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Wednesday, November 16, 2016

A Simple Story (author unknown)

Chapter One
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost…I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
But it takes forever to find my way out
Chapter Two
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend that I don’t see it.
I fall in, again.
I can’t believe I am in this same place.
It isn’t my fault.
But it still takes a long time to get out.
Chapter Three
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I fall in…it is a habit…but now my eyes are wide open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.
Chapter Four
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
Chapter Five

I walk down a different street.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

A Line Messaging Poem


We so want to believe,
to realize and achieve
that one goal, just the one thing
that allows our hearts to sing.
We’re only here for God.

The seeds we sow,
in the soil to grow,
the effect will shine
in the plant divine,
affirming our presence in the flow.

Principles, values, contemplation
visioning, meditation. affirmation.
A perfect way of being,
less education, more simply seeing.
We live in Grace, so blessed, so awed.

Practicing Affirmative Prayer,
with Spirit everywhere.
First we treat,
then we move our feet.
God is all there is, we know.

Only we ourselves can free us,
as nobody else can be us.
What we think, we’ll eventually see,
assume it is and it will be.
We send love into the world, to all.

Abundance is our inheritance,
prosperity a state of mind.
Giving is often based on happenstance,
while it’s effortless to just be kind.
Our gifts are pure, unflawed.

It can be sacred, what we do.
How much you give returns to you.
The heartfelt gifts we bring
allow our souls to sing.
We let our generosity stand tall.

The center is always clear,
our limits always never there.
We forgive ourselves for doubt,
knowing Spirit is within, without.
We are one with God.

We prepare not to die,
but rather more to live,
life and death in the same place lie,
what our mirror to us does give.
We let thoughts of death slip away.

We lovingly and faithfully praise,
creatively and honestly bless.
Pure goodness shines through all haze.
as we smile completely. No more, no less.
Our lives abound with joy, each delightful day.

And Then Some

We’re only here for God,
affirming our presence in the flow.
We live in Grace, so blessed, so awed.
God is all there is, we know.
We send love into the world, to all.
Our gifts are pure, unflawed.
We let our  generosity stand tall.
We are one with God.
We let thoughts of death slip away.
Our lives abound with joy, each delightful day.

Saturday, October 29, 2016

Sonoma Wedding

Christine and Carl
under the trees,
with all their friends
and both families.
The weather was perfect,
the spirits were gay,
a vineyard location for
their grand wedding day.
The speeches were heartfelt,
the catering divine,
the mosh pit was raucus,
jump-dancing so fine.
The bride was on fire
in her beautiful gown,
so lovely even gravity
could not get her down.
The groom and his mom
danced to Friends in Low Places,
while their pals in the distance
sang with smiles on their faces..
The old folks did their job,
mostly sitting and applauding,
and most of them did so
without even nodding.
With a basket of smiles,
perhaps a few tears,
all that’s left is to

wish you 100 great years.

Monday, October 17, 2016

Hello my friends and readers

sorry about the dearth of recent posts...been doing a whole lot of other writing and journaling these days...taking a college-level class at Seaside Center for Spiritual Living and my PTSD treatment continues (marvelously), and I have daily homework for that as well...making many notes in my poetry journal and should again start writing and posting poetry soon

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

This Year

I’ve reached the age where
life becomes conditional,
largely ephemeral,
most things provisionary,
all things temporary.
the big things,
the small stuff,
it’s a time when I’ve
earned, owned, had enough.
Now, everything’s contingent on
the time remaining,
a simple fact of life,
each day self-sustaining,
sometimes in joy,
others with strife.
No matter the years,
the many, the few,
it’s simply the truth,
we’re all just passing through,
briefly posed between
two eternities,
and that, my friends,
is the year’s only certainty.
If there’s a year ahead,
what to do?
Read another book?
See another movie?
Walk another beach?
Or, boldly experiment
with something new.
Maybe I’ll just think about it.
For a while.


A CRYSTALLINE is a two line image poem, often with a title, in which euphony is the key factor. The lines will have 8 or 9 syllables to make a total of seventeen.


Summer’s season too soon leaves us.

Autumn’s arrival awaits, offstage.

Sunday, August 28, 2016

In the End

The night moon waits, lingering,
behind the evening clouds.
It was only noon
a few minutes ago,
sun shining,
 largely with hope.
The day moon looked on then too,
faint but present,
with portents of things to come,
easily ignored by most of us.

