Happy Birthday,
my mother, dear.
Missing you, so,
wish you were here.

You have been gone,
now seventeen years.
Please help me,
calm my fears.

Residents wander
around the floor,
searching for those,
not with us, anymore.

It was wet,
speed too fast.
Driving like this,
wouldn't last.

Tires were sliding,
across pavement and stone.
He was thankful,
he was driving alone.

Spinning, he was,
the car left the road,
somersaulting over
the ditch. Losing his load.

The light shone,
in her brown eyes.
She squinted, eyes tight.
Her smile was bright.

My father was a Ford man, most of his life.
We lived in Seattle, Dad was working for Todd's
Shipyard, in West Seattle.

We moved to Riverton Heights. He bought a Trailer
Park and went to work, at a Ford Dealership, in Renton.
I remember, when he brought home a 1949, Ford, 4 door
sedan. Stick shift, on the steering column and a V-8.
it was a treat.

We relocated, East of the Cascade Mountains. I remember,
as I had enrolled at O'Dea and was disappointed, as we were
leaving my friends.

Dad opened an Electrical Contracting business and all of his
trucks were Ford. I specifically remember a pickup truck, 1951.

Dad had passed away, several years later, and my younger brother, drove up in a
Chevrolet. I could visualize our dad, spinning in his casket,
when that news broke.
Funny how your mind works, when happenings pop up although,
you hadn't thought about it in years.

My emotions are
raw as a sore.
When I see her
I must have more.

She wants to
stay with me,
this I can't do,
were no longer we.

When does indifference,
become disdain?
When does sorrow
turn to pain?

When does Sun
turn to rain?
When will love,
no longer remain?

Foolish questions?
I think not,
when love is gone,
it is no longer sought.

Sitting at dinner,
with my bride.
She says to me,
"You are my love."

Needless to say,
I choked, eyes wet,
no tears flowed,
I recall when we met.

As I've gotten older,
a feeling I get,
I've been ridden hard
and put away wet

An RKO, red wagon,
all shiny and red,
fun to play with
once out of bed.

A wagon, all full
with new toys
to play with, for
young girls and boys.

Up jumped the Devil,
with the green dress on.
Long did I travel,
to find my true one.

A hundred drums,
beat through the night,
as indigenous tribes,
prepared for a fight.

Tribes were wronged,
by the Settler crowd.
Drums were the method
of protesting, out loud.

Settlers, began
closing the gate,
in fear of an uprising.
They were too late.

Justice will be served,
came forth the cry.
Justice will become,
"An eye for an eye."

Turmoil and trouble,
was now all around,
as drums beat on,
a horrible sound.