Contributor Posts

Wind with rain
New plantings knocked down
Wet ground.

The days draw short
Years move along
Quite rapidly.
Much like a song,
A very sad song
Of life's short time.
Memories that fade
And are gone, sublime
Is the mood,
That I see.
Please dear God,
Please help me.

East of Ellensburg in Kittitas County
Is an irrigation facility; The Whipple
Creek Pumping Plant exists
To pump water up the hill
As part of theCounty's Irrigation District's
Management of the Highline canal,
Which begins in Lake Easton,
As I recall and is one of the main sources
Of water to irrigate the County farmland.
My grandfather, on my mother's side,
Managed that facility. When I was young
My two cousins and I would spend
Summers there. We could play,
Go fishing or swim below the pumping
Plant. Inside the Plant were huge
Pumps, that propelled the water, up the
Hillside, through huge pipes. It was quite
The project, in it's time.
Our grandfather would also, ride the ditch
Banks for inspection and remove animals
That fell in. I remember, on one trip,
My grandfather pointed out some
Pronghorn Antelope in the Sage brush,
Distance. This was back in the late 40's.
The land East of the Pumping Plant
Is now fenced off and his part of the
Yakima Firing Center.
My cousins and I would go hiking
There before the fence was erected.
We looked for petrified wood fragments.
On several occasions we would find small
logs or branches, 12 inches long. We would
retrieve and take them back to the main house.
The logs may still be there. I hope they are.

I am a simple man
with a complexed mind.
I write these words
to enable me
to cope with life's
reality and to deal
with this emotion,
deep inside, that
is worried by the
slow decline of
someone close to me,
who no longer
can use reason
or logic, to think.
I love this elderly
child, I see
is now a dependent
on our family and me.

Here I am, a Native Son,
Resisting the invasion that has begun.
I am small and shades of brown.
Now there are some Greys in town.
I run along the fence, so quickly,
Much faster than in a tree.
My name is Walter Earle,
I am a Native Washington Squirrel,
Not a Chipmunk, I must say
But a Native Squirrel, every day.
The invasion came, years ago.
Not sure how, but they did show.
Grey Squirrels, coming from the East,
Eating our food; it was a feast.
I fight very hard for specie survival
Against the Grey, my arch rival.
Who will win, that's hard to say,
But I know that I'm here to stay.

Old Clown
Promises he won't keep
Lie he must.

Where are you now, my mysterious child.
We met years ago, when we were wild.
In an age when long hair was offensive,
While the romance at times was pensive.
Do you remember the longest hair,
Bell bottom pants, tie dyed shirts to wear?
Those times of so called "Free Love"
With alcohol infused thoughts not from above,
Determined our views between right or wrong,
Many of our words became a protest song.

I don't wish to write about Politics.
I do want to comment on the dirty tricks.
I know for me, it's been awhile,
But Politics are so juvenile.
When lies are truths, according to them,
My mind coughs to get rid of mental phlegm.
Tell me please, what you will do.
Don't disparage all your opposition,
I only care about your personal opinion.

Navy life was a time for me,
To learn about life and our Country.
On board our ship DE699,
Life was good and it was fine.
A Destroyer Escort, the USS Marsh.
Built in Michigan, 1n 1941, I recall,
Floated down the Mississippi, for launch and all.
The Navy routine, at Sea or in Port,
Was a constant chore to maintain
The appearance of this Ship of ours
And we chipped and painted for hours.
Chip off the paint with a hammer,
Then use a steel brush,
Apply Red Lead, as a primer,
Then cover it all with Battleship Grey,
Put on in a slather.
This was an ongoing task for our Ship
As the pride for our Ship was Hip.
There were other tasks that we did too,
Depending upon specialty rate and you.
I was a Radarman Petty Officer 3
And the resident Postal Clerk for our DE.
Pick up the mail when we weren't at sea;
Selling stamps and money orders on pay day.
My Post Office was a nice little room
And gave me some space, the size of a tomb.
Those days, long gone, sometimes come to me
And I hear the "Sirens Call, Return to the Sea."

Do we rush into senility?
Is this life's final humility?
It is nothing, no futility
But will end a life in finality.

A spirit lies deep within
To help my resolve
As I face each day.
The sorrow I see
When she is awake,
Is more than this
Grown man can handle.
A confused look in her eyes
As she tries to recall
In her mind,
The pills she must take;
The things she must do.
Task that we do from rote
Are not there for her.
She can still shower
And dress herself,
But will sometimes
Ask for my help.
"Something is wrong", she'll say.
I'll respond, "Put on your shoes".
That's not always the case,
But my choices are few,
As some issues are
Clothing related.

I see your refection in the mirror.
You don't see me, as I stare.
A mirror is an object that captures
Images but retains them not.
You look in the mirror; See an image,
Then it's gone. Much like life
Is on these days of remembrance.
Why does the fragile nature of life
Cease to enrapture and keep
All those things we hold dear?