When our final moment arrives,
as it assuredly must,
with a light brighter than
the moon and  stars,
it will be in the middle of the night.
No matter the time.
One will know the past
ended last night,
and in the end,
our lives are simply stories,
and night comes all too soon.

The world will proceed
with its plan.

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Genius Inside

Every four years,
near summer’s end,
the world focuses
on sports, on athletics.
For me, awaiting fall,
there’s more to enjoy,
like art and beauty,
nature, aesthetics.
We can’t all be runners  
and leapers and such,
especially us old folks,
it would just be too much.
Yet, as our own personal
autumn nears,
there’s joy to be found,
no mere dollop of pride,
we each have some genius,
an artist inside.
We’re each an Olympian,
merely needing the temerity,
to claim our abundance,
our joy and prosperity.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

one from Tom Hayes

Grecian Earned

Okauchee born, lucky lad,
appreciative of what he had,
and then -
the battle's test,
a needed rest,
a soul-mate best,
and feelin blessed,
all markers on a lifeline.
Family and friends,
it twists and bends.
Now moving on
beyond the fears.
There's unfinished business.
Peace , poems and pita.
Celebrate life - Opah!

Thursday, August 11, 2016

Pax Tecum

We might drink of the cup of peace,
in this maelstrom of hate, lies unfurled.
We could do so simply, with ease,
disregarding the insults now hurled,
drink to peaceful change in the world.

Some say there’s too much hate there,
that we have no chance,
no hope, not a prayer.
I say we can, in fact we must, please.
We might drink of the cup of peace.

Some say we have to do something,
fight back in this violent world.
I say we should all
find an anchor
in this maelstrom of hate, lies unfurled.

Some say there’ too much anger,
too much worry and danger,
too many obstacles to peace.
I say, of course it looks impossible, but
we could do so simply, with ease.

Some say we answer in kind,
those who seem out of their minds.
I say just let them rant,
with their nevers, their nonsense, their can’ts,
disregarding the insults now hurled.

Some say there is no answer,
no reasonable response which just flows.
I say simply put nothing on the bar
but your elbows,
drink to peaceful change in the world.


“Ram, Ram”, he said,
said it aloud,
“Ram”, the Hindu
word for God.
Non-violent leader
of a violent nation,
shot dead by a fanatic
in a railway station.
Shot three times
in his stomach and chest,
independence would follow,
but you know the rest.
He had fasted, walked freely,
aware of the danger,
yet he died with a smile,
no hatred, no anger.
His hands in front of him,
prayerful and steady,
“Ram, Ram”, he said,
“God, God”, he was ready. 

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Windback Wednesday - Blue Mirror

She asked about the blue mirror we
had moved a few times but never
used, so I told her the story of how,
from the time I was four or five,
my mother would put it on the four
by five cedar chest we used as a
table, and at Christmas time, we'd
put snow and little people on it to
make a festive scene.
I'm 72 now, and through the years,
a lot of stuff has disappeared, like
lamps and photos and baseball cards, and
people, too. I've lost dogs and cats, some
car keys, the home I grew up in, even
my mother, who died suddenly one
September, and we didn't have Christmas
after that for a long time, what with
sadness, and later, war, for me.

I never lost that blue mirror, though.
Then I met her, and I had very little
stuff, but I had her, and that was enough
for me. Her family was big on Christmas,
and, after we returned from our December
honeymoon, her baby sister put the
ornaments on their tree, the ones made with
a glitter and a glue stick, the ones with
everybody's names on them, and we were
the last ones to go up, smack dab in the
center front, with much oohing, ahing and smiling.
My dad was there, our first Christmas in
forever. It was cold, really cold, but
our hearts melted.

So, the blue mirror, remember? After
we moved to a town with lots of folks,
one where we could have visitors, we
started to decorate excessively. Too much
was still not enough, with wreaths and
themed trees and garland and such. she
said we should bring out the blue mirror and
make a scene, so we went looking for
fake snow and little trees and people
Then Department 56 happened,
and a train set happened,
and more Department 56 happened,
and I built display tables and drilled holes
and did dangerous, overloaded wiring
and it was big and grand and good,
and all of our friends loved it,
and more Department 56 happened,
and a storage locker to hold it all happened.

I think I mentioned that I'm 72 now,
those boxes and tables got heavier,
that wiring got more painful to connect,.
we've lost a few more people,
there's this talk about voluntary simplicity.
Still have that blue mirror, though.
I think soon we'll start a new tradition,
borrow from the past, bring out the older,
garage sale the newer.
But, then, there's the crazy
Krinkles accessories,
and all the Santa ornaments,
and the clowns
and the reindeer
and the angels.

