moments enjoyed when
the house is softly quiet

no sounds to be heard
yet this stillness speaks to me

calming my spirit
removing agitation

sleeping nightly deep
becoming safely encased
within strong arms of quiet

i have out lived life
everything i had is gone,
only memories
i carry now, rest my home
as i once upon lived life

leaving summer’s heat
a pink flamingo flew south
then danced on white snow

shannon is not gone
part of her passed unto you
life is forever

looking for a space
among blue florida keys
to watch passing clouds
rising, falling then changing
from white to vivid pastels

the firefly cometh
glowing hot in july nights
summer is passing

unseen arriving
turns silent night’s foggy air
light shadows figures

trials are many
the goal just get though today

i do not know what
tomorrow will bring us, but
at least it is tomorrow

in horror, people cried
ducks were waddling on the edge
quacking, off they flew

word usage be wise
for the universe feels both
spoken, unspoken

happily writing

i had dreamed of wanting to get away from everything and everyone. just to become myself. to find myself. to create. no distractions. no interruptions. a romantic life.

never saw myself as an office bee. felt more of a free-spirited soul. yet that was not the journey charted. went inside and most everything died. a lack of sunlight i guess. yet not quite all. a pilot flame burned on.

strange how life wonders about. never in a straight line. never how we planned or expected. so here i am nearing the end of my office career. looking for something to help fill that void.

in my spare time began writing poetry. plans call for that to continue after leaving the hive. i am as surprised as anyone at this turn of events.

being the first to say i can not spell. never liked english classes. never have enjoyed reading. speaking? pronunciation always trips me up. never was good at writing. long it still takes to write a single line. going digital must have saved a million trees from landfills.

writing poetry brings enjoyment. i do publish to websites for anyone to read. if they like my works great. if not they move on.

my mind is not as sharp as it was. truth be told. never was it sharp to start with. with writing i hope it helps.

a few scores later no longer wanting to live a hermit’s life. not on the side of a mountain. nor upon a wind and rain swept island.

realizing interaction is needed to draw inspiration from. being surrounded by and observing life is always better than imagining.

making a small home my retreat. where i can slip away to but not isolate. in a scottish village. in the english countryside among the lake district. on a florida key or a barrier island. within a tall hobbit home.

someplace where i can stretch my legs. open the windows and wonder with bare feet.

hemingway had it right. so here i sit happily writing.

a lost soul that dreams
oh to live a poet’s prose life
pen and pad in hand

shiny wind chimes hang
though a breezeless summer day
silently sleeping

it happened today,
without hesitation, time
simply continued

the west embodies
the simplicity of dry

dirt. dust. sweat. bleached bones.
open spaces. strong angles.

weathered skin. pale wood.
abandoned mines. strong contrasts.

scrub brush. deep shadows.
unforgiving lands. ghost towns.

hard light. endless sky.
lighting strikes. wild fires. veiled springs.

dry wells. windswept paint.
tumble weeds. rusty barb wire.

cracked paint. endless roads.
crumbling lonesome wind towers.

canyons grand and slit.
mountains. peaks. vistas. plateaus.

the west is simple
the west is bewildering
a simplicity of dry

reckless abandon
as early birds splash and bathe
liquid diamonds fly

an alarm goes off
again a clock hit its mark
ending restless sleep

north’s pale april sun
a faint, hazy, chilly sun
low in long shadows

marking all world’s edge
far cumulonimbus rise,
beyond uncharted
galaxies of light appear
floating high in soft blue sky

outside my window
frogs sing out to each other,
i am lost within
hidden words in foreign keys
hidden chants in deep, low notes

i sit back, eyes closed
feeling the sun’s tranquil warmth
envelope me whole

in talking to a
manatee an alluring
fact became confessed
rained upon they do not like
such irony i did think

how will it all end
under ukrainian blue

of an ancient land
freedoms are dust on rubble

dreams, hopes, place, and lives
lay shattered among glass shards

only wanting their
country for life and culture

how will it all end
under ukrainian blue

how will it all end
on ukrainian yellow

after countless red
has been spilled upon its soil

death in destruction
has been brought upon its land

scorched, burned, barren lies
a once rich, plentiful land

how will it all end
on ukrainian yellow

by a crazed bald bear
its land brutalized, swallowed

normal life becomes
mass graves, running terrified

its people scattered
among four distant corners

how will it all end
under ukrainian blue
on ukrainian yellow

am getting older
affairs are in disorder
am not looking back

seven days ago
spring’s start was celebrated
then heavy snows fell
winter ignored the memo
the marching band carried on

burnt orange, teal trim
beach cottage apparel splashed
against pastel clouds

it was fun, given
up freely for growing old
so much in life is

on sidewalks rain falls
creating a leopard look
fading into gray

ticks forward

i grew up knowing of the doomsday clock. hearing it tick. accepting it, but knowing people were working to make sure never would midnight ring.

