Contributor Posts

There is a can.
There is a jar.
There is no time.
There is no car.
We will now leave
For we must bereave,
The loss of life of
A long time friend.
The word, an amend
For a life cut short,
One more time; again
As we honor him
For a life led.
I know this day,
lies in quiet dread,
The finality of life.
He died so alone,
Without a wife.

After the Big War, WW II, my Father
purchased a trailer park on 140th,
in Riverton Heights and thus
My friends and I would ride our bikes,
to Angle Lake, where we could swim.
Going south on Highway Route 99
to swim, is a great memory of mine.
There wasn't a Sea-Tac Airport then,
so on our bikes, we would go,
to swim. A beautiful area I recall
with water cold and sand warm.
A lifeguard, kept all of us safe.
I loved this place. Those were the days.

I hold the pen in my hand,
wondering where or when I became
a writer of verse or prose for me.
My Paternal Grandmother wrote poems and verse,
when she worked nights in a train depot.
She was a Station Agent for the N. P.
The N. P. or Northern Pacific Railroad was
where she was a Telegrapher, of renown;
It was so in our home town.
A Telegrapher of the "key",
the clickety clack was heard
as Grandma spelled out another word.
Short and sweet she was to me.
My love of writing came from she.
Thank you Grandma. Thanks to you
for guiding me through the work I do.

Do you tire
of these verses mine?
When I may praise
and sometimes whine.
My thoughts messy,
as they can be,
for I write for you
and that helps me.

I write tonight, with tired mind.
My heart is now full of upcoming dread,
For my beloved, with Dementia I see,
Is now losing her long term memory.
There are two factors, here and now
No short term or long term memory, Wow!
I understand what this will mean
To her, me and all those in between.
Saying I am in a sad review
Of losing my only you.

I am at a stage, in this writing life,
where I don't recall all I write.
As I write these words down now,
there is no memory of if or how.
Why are these voids within my head?
No one will know but me and instead
of pondering on this difficult task,
I could reach out and just ask
of the readers, who read of me.
Am I writing for you to see?
Or is this just another fantasy?

My wife has Dementia.
It is hard to see,
for she does well socially.
You would never know
she has issues with her memory.

Is she too close to me, to see
she is the best part of me?

I am struggling this morning to write
my own words. I can't seem to
rid my mind of the lyrics of
"Bye, Bye, American Pie" by Don
McLean.
Words so profound, about "The
Day the Music Died."
It was the day the World lost the music
of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, the Big Bopper,
aka, J P Richardson and the pilot Roger Peterson.
The day was February 3, 1959.
I was sitting with my lovely wife, on our deck,
listening to music. It was better than watching all
the re-runs on TV
I am a child of the first commercial TV in Seattle.
Programs of the late 40's.
TV is ingrained in my Soul. Mostly children programs,
in Black and White with a lot of snowy background.
You could see images but...
It was a time so long ago, I have to dig deep in
my memory to pull it forth.

My Father would tell me
when I was a boy,
"You must play with a stick,
there's no money for a toy."
We used our imagination,
as only young children can
and we played for hours.
all running to kick the can.

There lives a deadness, inside of me.
This life of ours, may never be,
A time of love and I see,
You no longer know of our history.
I say to you and tell you all
Or say as much, as I recall
About the joy and beauty of life.
How we met and became man and wife.
You say to me, in a simple tone,
"I don't remember, as I am now alone."
The feeling now, inside of me
Is we no longer share our long history.

I literally, tripped and fell the other day
over a pile of words, where they lay,
upon the floor, unused but alive,
to be placed in sentences, crude or fine
and I'll use the words, just in time,
to write about this World, ours to own,
with no Internet or Smart Cell Phone.