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Retired for many years and now re-discovering some writings, from long ago, along with new endeavor to help save my soul.

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No one will tell you, I do suppose
They know where the Red Fern grows.
High in the mountains, into the dale,
Following the path of an unmarked trail.
Down through the valley, into the glade,
It's a dangerous journey that you have made.
Past the shadows, down by the spring,
What's seen next, is a beautiful thing.
Moss covered rocks; downed logs in repose,
This is where the Red Fern grows.
Magical indeed is the sight of the scene,
Where the love of another, does not demean
What should be years, months, days and hours
Of caring for others, in this World of ours.
This wonderous place of beauty, I propose,
That all see where the Red Fern Grows.

Inspired by the Novel, Where the Red Fern Grows
By Wilson Rawls, 1961

I hear an echo of words from the past.
I'm writing them down; as they come too fast.
Down to the paper where they stick like glue.
Some are good but they number a few.
Words can be like chaff in the hay,
Some last forever, some gone on this day.
The echo of words, I hear in a song,
Brings back the voice of my Father
Who for many years has been gone.
Words that are not laced with fear
But old words that I hold most dear.

I have been here for quite awhile
And I always did, like to smile,
Seeing all the grey squirrels at play.
I would feed them every day,
Unsalted peanuts, in the shell,
Not realizing the landscaping hell,
That awaited me on the ground.

Discarded peanut shells did abound,
All over the garden and planting space.
The very puzzled look on my face,
When finding what I had begot,
As peanut shells aren't inclined to rot.
I still wanted some peanuts to feed,
So I pulled nuts from the bird seed.
They were in the garage in a bag,
And I passed by noticing a sag.
I knew that something was nigh,
The hole in the bag, had caught my eye.
I fixed that problem by buying a bin
Of plastic, to keep the bird food in.
It wasn't too long, for notice I did,
That a squirrel had chewed on the lid.
Clever creatures they are, my thought to begin
So I purchased a small container, made of tin.
I no longer provide nuts, you see
And the squirrels no longer visit with me.

I love you my darling
You know that I do,
But the missing emotions
Are not, like you.
The sadness, when we are apart
Is slowly breaking my heart.
My body is beginning to ache.
My emotions lie inside and forsake
Our closeness and I hope that you see,
My love remains very strong for thee.

After the great World War, WW II
My Dad bought a tavern
On 45th Ave, close to the U.
The name I recall, from the past
Was the Looking Glass.
A small little place
For as you walked in the door,
The bar was on the left
And booths on the right.
It wasn't unusual
For the Veterans to fight.
I would go with my Dad
After church, on Sunday morn
And sit at the bar
As Dad worked. I drank a coke
And could smell the sour spilled beer.
Vivid memories, do my mind clog,
I ate a pickled Polish Dog.
Years have passed
And the Tavern is still there,
With a different name.
Stopped in one time on our way
From a Soccer match at Lower Woodland.
Same place, Walk in the door
Bar on the left and booths on the right.
Had a small beer, but skipped the dog
A great memory for that night.

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