Words are peculiar.
Words which are spoken
your mind hears every day.
Words which are written,
may be corrected, if some
are in error or sound dumb.
An erasure of pencil
or where out of ink,
or deleted entirely,
faster than you can blink.
So choose wisely your words,
to avoid all embarrassment,
if your word choice is absurd.

The wail of a siren,
caught my aged ear.
Why does the sound
bring forth an old fear?
Volunteer fireman, what you were
in smaller communities,
when action was needed.
I stood and the siren did sound.
We followed the engine,
out of our small town.
A barn was on fire,
the flames were a roar.
We entered the barn,
to help set the horses free.
The fire was over,
the barn had burnt down,
but we didn't lose our animals
in this smallest old town.

A childish behavior,
is what I see,
as she goes around,
following me.
There is little rational thought
of where to go,
if it's right or not.
Most short term memory
is already missing, a lot.

My head is spinning.
My ears start to ring,
if I am not careful,
my heart will soon sing.
I answer the phone,
but no one is there,
just an aged person,
who when he walks,
looks like Fred Astaire,
as he bobs and wobbles,
down the path of his life,
trying to take care
of his beautiful wife.

Green light is starboard,
red light is port.
Green light is right,
red light is left.
A ladder is a stair,
a hatch is a door,
the floor is the deck,
ask me questions no more.

I will write no more tomorrow,
perhaps.
The thoughts in this mind is in a
match,
for control of my elusive emotions;
complicated,
I desire to do what's right for
her.

Inane questions
are asked of me.
Conversations abut
the border of insanity.

The life we live now,
is a rock strewn path.
Smooth walking at times,
stumbling progress we go,
down the road of sorrow,
slowly we stroll.
My heart is broken, again,
I have lost count,
for there are no words,
which are laying about,
for me to use, describing the pain.
I know from my past
it will take time to heal,
but heal, it certainly will.

The little things you notice.
She uses her spoon for eating
all things, as the fork has
become an unusable tool.
She adapts to the use,
I can see she is no fool.

My mind is a blank
palette, for me.
Words which I see,
written on the paper,
my want is to say,
a new love will come
to you if you try
and be the best person,
in this short, crazy life.

I have heard
the migratory call,
at early Dawn;
at twilight time,
as flocks of
Canadian Geese,
perform their ritual .
A precursor of what
will soon become,
as the geese sweep
the sky, telling us
of what is to come;
we have returned.

I remember my first attempt
at skipping a stone.
"Kerplunk" was the noise,
I heard all alone.
Finally I made my body
and forearm twist,
by throwing flatter
and a flick of my wrist.
The stone left my hand
at a shallow trajectory,
skipping across the water
as far as I could see.