Oh, what the heck, one more year.
I think we can find room for
a blue mirror

Sunday, August 7, 2016

Being There

I’m nearly seventy-two
and he wants a list
Another list? 
A birthday wish list?
I know, I know,
what would our friend Walt do?
He’d write and write and write,
and they’d all be great,
and they’d all be interesting,
and we’d all read them
and we’d all have ink envy…again.

I mean, I have lots of stories,
lots of lists, so
that’s no problem, and
it’s too late now to worry about
too much exposure, but, let’s see…

Maybe we could talk more than we do,
though we don’t seem to need to.
Maybe we could buy me some new clothes,
have me dress more fabulously,
but I’d just wear tee shirts anyhow.
Maybe we could dance the night away,
stay out late, make some noise,
but bedtime’s when the music starts,
so, you know…
Maybe we could go to parties,
hit a beach Bar-B-Q,
but a couple friends at home or lunch
is way more comfy.

Wait, I know…
maybe we could forget about lists,
bucket or otherwise.
Maybe we could simply enjoy this
present moment,
beautiful moment,
wonderful moment.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

The Backyard

this is a form new to me, called a

Byr a Thoddaid

I sit calmly on a June day,
eyeing the hummingbird highway,
speed freak avians zip and dive,
competing for sweets, alive with color.

They feed or die, small-hearted birds.
I sense their grace, try to find words
which would perfectly fit, aptly describe
the thoughts inside their heads.

Of course, I fail, my dear reader,
awed by the crowd at the feeder,
displaying their brilliance,
they dance in the sky that is theirs alone.

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Fall of '67 (a Quadrille)

It’s o-dark-thirty, I’m flying,
death surely on its way,
I see my mother,
dead nine years.
I am no longer matter.
Go back, you can’t stay,
still work for you,
important matters. 
Easy now to understand, 
the work is peace,
all that really matters.

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Sunrise, Sunset

There are no more dragons,
so they say,
and we are all the poorer for it,
come what may.
What wondrous flight
they might have taken,
by day or night,
on some far isle alight,
to lay down eggs, begetting
life of power and might,
with fiery roar
upon that distant shore.
The ancients toiled
in fear and strife,
eyeing magic in the sky,
a daily challenge to their life,
with majesty at wing,
lustrous green and gold,
but not for you and I, they sing,
there are no more dragons,
we are told.
How sad for modern man,
facing the sunset of an
evolutionary scheme,
or perhaps, it is
simply in God’s plan,
that we don’t grandly dream.

Saturday, July 30, 2016

Summer of '67

How long does it take,
I wonder,
for a war to become
a tourist attraction?
What’s the rotation time,
I ponder,
for foxholes to fill in,

The only war that matters
is the one you fought in.
All warriors know this.
So many wars,
yet only one was the worst.
It’s the one you fought in.
Because it happened to you.

That year I went to war,
all thrumming energy,
rising above the cacophony,
struggling beneath the fear,
wishing mightily to be invisible,
knowing I had put myself there,
the trace elements of ego
so visible in God’s microscope.

For a little while,
I died that day long ago,
thought I was going home,
no sadness, no fear,
no swell of clinging to what’s here.
Day and night,
the bombs cast their light,
yet from tunnel bright
a chiming bell,
calling my return to
the work undone.

Time enough remained
for service and, more,
for pain, guilt, lessons
still to master, before
this life’s final peace
brings an end to war.

Friday, July 29, 2016


Lullabies, Classical, Blues and Scat,
Be-bop, Jazz, Funk like that.
Country. Bluegrass, Rock and Roll,
Opera, Calypso, Rap for the soul.
Afro Cuban, Orchestral, New Wave,
Honky Tonk, Broadway, Ska for the brave.
It don’t matter what form it might take
Life without music would be a mistake


Da Vinci declared
that within the we
are included
those who see,
also those who
see when shown,
living among
their very own.
it is also true
that, in addition
to these two,
there are those
who can not see.
Keep the first and second.
Lose number three.

