Contributor Posts

I'm writing these words,
a line in repose,
with a scratchy pen,
impeding the flow,
of the word creations,
filling row after row.

I've found
it's not the fall
which hurts,
but hitting the ground
where stone and rock
brings a new word to me.
It's embarrassing shock,
to find yourself,
down in the yard.
Who knew a rock
was this darn hard.
A very small bruise,
at the top of my hip.
Why didn't it break?
I will never know,
except to avoid stairs,
wherever I go.

A lone, single hand
was resting at four.
A minute hand working;
doing it's chore.
The hour hand was missing,
unable to find it's place
in the correct position,
on the clock face.
What time is it?
someone would yell,
it is 20 minutes after something
is all I can tell.

When I grow old,
getting in the way,
please treat me kindly,
keeping embarrassment at bay.
I may be quite slow,
but dumb I am not.
Having more knowledge
than you, but I just forgot.

Drink = I did imbibe.
Drank = I imbibed more.
Drunk = I'm on the floor.

When was the day,
where was the fear?
Was victory close,
to being here?
I don't know, but found,
my mind has gone,
short to ground.
Talk not to me about Apps,
when my brain is functioning
with an intermittent synapse.

Recently, my wife and I joined two other couples for a two-week vacation to see all five of Utah’s national parks. Utahns like to refer to them as “The Mighty Five.” I prefer to call them “a complete waste of time.”
Oh sure, if hiking in stunning, majestic outdoor scenery among 2,000 foot cliffs created 65 million years ago, where once an inland sea covered everything, and climbing up to gaze out on stunning panoramas unlike anything you've ever seen in your life is your cup of tea, then, perhaps you might actually enjoy this experience.
But if you ask me, they don't live up to the hype. The Wi-Fi was non-existent, and good luck finding a Starbucks anywhere along the trail. Read my complete evaluation and decide for yourself.

A plethora
of return labels,
with my name and address,
is crowding the space
at workstation and desk.
Send the labels; a nice touch
but fewer people use the mail
and your gift is too much.
If you want more money,
please say you do.
Quit sending the labels
which we seldom use.

A dot,
a period,
a space in time.
An era,
a place in line.
A gap,
an opening,
a portal,
a gate to go,
an age,
a date,
an object to show.
A word,
a sentence,
a paragraph below,
a time,
a life, so low,
a love
as others
and those you know.

Can a dust jacket be yellow
and become a yellowjacket?

I was at the opening of new works by one of our local oil painters at
the South End Fine Art Gallery and Expresso Shoppe. As always it’s a
guaranteed large crowd, mostly us artists and a few of our friends and
occasionally a patron or two. Regina, the gallery owner and latte
barista, always provides liberal winepours and enough hors d’oeuvres to
hold back rickets among the starving artists another week or so.

I was admiring a fine piece titled, tantalizingly enough, “Sailboat at
Sunset #56”, one of a series I’m guessing of at least 56 or more, when a
couple jostled me out of the way for a better view. I didn’t really
mind moving on, after all, there were plenty more similar offerings, but
the gentleman of the pair had caused me to spill my merlot onto the
sleeve of my last presentable Goodwill shirt, then gave me a cursory
‘scuse me,’ that sounded vaguely like ‘sue me’ before steering his
companion and her jangling earrings into the appropriate viewing angle. A
moment later they were discussing perspective and complimentary
colorations, the expressively bold brushstrokes of the sails, the
minimalist way the artist had captured the shimmer of the sea, and of
course, the price, anything BUT minimalist.

“I may not know art, ”my jostler said, sipping daintily on a white wine from his plastic
glass, “but I know what I like.” He was quite pleased at this knowledge,
no doubt gained with considerable effort. His companion wagged an
earlobe with a windchime banging to life, evidently in total agreement
with both of us on this aesthetic declaration.

I guess I was still miffed about the impromptu dye job on my best shirt, or maybe it’s just
a character flaw deeper than any fabric stain, but I smiled winningly
and said out of the cerulean blue, “I don’t know much about
biochemistry, but I sure know a good clone when I see one.” This caused
some raised eyebrows, a rolling of the eyes and the beginning of distant
alarm bells that would soon drown out the jangling jewelry. For good
measure I added, “I don’t know much about history either, but hey, I
love a good war. I know what I like.”

So okay, I cost Regina a commission and I should feel bad about that. Probably cost the artist a
sale and I should feel worse about that, but I don’t. I do happen to
know something about art, and I know what I don’t like. I guess it’s
okay to buy what you do; I just don’t think we should be proud of our
ignorance. Then again, what the hell do I know?

Visit the Skeeter Daddle Site

When your hair is shorn,
it sounds like you're a sheep.
If you have been sheared,
did it happen when asleep?