I am a trained, dancing bear.
The ringmaster treats me well.
Watch me ride a scooter,
and balance on a ball.
I am the star attraction,
performing center stage—
but once the spotlight dies,
I’m returned to my cage.
Box-step, waltzing—
across the ring.
The crowd just loves
the “dancing bear” thing.
Though I am very tame,
don’t poke me with a stick.
Your arm will then be mine,
and you’ll likely get bit.
My handler shocks me,
teaching novel tricks.
I learned to hula-hoop,
but now I’m over it.
Box-step, waltzing—
gliding through the air.
The crowd applauds
the celebrity bear.
The carney men taunt me
after a night on the town.
They wouldn’t be so bold
if I weren’t chained down.
I dream of wild mountains,
wandering forest floors;
I’d fish mighty rivers
where I am caged no more.
Box-step, waltzing—
doing my thing.
The crowd just loves
the “dancing bear” thing.
Then the circus master
offers a golden chance;
he turns his back on me—
I grab him for a dance.
I’m a tent-clearing,
growling, grizzly bear.
Making headlines:
You Should’ve Been There!
—•0•—
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 11:19 AM UTC
I promised Alicia, when she was small,
we’d see Paris someday.
Stepping from an Uber onto Rue Clovis
and Descartes—
rubber soles meet cobblestones.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Chasing shadows up a spiral stair—
each footfall makes planks groan.
Does a racing heart, full of anticipation,
prove I’m here?
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Across the threshold—
patched stone walls,
a timber-beamed ceiling—
familiar to old-world eyes, not mine.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Bells call, the faithful and tourist alike.
I draw back red velvet curtains.
A cathedral tower peeks through
a centuries-old skyline.
Café voices suddenly hush.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Lifting latches, throwing windows wide—
we breathe the crisp winter air,
smell strong coffee.
Smaller, brighter
bells join in to lift us.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Hemingway’s Spanish beret strides by,
stirring blue doves into the sky.
No manuscript—
just looking for a clean, well-lit place to write.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Passing scooters hum
to Django’s two-fingered guitar.
Locals exchange nods
and line up for paper-wrapped loaves—
tempting every passerby.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Most astonishing of all—
a fruit-frosted cake arrives,
Alicia celebrates thirty;
she wears a diamond ring—Valentine.
Our delight is real—but no—
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 10:52 AM UTC
The Monster sits—bolts and plates, heavy on its tracks—“SP” tattooed across its face. Smoke puffs from its stacks stings my nose. We cling to Mother’s side, Brother and I, clutching our brown suitcases. A porter, sparkling with brass buttons, puts down a step box. Grandma presses sugar mints into my palm. Under her spell, I follow the wool scent of her coat as we board the beast. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more whistle, one more call, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Inside the crowded car, I complain, “It smells like cigarettes!” The floor rumbles—to people’s chatter, I listen, down the aisle. Grandma finds us empty seats. I wish to say, Mister Conductor Sir, please click-punch my ticket, so I can wave goodbye. Two short whistles echo on Maclay Street. The hulk shudders once, twice, then rolls forward. With big tears, my Brother leans into Grandma. She says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more tear, one more goodbye, one more echo from the valley’s past.
At the first crossing, the whistle blows: long–long–short–long. Bored-looking adults sit behind steering wheels, while excited kids smush their faces against the glass, or hang from windows, whoo-wooing and waving back. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more crossing, one more mile, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Just outside town, our window turns pitch-black. My Brother holds his breath to avoid the deadly tunnel gas, his face reddening before daylight fills the windows at Saugus Station. Onward—we climb into smooth, sun-colored hills. Giants, I tell him, sleep beneath earth’s covers. He laughs, but his eyes stay big and wide, watching the hills as if they might awake. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more climb, one more ridge, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Higher, we climb; the train chuffs through tunnel after tunnel, over trestles that sway, circling like a merry-go-round. The dining car’s special: bologna and mustard on white bread with lukewarm milk. I push it away—Grandma doesn’t mind. But I eat every bite of the apple pie—its sweetness helps me forget the bologna taste. I lick the crumbs from my sweater sleeves. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more sitting, one more taste, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Down into the flat valley we went, rolling past brown fields with giant black grasshoppers, their longish heads see-sawing, and soon croplands in perfect rows: almond trees standing in formation; carrot fields neatly combed and parted. Like clockwork, the great wheels would clack and hiss—“Bakersfield, folks—next stop,” the conductor calls. Passengers grab suitcases; newcomers rush to fill the warm seats. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more rumble, one more buzz, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Grandma digs in her purse, “Oh—almost forgot.” She presents us kids with a bag full of plastic men and wild creatures and a yo-yo. I toss the yo-yo straight down, snapping the string so it climbs without a wobble, just like the Duncan instructions say. The Conductor calls out the stops: “All aboard!” Delano, Pixley, Tulare Station. Blackbirds on fences become specks in the smoke trail. And Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, two more flag stops, one more station, one more echo from the valley’s past.
Grandma points out Pixley Park. “Your dad carved your mom’s name on that Valley Oak”—but I’m too busy shouting orders to look. “Cowboys charge—army men, cover them with fire!” My Brother lines up dinosaurs and growls, “We’ll crush your bazookas and eat all your men too!” His T-Rex, giraffes, elephants, and gorillas knock down the cavalry’s advance and the battle is on. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more charge, one more battle, one more echo from the valley’s past.
