Magazine Posts

#blueheron

I waited long to buy shoes at this price.
Cordovan in color, leather soles were nice.
I wore them to work and admired my style,
So I walked downtown, about 4 blocks,
Wearing my new shoes and great socks.
It had started to rain and yet
I realized that my socks were getting wet.
In Seattle I worked, I now must expunge
Leather soles; not good as their like a sponge.
Soaking up the water doing their trick,
Making the soles, very, very slick.
Walking on tile with wet soled shoes
Was a proposition, that I would lose.
A simple slip that turns into a fall.
Do you suppose that I could sue the Mall?

It is a big event when you pull the
drivers license of the one you love.
She hasn't driven since 2010.
I did all the driving, way back then.
The lung cancer diagnosis, in two zero one three
and resulting treatment brought her
to her knees.
Cancer free all these years
but was diagnosed with Early onset Dementia
in mid January, 2017.
She is a strong trooper, that is for sure
as I watch her dailytry to endure
all of the garbage of this terrible disease.

Have I lost the touch?
Have I lost the skill
Of writing words,
That rhyme at will?

Sunset on a Tuesday evening.

I liked to cook, when quite young.
Recalling a time, I thought I'd try
To make a most delicious apple pie.
Making the pie crust, water and flour,
Little time, less than an hour.
It was quite easy and not very hard
As I neglected to add any lard.
The apples were peeled, sliced but not cored,
Covered with Cinnamon, Nutmeg and Oh Lord,
Sugar was added, for this great treat.
Put in the oven, cooked and ready to eat.
My Grandmother served, cutting up the pie,
While I was complimented for my first try.
My bite was quite chewy, my word please take
As not adding lard, was a great big mistake.
I realized that a can of Nutmeg, was a bust
But they all ate some pie, with rock hard crust.
I've learned from this long ago year
Sometimes when cooking I'll have a beer.
I still cook and always will try
But seldom will I bake an apple pie.

A very long time before you and I,
Before the look in our Father's eye,
There were people who lived and died
To protect this world from the genocide,
That had risen up from a Nation's floor
And taken lives just like before.
They knew it then. We know it now.
No more killing, that must be our vow.

Give me strength; give me might,
That I don't start writing trite
Observations of what I see,
Especially if it involves you and me.

A bastion of silence,
A room full of noise.
The shrill sounds coming
From little girls and boys.
A gathering of Angels
Or Cherubs, if you will.
A very harmonious sound,
That brings forth a chill.
A high Melodious voice,
The sound, Heaven's choice.
Sounds that help comfort me.
The most relaxing of noise,
You don't need to see.

My brain has been given an enema.
Words pop out quicker that I can write.
No meaning or correlation,
Nothing in sight. Just write
As fast as I can and clear
The clutter, in my mind.
Nice words, cuss words, perhaps some kind.
It matters not, just don't leave
Words behind. It makes no sense
As words flow free. I can't think
Of what they will be. Simple words
Or ones quite complex. It matters
Not one little bit. I do need
To write slower and clearer, if I am
Going to read these later. It may
Be a folly to see, what these words
Mean to me. I make no attempt
To rhyme or tell you it's good for
Mankind. No lie on anything for
You to hear as I desperately claw
Out these words and be free of all
Hidden thoughts or when it goes,
Emotional dither, the word hither, tries
To appear. I wish I could just shut
Off this spewing of words, that mean
So little or just let them go somewhere
In the middle. Goodness me, she used to
Say; the words are prolific on this bright day.
Enough my hand is cramping up quite a bit so
I'm thinking it is time to now quit.
What gibberish I write, without any doubt.
I won't be running or whooping about
But I will sit silently, under a tree
And thank the Lord, I have thee.

What an outburst of words gushing
While I write fast to grab the words rushing
Down to the paper, here on the desk
And not as jumbled up as all the rest.

Is this the death rattle of a
Senile mind? Or just a random thought
That escaped from this memory pit
Of lost words, long forgotten?
Memories that spill out
In the dead of night.
I wish I knew, for I do not
Understand or know the plot
Of life, that we savor so.
I suppose I could just let go.