Contributor Posts

This Soul of mine,
begs of me,
let me go,
set me free.
For I'll fly away
across the mountains
and the World's
shining sea,
if only you
would set me free.

My friend Ed and I had been
training for a marathon, in May.
We did our training runs faithfully,
starting in January until we were
averaging 50 miles a week.
We ran the Vancouver B. C. Marathon, in
May 1990. It took it's toll as when we
went shopping with our wife's the next
day, we had to back down the stairs, as
our quads, were hurting.
A few days later, Ed said, "We should run
the Goodwill Games" an International
competition. My response was, " Your
crazy". Ed explained that the marathon
was open to all runners, even "slugs" like
us.
We decided that would be cool as
we would receive a Commemorative T shirt
and a Medal, if we finished.
We had many more training runs and finally,
in July, it was race day.
We started at the UW Stadium, ran up
through the Arboretum, along Leschi to
Seward Park. We looped the Park and then
up the hill and down to 1st Ave S., turned right
and ran out to Ballard; left to the Locks,
another loop, then East on the Burke-Gillman
Trail. It was very hot and many of the "water stations"
didn't have any water. Finally, as we struggled to keep
a pace, we heard the crowd at the Stadium's
South Parking lot. As we approached we could see
hoses spraying water into the air.
Crossing the finish line, we headed for the spray, clutching
are shirts and medals.
Great experience and many memories, as we can
say we competed in the 1990 Goodwill Games Marathon.

I'm alone. Eighteen years young.
Standing in water, up to my knees.
The rippling sound of water over stone
Is relaxing me. I am surrounded by trees.
I let my barbed hook go downstream
As I watch the Sun, slowly appease
The darkened shadows of this mountain creek,
For it is opening day; ice cold and has tweaked
My nose and my young cheek.
A little tug on my fishing line,
Set the hook and it will be fine.
If my luck holds I will limit by Nine.

Is there love within the limbs of trees?
When the wind blows and branches quake,
While leaf's are all a flutter
As seed pods, spin to the ground.
Now I see new sprouts growing
And the sign of new life is here.
I must weed; removing this offer
Of new trees.

Gone are the days,
Gone far away.
A simpler life then,
Running and to play,
Kick the Can.
Fun at twilight
As the Sun descended,
Into the darkest of night.
Playing hard; do it again,
Running fast towards,
Kicking the Can.

When the bloom is off the Rose
Perhaps it is time to stop and pose
The question of an aged mind,
Who is old but still quite kind.
What is the meaning of life, today
When most of your friends stay away.
Some from fear of how to be,
The kind of friend, that remembers thee.
It's hard to know what to do,
When you see Dementia from a different view.
Stay strong my friend, stay strong for me,
For I do recall somethings from my memory.

Working in the yard, late this morning,
I noted that the Hydrangeas are showing.
Fertilize and water is a must at this time,
The plants will develop hardy roots.
If they do then you will be rewarded
With beautiful blooms.

Have you had a dream without you there?
Looking for something, that you're not aware?
Some say it's a hidden message of a love
From someone not here, but is up above,
In the heavens, as God's favored child.
If that is true, wouldn't that be wild?

For a want of life
and freedom too,
I must do what
I must do.
Cross the border
to get away,
from the threat of death
and my children's starvation,
by coming to this country
for a precious education.
Is this wrong? Yes it is,
but a better life is what I seek.
I work hard for what I do,
so hate me not, as I try to stay
in this great country, the U. S of A.

My wife loves these flowers

In this darkest hollow of my mind,
I find myself, lost and alone,
Nevermore to see my love.
The way she was, when we were young,
Why her? I ask these words
As the absurdity of this disease is
Fraught with frustration of knowing not,
What to do when the mind moves away,
From our Mortal being.

From stubby stem
to a bud, I suppose
it grows into a Rose.
Through the Spring,
as the Summer goes,
now it is
an aging Rose.
Time will pass again
through Winter's cold,
and I do suppose,
There will be a Rose.