Just Coasting Along

“Sometimes, you don’t know where you are going until you get there.” Anonymous In August my wife and I drove to Manzanita on the Oregon coast. We were accompanied by her sister and brother-in-law. Our mutual objective was to escape the inland heat. Each morning we walked Neahkanie Beach. A haiku of fog shrouded Cape … More Just Coasting Along

Springtime in Ukraine

“All night and all morning the air raid sirens howled. Shells blew up. We ate ice cream.” Olha, a citizen of Ukraine The seasons roll along. March slips into April. Winter melts away. Daffodils laugh a yellow laugh, their roots tickled by the warming earth. Covid comes and goes and comes again. It lurks in … More Springtime in Ukraine

Lake Merritt

“It’s not all or nothing. But, it’s always something.” Wendy In the late winter of 2022, we rented a house in Oakland between Broadway and Lake Merritt. We arose before cafes opened. In silence, we read headlines on our devices. Covid;  January 6th;  Zelenskiy; War; Putin. Our Airbnb had old school ambience. It’s fifteen steps above … More Lake Merritt

Libra Lullaby

“… since we must always have a suffering world, we must also always have a song” David Budbill It’s said that “a Libra’s purpose is to use its unbiased and fair stance to fight for the practical cause of the world and make it become a better place. They like balance and justice.” Hmm … … More Libra Lullaby

Anatomy of a Song

“… writing a song can be like chasing a wounded bird down a road.” Lori McKenna I’ve been writing cringe worthy poetry for more than 60 years. I’m always thinking in rhythm and rhyme, listening for the music in words. I can’t stop scratching the itch to write. My last post, The Indifferent Gardener, linked … More Anatomy of a Song

The Winter of Life

It’s the winter of life. Ads for funeral services pepper my mailbox. Mortuaries stalk people my age. The implication, I suppose, is that I don’t have too many decades left. It’s nice to be wanted. Eventually, I’ll buy what they have to sell. But, for now, I’ll wait. There are more songs to write. It’s … More The Winter of Life

In the Oregon Hills

I can’t remember how I learned to read. I don’t recall the teacher’s patience to help me sound out vowels and consonants. Nor the prompts to form these sounds into words. Was I encouraged at home by my parents? If so, there’s no memory. That process disappeared with time. Yet, the gradual step by step … More In the Oregon Hills