Fred, is half the folks out there on the road these days aren’t driving anyway. They’re text messaging, they’re talking on the phone, they’re wobbling over the center line and they’re drifting onto the shoulder. They go from 60 mph to 30 mph. I don’t know what all they’re doing behind the wheel, but it sure isn’t driving. Might be okay with me if they let the computer do that for em so they can pay attention to their smartphone.”

Fred snorted and the assembled Flatheads snorted in agreement. Brenda mopped up Harry’s table and dried his hand. Harry would live, Two Toke would get a good laugh on me later and the Flatheads would all drive down Memory Lane with rumbling mufflers, KaHooga horns, mohaired upholstery, big fins and whitewall tires like mastodons crossing back over the Bering Strait to a garage somewhere in the Pleistocene.   See more by Skeeter Daddle   Go to Skeeter Daddle Site

A dog is great,
even if he's a hound.
He will stay with you,
as he follows around.
Then there are cats,
nice but too profound,
as they don't want you
to be hanging around.

Put down on paper
with your Energel Pen,
the words in your mind,
for the day now begins.
Do you not feel
the love in the air?
Will you stay with me,
breathing the same air?
My heart is happy,
for I see you there.
For heavens sake
put on your underwear.

It sounds kind of weird, I suppose,
what it's like to wear another man's clothes.
To change your style, would be grand
unless the clothes worn are quite bland.
Take an adventure, pick a new life.
By wearing new clothes, perhaps a wife?