Behind Me

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.

Water Life

Everything that’s water,
Seeks a downhill course…
Raindrops and my body
Heed the pull of Gravity’s force.

Melting in the gutter,
My raindrop friends and me…
Merge into one migration;
A churning river towards the sea.

All vegetation and societies,
Must bend to the same fate,
Time and gravity are partners,
All water must evaporate.

Abuse or Muse?

To my long time friend and author,
Living the good life from your books…
You are so damn lucky you made it
Without relying upon your looks.

The little twinkle in your eye,
As you’re bombing me with wit,
Amuses me while you reload,
Scoring yet another deadly (s)hit.

You are my muse, the irony,
The trip causing my every fall,
Fueling what feeds life’s wild ride,
Again, I am at your beckon call.

Shakespeare on the Island

There was a population here,
Of assorted pioneer’s sons,
Quoting William Shakespeare with ease,
His sonnets, the prose, the puns…

Farmers, a sheriff, a crook, an airman,
A horse trader, a chief, and the preacher:
They had one common person they hated,
The one-room school house teacher.

Successful men in their later life,
Most were veterans of the war…
All included the now cherished teacher,
When recalling their tales of yore.

The Flock of Arnold Freund

A churning flock of sandpipers,
Turns left, flying away in white,
Shapes pulsate, morphing into black
Each time the flock turns right.

They animate the skies above,
Whidbey shores like a strobe light…
Arnie, this was your memory,
Recalled by me, tonight.

I will share this with your children
An Island vision from your sight…
Hence every time the birds return
You will be retrieved from the night.

Bluegrass Left on the Greyhound Bus

The Old Time Fiddler’s rallied us,
Strumming their ballads in the street…
You put our love to music,
Making new heartbreaks seem upbeat.

We danced on skates to the music,
Played in an empty downtown garage,
George Jones echoing over Stockton,
From a third floor idling Dodge.

I often wonder what went wrong
Reflecting on those long past days;
Comfortably in a world removed,
Yet still missing your subtle ways.

Every song you wrote for me,
Left with you on the Greyhound bus,
Guy Clark lived a similar day,
(He wrote:)
“Sometimes the songs write us”...... amen

Our Shadows

Sometime after the snow thaws,
And the fruit trees bloom another day,
No one living will remember,
Routine required we pass this way.

Walking amongst the seagulls,
Our backs toward the morning light,
We scanned Penn Cove’s horizon
Inhaling ourselves into the night.

Perhaps the next life tenant,
Will for decades, with dog after dog…
Traverse this old cliff trail,
Borrowed from my travelogue.