today people seem to be working hard for midnight to sound. ones that would have tried to avoid such an event before. wanting to have the world slip back into another era of evil. though they will deny it.

another era whose legacy will be millions of faultless lives extinguished.

after all cried, never again, the world has forgotten, become distracted, begun living in denial. it sits ready for the command to reignite the flames of destruction.

here i stand nearing the end of my time witnessing mankind’s journey. dejected and wondering, what have the reasons been for in overcoming countless struggles.

when they become forgotten. when lessons are never learned. when sacrifice no longer matters.

so much good wasted. so many innocent lives taken. so much pain and heartache endured.

always for personal, megalomaniac, grandiose reasons.

the clock ticks forward
never again now ignored
midnight is at hand

outside wicked things
like manatees and dragonflies
truly lurk about,
tricksters known for much no good,
tickling little toes
walking on little noses
messing with your hair
buzzing all over your ears
splashing faces wet
with forceful tails, wings and fins,
manatees love to sneak
a kiss, so watch out they have
a muzzle that is
abrasive beyond belief,
learned trust not those that
are of restless heart and soul
such as these lively
manatees and dragonflies that
dart endlessly point to point

mercifully short
still february lingers
under cold, wind clouds

deep, gray sky backdrops
golden wheat in soft, dusk sun
ends a day of storms

the song is faulty
everyone does not want to
rule the world, not i,
just want to be left along
in the world to live and love

life is serious
living not, enjoy its ride
once upon a time

leaving

a wave of time nears. futile it will become trying to stay ahead. yet choosing to rerun this losing race. convinced this time you will win.

boxes. bags. suitcases. some with old peeling duct tape lay piled about. bulging. ready to go.

as a chaotic scene unfolds. your heartbeats equal a cheetah’s seconds before it pounces.

trying to say your goodbyes to those that mean the most. you run.

making promises never to be fulfilled. running in circles. faster and faster until time is a blur.

some are never found. never seen. never held. never spoken to. never again.

mercifully time ends this manic quest. as a deadline passes not all words were spoken.

waking with a start you find yourself looking back from a ship. thinking to return. then reality firmly says no. you can not.

just as ropes are cast off. so has this home.

a time bond was broken forming a chasm.

a last look to that distance land. one already foreign. winds tangle uncombed hair. you turn away facing forward. pushed onward into an unknown future.

in that frenzied mess much was missed. forgotten. overlooked. tossed aside.

another short story ends. same as the last.

there was no time to think. only to frantically run. for years what transpired is recalled. causing screams. head shakes. gentle smiles. guilt and tears.

if visiting an outsider looking in will you forever be. no longer are you part of its loop of life. with nothing to claim. little connection. except once you lived here.

time gives opportunities to create lifelong bonds. discover true friendships. a bit remains behind. a bit travels on. reshaping your soul from these places lived.

yet a life bond never dies when your stories are retold. from these places you resided.

from our places lived
much joy and sorrow given
as they shape and form

beach towels, beach tents
beach *****, beach castles, beach kites
sands of florida

driving east

along m46

though richville

kingston sandusky

after sunset

christmas eve

passing sleeping

fields surrounding

farm homes

with living

rooms dimly

aglow by

christmas trees

shining brightly

though windows

of frosted

glass framed

by darkness

an only

light for

miles around

why, why, why, why, why,
simply, i only ask why,
never an answer

a few days after
graduation i was gone,
many miles away
working a summer career
engraving horseshoes
upon a tourist island,
four years of college
a job in another state
finally back home
eleven years absent,
but this home, this world
and i separately changed
gone were childish dreams
replaced with bills, marriage,
and responsibilities

marking autumn's close
endless shadows of bare trees
lay on sleeping lands

a tradition rite was born
thanksgiving dinner
with friends and family
many years back

