Magazine Posts

You're a man now, don't you cry.
Words that still echo in my head.
To this day, coming from years past,
When being stoic, was not a choice,
But a state of deportment, for you.
It served me well, through the years,
To keep that "stiff upper lip."
So I was surprised, when one day
I felt a tear roll down my cheek.
A sad movie or tragic scene,
Demean me not in Public, you see,
For being stoic is what I am
Supposed to be, makes little sense.
I understand, but I must
Act like a man, not shed a tear.

Silky porters. Hoppy IPAs. Citrus loaded sours. Bend brewers know more than a thing or two about crafting exceptional microbrews. But as luck would have it, beer’s not the only tastebud satisfying game in town. Many a brewery and tap house are plating up savory treats that will rock your world (while also helping you stay sober enough for another round).

My mind is in a shallow grave.
No depth of soul,
No heart, the brave.
I search for words. They do not come.
Perhaps I should drink some rum.
Whimsical verse, M. Oliver says to me,
Will not happen. Lost in my reverie.

Rainfall refreshes the air.
Water puddling in the street,
Except under the trees,
There lie the flowers,
In pots so dry,
Still growing with
All the colors, galore
More Impatiens are
What we need
To brighten this
Gloomy day.

I lay in bed at darkest night,
I cannot sleep, so I will write.
Writing words that come to mind
like oil to water, I will find.
The words flow to paper and
I write them quickly, with my pen.
Words that mean so much to me,
Hoping that the readers will see,
The thoughts, that grew in the darkness
of my head now make sense or are a mess.
It is hard to write now, I approach the end
Hoping you will like this, just pretend.

Some whiskers that were on my chin,
have rebelled and are off again.
Unsure the way they left, or how,
but they're back; up in my brow.
Growing North, South, East and West.
I wish they would grow, with the rest.
There never was a brow that was dark
so I assume this growth but a lark.

In the US Navy and been at sea.
Doing Island Surveillance,
My mates and me.
Pulling into the Harbor
Our anchor drops
Into the waters of this beautiful bay,
At the South Pacific Island of Ponape.
We go ashore to walk about
And observe this Island life.
A native male, in a loin cloth.
One picture of me with ancient
Island wealth; Stone money called Fey.
The stone is not of this Island
And was carried in a dugout from
Where; not known.
Our mission was to check the population,
Pass out medicine and rations.
A great lesson of history in kind
Of reversing back to another time.

This life I knew,.
The wife I had,
Is now askew,
Has gone bad.

Dementia isn't good
And will never be,
Wish that I could,
Provide help to thee.

Trying hard to please
Caring, about every day,
Down on my knees
To think and pray.

It doesn't matter
Doing it this way,
For all the idle chatter,
Here I will stay.

To be with you
And for my care,
Please let me do,
So you are aware.

The evening tide, is not for me,
For it holds life's uncertainty.
I would rather run and fail
As I escape this earthly jail.

Oh dearest Mary
where are you now,
when I need you most?
Is your spirit here
or is it your ghost?