I don’t hear the Conductor announce the next stop, but in my heart, I know it’s Tulare—where I was born and where Grandma lives. Tulare comes out of the fog to show itself, the water tower floating in and out of sight—glimpses of the Tulare Theatre. I think I spot Ling Joe’s Café and Woolworth’s 5 and Dime. Brown-faced railroad men emerge from the iron gray. Grandma says, hammer hard, boys—keep that line alive, one more swing, one more try, secure that spike to the rail tie.
I see the workers’ shacks—curtains waving as we go by. I wonder if the railroaders will retire the way my Ta-Ta Tony did—leftovers from the old days—like the bologna sandwiches they fed us on the last hurrah of the Southern Pacific, San Joaquin Daylight. Young men, old men dressed in denim shirts, looking up with blank stares—ants with hammers, making sure the trains don’t fall off the tracks. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more whistle, one more blast, one more echo from the valley’s past.
—•0•—
Nov 24, 2025
Nov 24, 2025 at 3:22 PM UTC
I don’t claim to be a poet—
no illusions I’ll publish.
I just like to pen a verse,
maybe read it in public.
Just a wavering voice,
trying not to sound cliché.
My themes aren’t romantic,
or epic in any way.
If what I recite is drivel,
it won’t embarrass you.
But if you find you liked it,
a simple nod will do.
—•0•—
Nov 24, 2025
Nov 24, 2025 at 3:07 PM UTC
I find her sitting
alone in her room—
resting after
making the bed.
It took an hour
to get dressed and
comb her hair,
and now she’s tired.
“What day is it?”
she asks.
“It’s Sunday.,” I say,
let’s take a walk.”
She frowns.
I tell her
a bowl of oatmeal
is cooling
on the table.
It has blueberries,
shredded coconut,
and a hint
of maple syrup.
I prepare her meals,
or she won’t eat.
She doesn’t do that
for herself anymore.
Another ten minutes
go by. She disappears
into the bathroom
for the third time.
I check on her:
“
Mom, you okay?”
Making sure
she hasn’t fallen.
“I’m brushing
my hair,” she says,
fluffing it
before the mirror.
She has a cane
but wants to take my arm
for the short walk
to the breakfast table.
Her cereal, buttered toast
with strawberry jam,
her meds, and a glass of water
are at her place.
But she can’t find
her hearing aids—
until they’re found
in her pocket.
Before she takes a bite,
she asks, “Can I have
a napkin, please?” She can’t
eat without one.
“Yes, Mom,” I say,
realizing I’ve forgotten
to pour the tea.
She’ll ask for that next.
Sometimes I answer
with good patience.
Other days, my voice snaps—
sharp as a twig.
“What day is it,”
she asks.
Her almond-shaped eyes
constrict, having again,
misplaced time.
“Sunday,” I say.
“
It’s your birthday.”
She’s eighty-nine
saturated years.
Captured by a cloud
drifting past her window—
she finds wonderment
I’m too busy to share.
Oh, Cosmic Twin—
my celestial clock,
your timeless essence
touches the sky.
Mom just needs someone
to help ease old age
and suffering.
Is that so much to ask?
—•0•—
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 1:55 PM UTC
This thought occurred — behind the shed —
A blinding fog inside my head.
Barbed snags, held me there —
Each word a **** too deep to bear.
Silence washed in — time stood still.
The darkness passed — so too the chill.
The story’s end, sunlit leaves will write.
Till then — a shallow breath of life.
—•0•—
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 12:30 PM UTC
The doors are locked,
shades drawn.
No signs of life
stirring inside.
Out on the porch,
strike the knocker—
no one answers,
as if someone’s died.
I recall the hinges
swung wide open,
the hostess there waiting,
each room lit and alive.
She must’ve moved on,
neglecting to tell me—
or, perhaps, couldn’t
manage a goodbye
Now I must find
myself elsewhere;
the proprietress
left me an empty sky.
In the end, I wasn’t kin,
just a boarder—
privileges suspended,
a house closed tight.
—•0•—
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 10:19 AM UTC
Met on a hillside, to my surprise,
a rival appeared at my left side.
His stride long, glory of ’74,
two dueling foes, forged by the same sword.
The vigor of youth races with the sun.
I tried to rob my match of his fun,
but the path veered to his advantage,
the final kick—more than I could manage.
His lengthening stride low in the sun,
shadow’s running ahead—the race’s won;
our brief reunion sank into dusk,
till he pops up again—rising from the dust.
—•0•—
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 1:08 AM UTC
Falling cones from upper branches
scatter across the forest floor.
At the foot of the redwood,
Wildflowers thrive among ash.
Through cycles of time—
spire seeds, fallen blooms, and
windborne dust return to the soil,
their essence carried upward,
woven into the sentinel’s grain.
Standing tall—our dear one
is heartwood amongst old friends.
Hear his voice as branches stir.
Catch the flash of his smile in
sun light filtering down;
see stars dance across his
dew-laced mane.
Feel him near in the evergreen hush.
—•0•—
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 10:38 PM UTC
In gray, dreary months—
wood grain softens;
posts loosen in
standing puddles.
Furrowed by the yellow sun—
once firm, now brittle—
the fence leans again
after seasonal winds.
I wedge in stakes,
brace sagging sections—
too warped to set straight,
like ligaments of the knee.
“It’s time for a new fence,’”
I proclaim.
“Nah,” my neighbor shrugs,
“we can take the wobble out.”
He drives in heavy nails,
reattaches dog-eared pickets;
hammer taps boards,
for the dull and the hollow.
We mend aging joints
together, patch split planks.
Set it right for a while—
till the wind comes again.
The life of weathered wood
is reminder to us both.
We do what we’re meant to do—
for just a while longer.
—•0•—
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 10:52 PM UTC