preformed the night before;
bread ripped and torn,
potatoes peeled then mashed,
vegetables cooked, simmered

rising early thanksgiving day,
joining other kitchens aglow,
cleaned and started a turkey was
well before golden rays shown

stuffed with stuffin'
fashioned of bread, spices,
celery, onions, a touch of lemon,
warmed bacon grease drizzled

slipping back into bed
awakened later by
wonderful scents
warming the house

friends and family arrived with
plates to share, plates to pass;
corn casserole,
sweet potatoes and jello salad,
pies of apples, cherries, pumpkin

squash, cranberry sauce
sweet pickles, rolls
peas, carrots, green beans
garnish and mix on every plate

extra tables were set about
as large gatherings would require;
chairs came borrowed
then dad said grace

obsolete extra tables slowly became
new commitments arose,
less chairs became needed
for attending guests

until two just remained
a wife, a husband with hungry cats,
still enjoying thanksgiving day
all the same

giving thanks
for what they have received,
cherished friends, loving families
a full life together

three wonders

as a family. we took a trip to washington dc in the year 1968. the year it burned. the year i turned 9.

i carry memory fragments of that trip. washington monument. lincoln memorial. mount vernon. the smithsonian. national guard troops stationed about.

most importantly our solemn visit to Arlington National Cemetery. a hallowed land far removed from the chaos engulfing an outside world.

from that day i carry memory bits of three wonders.

endless white headstones in neat rows.

the grave and the eternal flame of President John F. Kennedy. it would be seven years later while in dallas we would stand where he was assassinated.

watching The Changing of the Guard at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

all witnessing stood silent and still. any sounds came from the guards. giving orders. acknowledging orders. presenting firearms.

once completed the crowd slowly went their ways to other parts of Arlington.

i have wondered what my father was thinking. how he felt silently standing there. it had only been 23 years since his service had ended with world war two’s conclusion.

probably of the guys he knew that never made it back now buried at Arlington. the ones that had made it home but are also buried there. that he could have known the pacific theater Unknown. thoughts of the world he had helped save. how much it had changed since his childhood. how much it had changed since the war’s end.

he never said. i never asked.

i was 9 years and a tourist. unable to understand or know the importance or magnitude of all that i saw that day.

i am in awe knowing the painstaking work continues of identifying our fallen heroes. those lost during service to their country. relentlessly searched for. finding and identifying. for they have not been forgotten.

one of them being the Unknown from the vietnam war. a family was given the ability to gain some sense of closure.

that is progress.

major progress will be achieved once sons and daughters no longer have to fight. leaving terrified mothers, fathers, wives, and husbands behind to wonder.

no more wars. no more Unknowns.

for freedom they fought
in Arlington they now rest
known to god above

blue skies, azure waves
tan sand, red and orange clouds
hues of florida

wednesday, sleep deprived,
depressed, philosophical,
find a savior day

clouds rumble deeply
below, worlds tremble and shake,
distant land’s laughter

one day i will tire
lay my tablet down to rest
then never retouch
for any creative use
bury me with tablet on

worry ******

some are real. some are fake, created just to have a few around. because never can you have too many worries.

worrying, it is my normal state of mind. believing it is wrong when worry is absent. convinced something was overlooked or forgotten.

simply put, i worry too much. mostly over stupid, meaningless stuff.

worrying developed into a personality trait. making my complexion complete. creating worry just to achieve this frame of mind.

after years of introspection, i believe the reason is having become addicted to worrying. it fills my free time. it tells me life still flows.

an adrenaline ****** i would rather have been. they have more fun. but instead a worry ****** i became.

always looking for my next hit.

i live to worry and worry to live.

a worrier is who i am. it is what i became but not wished for.

my brain grows to calm
this is not its normal state
now demands a hit

books, papers, journals
too long, too messy, too much

short, simple clean lines
minimalist writing style

in the barest words
using one sheet of paper

longer than ten words
no sentence needs to become

nonessential words
simply are abstract fillers
corrupting the true essence

words, inefficient
many are used describing
a single raindrop

air only moves if
pelicans flap feathered wings
in tropical air

today, august first
in a month september first
not accepting this
ninth month an omen of cold
aptly named as much
beginning of four “ber” months
that time of year when
conversations begin with
brrr, cold enough for you now