I learned to swim underwater, emulating Flipper, long before mastering the
Australian Crawl or butterfly. My daddy insisted that I practice more conventional
Strokes, but I knew that mermaids and the fishes cared nothing for such
Artifice, preferring instead a supple undulation of fins to any manipulation
Of useless arms. I eschewed splashing in favor of rhythmic kicks and leg extensions
Gliding beneath the surface with measured breaths to surface giddy with freedom.
If someone had told me
when I was sixteen
and insecure
that I’d come to enjoy
my own company more
than that of others
I’d have laughed.
Loud and long and clear.
But here I am perched
on the deck, watching
the fish jump and the birds
swoop. There’s not another
human in sight. And that’s
the best part. Just me, the
lake, the fish and my
fondest memories.
A glass of wine on the table
Merlot, smooth and deep red
Grains of sand on the patio
A new book waiting to be read.
Drowsy sighs escaping lips
A touch of lethargy inspired
By recurring sips from the
Depths of a broad bottomed bowl.
Call me to your boudoir soon
With opened, welcoming arms
And I will answer eagerly
My love, I’m coming home.
I wish…
I could order a haircut from Amazon.com the way I order books. One click and I’d
Receive the perfect style to frame my face and suit my life. No hassle and free
Shipping. And while I’m at it, I wish that weight loss was as easy as weight gain.
Want a piece of key lime pound cake? No problem. Merely chewing with good
Intentions will result in counteracting any calories consumed. If I’m greedy, I also
Wish that Donald Trump would publicly admit he hasn’t a clue about being
President. And just for good measure, his supporters would understand that’s a
Negative.
Listening to the forest come to life is educational, and now my interest is beyond recreational.
I’ve become quite an expert in identifying birds by the sounds of their trills, now to put it in words.
There are the “Birdy Birdy” birds ’cause that’s what they say and the “Cheery Cheery” birds beckoning play.
One I’ve dubbed “Whistler’s Mum” for its lilting melodies, and another the “Car Alarm.” So annoying. Stop please!
“Dog Call” is the perfect name for one feathered friend, while “Scolder” seems anxious to point out my sins.
One poses a question, I call it, “Say What?” Just one tree over “Look at Me”
thinks he’s so hot.
Surely the experts on nature will soon call to consult me in matters of bird life, et. al.
Peace people!
Green cast of twilight
birds’ song floating from tall trees
forest peace descends
Lake without ripples
leafy reflections confound
filtered light descends
Red chairs keeping watch
over sunset’s still water
silent guardians
He walked tall, that Rusty Whiskers, said what he meant and meant what he said.
Devoted to doing the right, if not popular, thing, while spreading peace, love, and
Fried shrimp across this massive land. His life a benevolent mystery, marked by epic
Climbs to far off mountaintop gurus. The meaning of life intertwined with the taste
Of beef jerky and dried sunflower seeds. A brief dance with cocaine kept him humble,
Unaddicted, but slightly paranoid. Always up for a good story; always there for the
Woman he loves. His pottery and her signs bringing enlightenment to the masses.
Several days ago the words “Rusty Whiskers” popped into my mind. I rolled the words around trying to decide what needed to be done with them. Then, lo and behold, I meet a man named Rusty and his lovely lady, Sherry. It seemed like a sign.
I’m pretty sure Rusty Whiskers will appear in future posts. That name is just too great to let go.
I measured out the moments, one by one and piece by piece
Too many to count and too many to be dismissed.
Life slips by in those imperceptible increments,
And now I’ve lost the numbers so how will I know
When the sands have run out and I can no longer account
For the seconds left in the reckoning. It’s anyone’s guess.
Is wine the culprit
for the mistakes made tonight,
or for my regrets?
Only I claim fault
for my words, unrepentant;
no pinot to blame.
But the warmth inside
ameliorates the guilt
soothes me off my feet.
I might get drunk tonight
on red wine and solitude
lost in the depths of a
full-bodied zin and the whir
of a palm-leaved fan.
Disappointment weighted
afternoon, damn fool who let
you in? Now I feel the scorched
earth aftermath while he eats a
well done steak.
A better woman might have
walked away, held her tongue,
but she does not live here.
I said my piece, now there’s
a consequence.
Pardon me, I’ll be in my room.
Praying for Eyebrowz 