Tuesday, February 25, 2014


Short sleeved golf shirts, turned up collar,
Alligator logos made the man…
I only modeled the color white,
Or yellow, to show off the tan.

Occasionally I would veer off style,
Wearing Polo, as the logical switch…
Looking cool was a full time job,
I was one vain son-of-a-bitch.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

A Boy in Dog Years

My new Boxer, Roscoe, is ten years old, and already graying in the muzzle, sporting a look of wisdom that only age can imply. Yet, 

If Roscoe were a real boy, he would have mastered his skills on a ten speed bike, and explored all the area creeks for tadpoles and crawdads. 

He would have whined and aggressively procrastinated beginning his fifth grade writing assignment on U.S. presidents. He would already have buried a pet and had a friend break his heart. 

Roscoe as a real boy, would have loved coming home and smelling spaghetti for dinner and watching the Three Stooges before he was ordered to set the table.
He also would have rather died than take a car trip with his parents. Died! But,

Roscoe isn’t a real boy.  He gladly loves any car trip with his dad, and explores his changing world from the front seat of a car. A soda cracker is his idea of heaven.  

His only responsibility is to be comfortable, a job he performs wonderfully on a giant pillow in front of the fire lit hearth.  He loves walking in the snow, and remembers to sniff the fresh spring flowers as they first display their fragrant blooms. 

Because he isn’t a real boy, he will be elderly in the eighth grade… and very wise.

Tuesday, February 18, 2014


Our discussion today was aging;
Waning interest in our collections…
The quest now to be less encumbered,
Means abandoning past obsessions.

What do we do with our agates,
Hoarded in jars, from the public’s reach?
Our unanimous moral decision
Was to toss them back on the beach.

Friday, February 14, 2014

Happy Hour at Sade's, Carmel

The song played at Sadie’s Happy Hour,
Was the most beautiful we’d ever heard.
“Non Si Vive Cosí” ,  by Iglesias;
Yet we didn’t understand one word.

All on the cusp of middle age,
At the end of our “Working Vacations”,
Our hearts ran free for one last night,
When life needed no translations. 

"Nobody can live like that anymore".  (Translation)
The lyrics warned, but none of us knew...
Thirty years later, each of us learned
Beautiful, sad songs are usually true.  


Friday, February 7, 2014

Folk Songs

Our ethics discovered in folk songs,
We trusted they sang the truth;
Won battles blended from the past,
With fantastic new dreams of youth.

The lyrics of the protest songs,
Planted us firmly on solid ground…
We were bulldozers marching to freedom;
Elusive liberties, we've still not found.

Aging, defecting from the race,
It is time to pass the baton…
We drop it on to a vacant track;
Seems the values and dreamers are gone.