Magazine Posts

Waste not your time,
Do not you tarry,
For I'm on my way
To see the beautiful Mary.
She has never used this
Name, in her long life,
But it is the first name,
Of my lovely wife.
A legal name on
Her drivers license, you see
Now all the doctors,
Address you as Mary.
The name you don't like,
The name you don't use.
When they call you Mary,
It will just continue to confuse;
Not something she needs,
When her Dementia's the worry.
So please correct you records
And please don't you tarry,
For I tire of her reaction
To her first given name, Mary.

I cannot sleep.
I want to deride,
The crazy thoughts,
In my head.
Thoughts so inane,
Mustn't be read,
For they're private.
I'll fib instead.
I see hurt,
Something I dread.
I want not,
Tears to shed.
I will now
Return to bed.

I've lost some weight.
I didn't try,
To lose this much for
This old guy.
It's OK for me to say,
As I reply,
I can now see my toes,
When I try.

May I talk to you
about the tree, Yew?

When the words spill from old me,
my brain is now, running on empty.
Random thoughts, peruse this old man's brain,
the train left the station, here I remain.

A journey too long,
One trip to far
When traveling by car.
It matters not who
Or where you are,
If you end up
Back in the Bar.

Out of my way.
Get off the path,
lest you incur
my terrible wrath.

Into the wind, into the Sun,
a mail carrier's work
is never done,
especially, this time of the year
when letters, cards and packages
are delivered, full of good cheer.
Unless there is something for you,
a bill from a Business marked, "Past Due."

I was out in the outbacks of Stanwoodopolis today, down a dirt road I’d never traveled, one no doubt soon to be paved and developed, but for now 35 acres off the highway, down a dead end, where a buddy was clearing out a recently deceased friend’s shop, house and outbuildings to the highest bidders. Actually, to anyone who would take the stuff, pay the daughters of the deceased what you thought was fair.

First time through I rummaged around, took some maple and walnut lumber, shielded my eyes from the siren call of power tools I really don’t need any more of, and was about to take my leave when the old parlor stove caught my eye back in the far corner of a crammed shop. Now … for those who think a thermostat, the kind with a dial and a graduated temperature setting, is an antique compared to the new digital, individual areas with timed on and offs controlled by a smart phone … for those of us who have avoided moving into the late 20th Century, a wood parlor stove is a tempting item. And … if you have a 1930’s stove that heats your woodshop with a gaping crack in the cast iron body, you better believe a 1900 intact, fully functional, nickel top stove would be hard to resist as the perfect replacement in your shop. Which explains why it’s in the back end of my truck waiting until daylight to unload the beast, drag it into its proper place on the throne and keep me warm these cold damp days. With style!

I guess I live an antique life, I know that. And as the world accelerates exponentially, I realize I’m falling farther and farther back, an object no longer closer than it seems in the rearview. Even these — these scribbles on a page written by hand in the upstairs of my old shack — are old school anachronistic musings few people will read and no one will remember. And why would they? This particular past in the digital future will look as obsolete and irrelevant as, oh, I don’t know, heating with wood cut and split and stacked and burned by some old fart in a stove you might see in a museum. You know, if we still had museums by then.

Visit the Skettle Daddle Site

Was it a downpour or just rain?
Does it matter? Must I explain?
It may be a synapse in my brain
Or my next step to becoming insane.

Dial 1 800 406 8119,
belonged to a good friend of mine.
You could call him for help any day.
He would answer the phone and would say,
don't take any wooden nickels or tarnished dime
for if you do you will be not a friend of mine.

He ran a lot,
where do I begin?
He ran a lot
is what people would say.
He ran a lot,
as it was his way.
He ran a lot,
both near and far.
He ran a lot,
for he had not a car.
He ran a lot,
and was quite thin.
He ran a lot
for running was free.
He ran a lot,
the World looking at he.
He ran a lot,
uphill and down.
He ran a lot,
for he was a clown.