Archive # 12

The weathered rowboat,
Lodged in the pond’s muddy dregs,
remains moored … oar-less.
Perched on a tin can,
The love bird chirped all morning,
Outside, Robins sulked.
Jump in the water
outside this museum and
you would be in Seine.
In a second mug,
he pours himself three fingers,
of ten year old scotch.
Open up your mind,
free your thoughts from tyranny.
let your dreams escape.
The fabric of Life;
From order to chaos, we
slowly unravel.
A dark, grey morning
Serious people crowd me
I can’t help but laugh.
Waiting in the wings,
and listening for his cue,
He can’t find his props.
A moonlit whisper,
two lovers in silhouette,
urgent affection.
He nervously waits
while doctors study his chart
Will he get well soon?
That old maple tree,
was planted in our back yard,
when we were children.
  Through the years, we raked its leaves
  Grandkids now climb its branches.
 In his father’s desk,
lived a letter never sent,
urging forgiveness.
Hippie drug slang like
Bogart, Roaches, Mary Jane …
Seems a bit quaint now.
A tall glass of juice,
is no substitute for a
big mug of coffee.
 Mindful of the past,
he goes out of his way to
see she is not hurt.
 Heading for the falls,
we paddle desperately,
the current’s too swift!
Sibling rivalries
can heat up when it comes to
Halloween candy.
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