Magazine Posts

My love is with me, here, today.
By tomorrow, she'll have gone away.
The mind is a most curious thing,
Today, knowledge; tomorrow nothing to bring.

I'm in San Diego, as I do remember.
The time of the year? Mid December.
Walking down Broadway, in Civilian clothes,
My first Christmas season, spent not at home,
for here, at 20 of age, I was alone.
There were other people here, just like me,
in the U. S. Navy, serving our Country.
Broadway Ave, was the street I walked down,
when I ran into a friend, from my hometown.
What a surprise for me to see,
a friendly face. who was alone, like me.

I sit there with my hair "slicked" back.
If I weren't a young man,
I would probably, let out a quack,
My hair was groomed with "butch" wax.
A "Princeton" they called it,
short on the top,
long on the sides,
combed from front to back,
then a vertical line
on the back of my head,
gave me that look, a DA.*
A White Stag jacket, all white,
with the collar turned up
and my pant cuffs were tight.
Pegged pants, was the word we would use,
you could put in your feet, sans your shoes.
Pants were hung below the waist, at your rear.
One sharp looking Dude, with a strut.
A fashion that held for a few more years.

* DA = ducks a-- or more politely it's rear

Down the hill, under the trees,
is a small pond, with water lilies.
Under a fallen log, covered with moss,
there, hidden away, a small tiny house.
In this small structure, you could see,
a wee creature, that looked like me.
When I, as a child, visited this place,
there was no one, no memory to erase.
Now all these precious memories of mine,
are thoughts, gathering dust of lost time.
I have this place, sacred to me,
where all my thoughts, are there to see.

Sun and rain
Summer is now gone
Oops, back again.

Our life, as you may know,
Grows more difficult each day
As those memories we shared
Are ebbing slowly away.
It's a normal progression,
The experts all say,
To forget many things
As our thoughts do decay.
There's no longer time
For our thoughts to stray
As our mortal bodies return
To dust into the clay.

It's a terrible thing, this image I see,
When crawling through brambles,
On hand and knee.
There I am, in darkest night,
With my only weapon
My Ray O Vac. flashlight.
Shining the light, slowly ahead to see,
I see my friend, looking back at me.

If I say to you, my friend,
Our day is coming and will end.
A life filled with love and pain,
That when gone, there is no refrain.
Never more to see the beautiful Spring,
Nor hear the sound that birds sing.

What are we to do
the family cried,
when you lock us up,
taking away our pride?
I would like to come here legally.
Lord knows I tried,
but you lock me up,
now my child has died.
What kind of person are you,
all torn up inside.
When I was crossing
the border wide.
I know you hate my face
when you deride
my life's pain and suffering
as you stood there and lied.

My mind has been locked in step.
No thoughts come forth as to what to write.
A vacuum co-exists, within the mind,
As decay starts to attack inside.
No help is coming soon, so
I must jar the mind loose,
By using a mental broom,
To sweep the cobwebs, from this head.
Where are those thoughts from before,
Not knocking on the mental door?
I wish I knew the answers then.
A solution is needed. Not sure when.

The brightest days; The darkest night,
pulls upon the memory strings.
Spending time in Agana, Guam with
our flippers and snorkel tubes. Face down
in the water, salt residue crusting
on our skin. Shark nets out,
so no worries there. Just a need
to keep sucking air through the snorkel.
A pleasant experience, in those days,
of exploring Islands for weeks on end,
to supply the native population with
medical aid and supplies.

Things are getting worse every day,
as the things she knows, go away.
When she says, "I don't know what I'm doing."
It is a real statement and is not accusing.