Old

Man, I hurt. My accident of three weeks ago has left me two stiff knees, broken bones in both forearms, assorted pain I think is more broken bones in my hands and wrists, and perhaps a strained tendon in the ankle which rolled. My shoulder hurts from what I suspect is bursitis, and if I told you how it occurred doing nothing you would shake your head. The minor but ever-present ache in my right hip seems almost superfluous at this point. All of this inspired this poem.

August 2026.
New pains attack daily.
Old ones settle in like
fringe relatives who won't leave.
Memories don't fail, they
crowd each other out.
Challenges also pile up,
sapping desire to grapple
'yet again' with those never-
ending tasks which repeat. 

But....

Small moments harbor
poignancy unfelt in youthful
years. Sunsets seem 
more magical, plants
more interesting. Good meals
sustain constant pleasure.
Music, books span decades!
Undoable projects, now doable.
Time? Alternately your
friend, your enemy.

44/100

Poem #43

It’s…a poem. Conceived while driving 35mph around turns, barely speeding up on a short straightaway, then braking for the next set of chicanery.

Rumble Strip

Rumble, grumble, rumble strip.
Tell me I've transgressed.
Painted lines define my limits
but frankly, I protest.
Sometimes you hide between 
those lines, sometimes you
sit right on them.
We won't discuss your shoulder twin
who keeps me on all roads.
On this mountain highway, 
full of twists, of turns,
it's not too likely I'll nod off,
bored, but still you're stern.
Worse than my car's lane-keeping
notes, which shrilly scold just me, 
you warn each transgressing car
so non-discriminately.
I'll mention briefly how you blind
when rain sits in your grooves:
when puddles bounce bright sunshine
into my eyes--so rude.
In short, your presence seems
quite useless on this twisting mountain road.
Why don't you haunt our cities,
and quit this useless scold.

43/100

When hippies run hotels

An in-person reaction….

colors add nothing
to dim lighting
dark wood panels
evoking creepy scenes
of disciplinary
sessions. Spa-like
ambiance collides
with strict Catholic
teachings. "how 
many days will you
be staying with us?"
Bars (plural)? Sure,
tolerated then, now.
Amoral 'cosmic
travelers'? More 
problematic. Why
wonder about your
nightly bill when 
surrounded by such
groovy wonderfulness?
Apologies for the lack of editing. August 2026

42/100

Stuck

Stuck on this raft
of my own making.
Floating life's river,
ostensibly like you
but it's not great
over here. It's not
'copacetic' or 'hopeful'.
I'm hitting shoals while
you sail freely. This stretch
doesn't measure up.

41/100

Smoke ’em

This one’s a definite work in progress and likely an opening act for something much larger, perhaps joined to another couple I’ve written lately.

Looking SW at Vantage, WA. Look closely and maybe you can see the Columbia River. Perhaps you can see the bridge for I-90 across the bridge? Surely you can see it! It’s a half-mile long, right there in the middle of the photo. How about the ridges on the opposite side of the river? Photo unretouched. August 2026.
"Smoke 'em if you've got
them," and baby, do we.
Fires ravage more than
brush, trees, meadows.
Fires ravage lives, plans,
communities. Where smoke
lies, fires burn: why don't
I see smoke in my mirror
each morning? Where's
smoke as I gaze  on my
love? Doesn't smoke 
envelop me when when 
I read or hear headlines?
How can I see out of my
car, encountering those
who lack driving skills?
How can we see our dawn
when fires surround us?
Our world's on fire,
yet we bemoan smoke.

40/100

Stenographer

Everything poetries 
around me. Words pool
at my ankles, crowd
my shoulders, cry, 
"Use me! Use me!" 
Barely can I focus
on those here before 
another set taps me
on my shoulder to
get my attention. 
I'm a stenographer
in this crowded room 
of strange voices.

39/100

Bathroom code

Jenny, Jenny, I've got your number 
It opens up this bathroom door
Lost my house, my job, my prospects
Now I can't take a pee no more.
Became a crime just by living 
"I'm sorry, bud, don't be sore. 
I don't make rules, just enforce them
Only patrons get our code that's for
Our riff-raff blocking bathroom door."

38/100

Yesterday we arrived a meeting with our financial planner, located in my old hometown. I needed to go to the bathroom. I was given a code, “five, four, three, star” to open the men’s room located in the lobby. We were on the 13th floor and this firm owned the whole floor. We passed two security guards to get in the elevator. I’m wondering, “why would you secure a bathroom in that circumstance?” Driving around we noticed many homeless people camping in public spaces. Today I noted the same to our hosts as we toured all the changes. Their response? “Yeah, the police can’t keep up with keeping them out of the parks. ” We wound up at a large brewpub in a building with two other tenants. There was a code to get into the restrooms, located in the hallway. Gotta keep the riff raff out, I guess.

I’m not doing much about it by supporting these businesses, but there isn’t much I can do for this community. When I get back home though …

Reality Bites

Smoke over Columbia River from I-90. August 2026.

REALITY BITES:

New candy? Snack?
Those little video shorts
which interrupt my sci-fi show? 
Philosophical stance? 
Exclamatory response to events? 
New television show? 
Those little pieces of my
memory which seem to be intact? 

Everything said
Resonates with poetry. 
Meanings double upon
meanings, symbolism
wearing various guises. 
Language delivering
beyond expectations. 
English's beauty.

37/100

Friends

Making friends should
be easy, but it's not. 
Casting them aside? 
Much easier: just
leave; stop calling; 
move away. Soon your
life will be pristinely
friendless. No one to
mess up your agenda of
uninterrupted nothingness.

36/100

YESTERDAY’S poem!

I wrote it while flying cross-country at which point food and drink became more important. The clock kept ticking. By the time dinner had finished, it was nearly time for bed, and I just plain forgot the poem. (But will he post one tonight?…)

Sing, Muse!

Come, Muse! Grace
these cells laden,
encumbered, bracken-
masked, alone
Swing Inspiration's
sword, cut these bonds
which cruelly imprison.
Sing! May these cells 
quiver for joys just
now birthed, for new
connections made,
for purpose kindled,
for feelings restored.

35/100