Saturday, April 30, 2011
The island is dotted with blockhouses,
Scattered on every pioneer farm…
For protection in the new world,
Sheltering Whidbey settlers from harm.
Each blockhouse had multiple gun holes,
That were fortunately seldom used,
Some settlers married the Indian girls,
Most land encroachments were excused.
The fortresses now are reminders,
Of those lured to this beautiful space…
The simple precautions needed then,
Compared to our huge navy base.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Today, I looked at my old fish
Wondering what I would do
With the aquarium when he died.
I could really use the space.
Earlier I had wondered that day,
What would become of my life
When my dog Otis, dies.
It will be the end of me.
Then I thought of my mother,
Who after sixty-five years,
Awoke to a life without my father.
What a selfish bastard I am!
I never pursued another relationship,
Or entertained, “Just one last try”.
I selfishly protected myself,
From the pain of hearing “Goodbye”.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Today was not just my usual day of old.
There was no juicy Rib Eye steak, washed down with a cheap Merlot,
No baby potatoes with fresh parsley dripping from my fork,
In a waterfall of hot butter, while anticipating ice cream for dessert.
There was no second glass of wine,
Sipped with the shared laughter of friends.
No after dinner mints, cookies, or any damn sugar!
Again no third glass of wine, did I mention no laughter?
I wish I could give up this back pain,
That screams in its own loud voice;
Stopping my breath with each crippling spasm.
I can smell the floor when my nose is buried in carpet.
Age is like what I hear about heroin:
When you first taste the thrill, it is freedom.
The more you get however, the more it kills.
Both the sense of nirvana… and you.
Tonight I caught myself in the wardrobe's reflection,
Looking older, with time following close behind.
I didn’t celebrate much today, nor am I going to any party.
Behind the clock, a picture...of where I am living... one hundred years ago.