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Village of Okauchee

They still do fish fry
in every corner tap
on Friday nights,
and all the restaurants
dim the lights,
have an overpriced
family style, la-di-dah flap.
It’s not all fried, but it’s
mostly frozen cod,
and there’s too many potato choices
and, yes, my god,
they even serve salads
instead of creamy cole slaw,
if you ask,
which, honestly, should be
against the law. Really.
Growing up in a country village,
there were only a few choices,
Magowan’s and Roundy’s
and my family’s favorite,
by a chorus of voices,
Stitch & Mary’s on the lake,
with all the joy
anyone could take.
Friday was fish,
always perch, always fried,
and fries and cole slaw and little rye rounds.
Saturday was chicken,
always fried, to put on the pounds,
and mashed potatoes and overcooked squash.
The men all smoked, the woman danced,
we kids played pinball, easily entranced,
and drank some deliciously sweet lemon drink
that led to type two diabetes, I think.
No wine that I remember,
but lots of beer for the older ones,
and usually an Old Fashioned,
just to top off the fun.
Sunday was church and a picnic,
But not in the winter,
and sometimes not the church part either.
I’m pretty sure
none of this was healthy,
but living where
we do now,
with lots of specialties
but no traditions, no wow,
the memories are savory,
the recollections sweet,
and somehow we’re still standing
on dream-filled feet.

Wednesday, July 27, 2016


Brown season is here
There’s smoke on the horizon
We must mend the roof

White snow still on peaks
Summer thirsts for its melting
Let’s clean the windows

Orange Navels are eaten
Valencia’s unfavored
What of the apples?

Red flowers open
Pomegranates in waiting
We must make sun tea

Pink roses whisper
Bougainvilleas scream color
Pastels still enchant

Spring’s colors faded
Summer blooms now in season
Seedlings need water

Epi’s bloom briefly
Cactus flowers much the same

I must call my Friends

Tuesday, July 26, 2016


When one can not
find an exit in the fog,
one might stop,
sit in meditation,
in quiet contemplation.
In doing so, one can
discover unexpected moments
with a beauty all their own.
To survive the fog,
one must be willing
to become oneself,
to trust.
Like a blind dog, running
headlong into the dark,
one must accept whatever comes,
including the brilliant phosphorescence
of a new way of seeing the world.
To escape the pea soup
of not knowing,
simply make room for everything,
joy, grief, misery, relief.
As a spider weaving a web,
starting from nothing,
first grasp the difference
between silence
and simply being quiet.

Monday, July 25, 2016

A Few Earthly Delights

If it was mine, I’d have given her the world,
everything in great shape, shiny, like new,
and she’d probably have liked that,
would have appreciated it too.
But I have owned so little of it,
not much of it mine,
so I have given her instead,
a daily homemade valentine.
In the past, my gifts have varied,
some patchouli oil, some seeds,
like for the Cosmos I didn’t care for,
but flowers perfect for her needs.
I’m a bit wiser now,
(well older anyhow),
still own little of the world today,
and what’s it matter anyway?
I recently located the best gift of all,
better than top shelf or anything up above,
almost forty-six years into marriage,
I’ve never been more in love.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

On a Sunday in Summer

On a sunny, summer Sunday,
I throw on my cleanest finery,
which, as it turns out,
doesn’t have much to say for itself.
It’s fine, though, I’m still up for listening,
headed to one of my safe places,
the most spiritual of spaces,
seeking some joyful calm,
a message of balm,
leaving struggle at the door,
feeling peace, and what’s more,
finding a non-anxious presence
in an anxious world,
hearing that still, small voice,
its beauty unfurled.

It’s Sunday at Seaside,
where love and good and light,
are real in our life,
just as real as toil and strife,
where “effortless effort”
is written in invisible ink
on our nonexistent name tags.
There’s music and prayer and meditation,
a break from the madness, a soulful vacation.

I have no name for the effect,
but I do know what to expect.
Others will speak, I will listen,
and an unseen current
will course through me,
and I will see
that change is challenging
but hope is tangible,
and grace is possible.

Saturday, July 23, 2016

Still Dreaming, But...

Thought some about retirement,
working 24/7 in those early days
also about quietly basking
in a summer sun’s rays.
First had to put nuts away
for the long winter ahead,
fussing about future finances,
about a more secure homestead.
The work’s been done for a while,
and there’ve been homesteads eight,
all of them quite nice,
a few of really great.
Now late winter approaches,
there’re still nuts in the bank.
We’ve had a lot of good luck
and some hard work to thank.
That doesn’t mean, though,
that we’ve stopped our dreaming,
occasionally planning
and adventure scheming.
We have more time now
for the things we hold dear,
but not for future fussing,
the future’s already here.
So, what of past thoughts,
when we thought we might roam,
well, to tell you the truth, it’s
just easier to stay home.