Magazine Posts

This writing craft;
I love it well,
but at this time,
It's a living Hell.
My brain is bereft
of new words to write.
If there is grey matter left,
will cause me to mumble
but not to cry,
for I need some answers,
If I am to try
to keep writing this drivel,
by focusing on thee,
not what is now
worrying me.

Your writing is crazy,
you crazy, old lout.
Don't be so lazy,
give a loud shot.
Let your old mind,
run free as the breeze.
It is not kind,
listening to you wheeze.
You reach for a word,
eluding this prose.
Keep in mind, all flowers
smell not like a Rose.
Do what you do,
don't just suppose.
Get off your rear;
at this I arose
and out to the garden
where everything grows.

The quickness of wit,
The sharpness of tongue,
Being physically fit,
You were the one,
Who drove me to drink.
No not in a car,
But that sharp tongue.
I went straight to the bar;
To the bar for a drink,
Which I did very well
On this my journey
To alcoholic Hell.

Alone in my reverie
of forgotten times.
Recalling the adventures
and the not so sublime.
What can I say about
those old days of yore,
other than I regret
that I never kept score.

A drink from the bottle,
a swallow of Gin,
makes me understand
what a fix I am in.
My head is all fuzzy,
with breathing so shallow.
Perhaps it would've been best
if I just didn't swallow.
I don't like Gin,
so it shouldn't be hard,
to drink moonshine whisky,
straight from the jar.
A Mason jar is the one
if I still can recall.
Pint was the size
and the best size of all.

It is very cold, out on the street,
as I walk alone, the Sun at my back.
All bundled up, to keep my self warm.

I walk past a house, with windows of glass,
seeing the Sun reflection, as I pass,
when a bright flash of light, with a blast of heat,
comes from the windows, reflecting the Sun.
I pause for a moment, to soak up the rays,
reflected on me on this very cold day.

The words come forth
from my childlike mind.
Some are cruel,
some are unkind.
Nevertheless, out
the words come,
some are witty,
others are dumb.
Why do those words,
from long days gone bye,
fall to the paper,
with nary a sigh
nor a yell?
Please tell me now,
if you can tell.

From where you am.
From where I are,
My attempt to rhyme
Has gone too far.

Many years ago, in another life, in another time,
I worked for a large retailer, in the Catalog part of the
business.
As I recall, I was a District Manager and had recently returned
from Chicago, with my peers. The meeting was a big one
on a new product, called "Cling-a-longs" or women's full length
hosiery that had some elasticity that provide support for those
who were on their feet for long periods of time.

The store manager, I and some others, were in a local dive
bar. Actually it was a Chinese Restaurant with a nice lounge.
I was relating my recent travels to Chicago and talked about
the new product. I had also discussed that we had given some
samples to the Stewardess on the airline, with a request to tell
us how they liked them, or not.

This was later in the evening, after a few drinks. When our waitress
said something to the group, "I'm on my feet for a long time
and would like to get some of the hosiery you mentioned.
Now, uninhibited, I said I'll get you some.
The store manager had left, so I made a questionable decision.
I wasn't going to be there when the store opened.
I wrote on a cocktail napkin, a note to my manager,
"Please order this young lady a pair of the new hosiery."

I was in our Astoria office and received a call from my
manager in Corvallis. He said, "I have a young lady
in my office that has a napkin with your signature authorizing
a pair of nylons. How am I to pay for that?"
I told him to put it on my credit card, which he did.

I kept waiting over the years, for the napkin to show up. Alas my
manager has been gone for many years and I no longer
work for that organization.

A great event, of a slight error in judgement,
brings to me great memories, that always makes me
laugh.

Please write me a story,
one that I will tell
to my friends, I know,
tell me daily; Go to Hell.

Riding a motorcycle on
a loose graveled road,
can result in scabs
and contusions,
when your "bike" unloads
your personal confusion.

Water me not,
Don't you see,
For I only want
Some Rye Whiskey