Contributor Posts

No matter how I rant and rave,
this World has gone insane.
Full of hate and racial abuse.
Not how I was raised.
Not how I will treat others,
who aren't like me.

You said that you loved me,
with that beautiful smile.
The sound of your voice,
did always beguile.
Forget all the times of the past,
for now I will rejoice
and after a while,
you'll be gone, like before.
I will always miss you.
I hope you miss me more.

I was discharged from the Navy in 56.
Not many jobs were available.
Bucked hay bales for about 3 days.
The skin between my fingers
had blistered from using hay hooks.
Yes I was wearing leather gloves.

My next job was working for
Charles Porter, who had an Apiary.
In late summer, we would go to
his Bee hives. Wear long sleeve shirts,
with collars and sleeves buttoned tight,
put on the hat with the screen mesh,
pull on my gloves, then to the hives,
to take the Honey by lifting out the comb
that was covered with Bees.
Puff up the Smoker, brush the Bees
off with a soft hand broom.
Didn't want to harm the Bees.
Harvest the Honey but leave some
for the Bees would have food.
Go back to the building, where
Mr. Porter had a centrifuge to extract
the Honey. Put in the combs, turn on the
steam, turn on the centrifuge and we would
have golden Honey. Fill up the 5 gallon tins,
stack them away and repeat the process
until the end of the day.
The combs were not thrown away as
the beeswax would be harvested.
I couldn't wear gloves inside, as the
Honey could be very sticky so I would
be stung 10 or more times, on the
back of my hands until they looked
like Mickey Mouse hands, fat and puffy.
I would finish up, change my clothes
then go to the bus garage to drive
the afternoon bus, #16 and head to
the grade school, and high school.
You did what could to bring in money.
I would also have some sweet Honey.
Great times to remember most of all
especially when we are heading towards
the beautiful Fall.

Refuel the light
that burns within
this chest of mine.
Recall the hopes of yesterday.
The dreams we had,
plans we made.
Push forth the love,
professed to all.
Be better than
those days before.
Love one another,
for those who do;
they are just like
me and you.

I see my love, every day.
We talk about when she
was having radiation and chemo,
for treatment of lung cancer.
The good news; Cancer is in remission,
Bad news, early onset dementia.
I believe this was triggered by
or accelerated by the chemo treatment.
We saw that early, when she
couldn't remember our anniversary
and she was unable to balance
the checkbook or pay bills.
Her mother had dementia, in her late 80's.
I am seeing similar behavior
in my love. She can't remember names
or the names of objects. She does remember
one name and that is our Granddaughter.
Confuses the names of our two sons
and our close friends.
She told me that she didn't know my name.
Evenings are the worst. There is a tendency to wander
or get in a discussion that is close to an argument.
Then I'll hear "Put me in a home.'
I tell her no, that's not going to happen.
There is no logic or reasoning present.
I'll talk to her and she won't hear me,
so I raise the volume of my voice and
then she tells me, "you don't need to shout.
Tonight, in the space of 10 minutes, she
asked me if it was raining. I replied No.
That upset her as she said, " you know I
can't hear.
Sorry for the whining.

Sometimes it is hard to be
living in this Hedonistic Society.

Here I go again.
Once more I write
what comes to my
mind, as I try
to bring forth thoughts,
from the deepest past.
Thoughts from long ago,
that I no longer can
recall or see,
when I peer back,
into my cluttered mind.
I hope this writing
of my thoughts
will keep coming,
so that very soon
I will recall
those thoughts and memories
that I can embellish
and find the time,
for thee. Fine tune is
a broad term that
I hope to convey,
when all my thoughts
remain or stay
to explain to you
what I always must
of all this random
wordly dust.

My shadow came to play,
every day, when I was young.

I am sitting at a bar
in Yokosuka Japan, having a beer,
when someone runs in, yelling
with a shout of "Fire" or words like that.
Everyone, immediately runs outside to see,
what all the commotion is about.
There is a fire in the building next door.
The buildings are all wood, tinder dry.
I'm sure I must have had a few drinks.
Being in the Navy and in my dress blues;
before I knew it, I was on the roof
in a "bucket brigade." A bucket of water
was passed along the line of strangers.
We moved those buckets, as fast as we could,
trying to protect dry wooden building.
After about an hour or so, the fire was out.
I turned to go and a Japanese man,
grabbed my hand and said "Thank you"
and pulled me back to the bar. A nice
drink was had and I returned to my ship.
We were on "Cinderella Liberty", over at 12.

This event is not something I think about
often, but reminds me that we are all human,
regardless of race, religion or nationality.
When we are in trouble we can work
together, Novel idea.

My love for you, is not in vain.
Watching you slip away;
Away from reason
and your inability
To use logic.
Our discussions, have become
One of remembrance
With reference to
Our two Sons,
That you now confuse
With each other.
Names of close friends
Are not there unless I say
To you, who they are.
You do remember
The granddaughter's name.
I am thankful for that
And helps me know,
That the one I love
Is still aware of her,
As she is her only joy.
I just hope that she
Will still remember me.
I don't know why,
I don't know how
But she no longer
Knows me now.

Tell me a story and tell it well,
for I hunger for words, I heard,
so many years ago. Words of terror,
words of praise. Telling stories of
the brave souls, who paved the way,
for all of us.
How they lived and how they died.
Even the failures that did reside,
within the walls, so dark.
Unable to keep the love, that grew,
when all the World, did know.
Yet, you kept on but not for long,
as the candle wick ran out of
tallow and fell into the shadow
of a moonless night, with only
Stars to guide your way.
You became impatient and said
of their last refrain.

My mind spews out this
meaningless prattle,
awaits the kind of life,
with no tomorrow,
that will end with abject sorrow.
What to do, oh what to do,
for in one's death
there will be no more you.

A golden sunrise
Clouds, reddish, yellow and pink
Life's cycle