OUR OWN BAILIWICK
Like sinking into comfy slippers,
Lolling in an easy chair,
Home again is the Gipper,
Happy as frog’s hair.
Backlit palm,
Glows in sunlight,
Here all is calm,
And bright.
Off to Golden to shop,
A few short miles,
Except the sky up top,
It works its usual wiles.
Skyfish flees Sun’s heat.
In Golden is the delight,
Resident Table Mountains settled in,
Foothills and mountains behind and right,
On fist, rests chin.
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I know I am truly home when I am there.
MEMORIES FROM HOME
Of course heart of a home,
Is the kitchen,
Where warm food can come,
From the resident witchin’
Cyrano, his wile,
Memories churn,
All the while,
To be back I burn.
Cyrano and Thomas
Cyrano and Thomas
Cyrano challenges
Cyrano begging at table
Cyrano still begging, with small luck
The sacred room,
The study with wall of books,
Where my heart doth zoom,
As an idea cooks.
Where each time I am there,
I find my own “Child’s Garden Of Verses”
Once again where,
Relive the romance of his words . . . . . . .
WHICH WAY IS UP ?
Heh, depends on where you are,
And where you want to get to,
In Eugene, if you want to go anywhur,
You gotta go up, or down, sometimes both to persue,
Your heartfelt aim.
Willamette Street to House On The Hill
And the typical thing,
Of going down to go up,
Another aspect of Willamette Street
And then headed toward the river,
And train depot,
In the family flivver,
Another up down spot.
Guess what ? Willamette Street
More of same street
Another part of town,
One way up and one way down.
Depends on which way you are going.
Crossways, the last two photos, on our way to the airport for home.
A wrinkled, crinkled country it is,
Really not too far,
From the blast that was,
That made Crater Lake.
NOTHING’S 100 PERCENT
But sometimes . . . . .
It can come very close,
Pictures are just rhymes,
Hints of the real dose.
Spencer’s Crest from Willamette Street
The House On The Hill,
Sits up there,
With worry nil,
Overlooking everywhere.
Where, outside the window,
Lives the conjure tree,
Where the breezes blow,
It makes its spell you can see.
Underfoot are the cancelled notes,
Of summer greenth,
Just motes,
Mid the glory of evergreenth.
Een in winter the sun bores through,
Now and then,
Nothing new,
Bringing beauty true.
From under the eaves,
The trees downhill tower,
Letting us know we are but leaves,
In life’s bower.
The House On The Hill
Most precious of all,
Where daughter and her precious fill,
The wondrous hall,
With joy, love and good will.
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Doctor’s diagnosis “rotator cuff syndrome,” she mentioned that I
should have gone in before we left town Nov. 13 and that things
wouldn’t have got worse. Starting physical therapy next Wednesday.
And if that doesn’t do the job, then comes the injection. If healing
doesn’t occur comes surgery. Most of you have been the route,
or a loved one of yours has. I do have my hopes that it will help. I had a similar
problem from a fall that got my other shoulder and results were good.
Still holding the fort with Tylenol and as much napping as I can
Accomplish.
Thanks for your kind wishes, they are muchly appreciated.
AS IT IS LIVED
Rolling along the green floor,
Of the Willamette Valley,
Trying for,
The house on the hill to dally.
From airport - Cascades in background.
And as we get close to town,
To the right is where we turn,
To the place of renown,
To crash and burn.
More or less officially in town now,
Cascades in plain sight,
Pointed right is the prow,
Of a limo delight.
Ere we reach mid town,
We needs must cross the river,
The Willamette it is known,
Which from south to north is going.
To the Columbia at Portland
From the house on the hill,
On the upper floor,
Shown across the street, which is lower still,
Is a house and more,
Trees higher yet than the house on the hill.
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Now to go see if I spelled Willamette right ?
HOME AWAY FROM HOME
It begins of course,
With coming out the doors,
Of Mahlon Sweet Airport,
Into the green outdoor floors.
Heather in the lead,
Daughter slightly behind,
Both tired indeed,
Me, behind the camera you’ll find.
Cutting a dido,
At home,
Is the fido, Cyrano,
Who doth need a comb.
And needing a walk-about,
Evading poison oak,
Heather with my cane stout,
Climbs a bit, no joke.
THE HOUSE ON A HILL
In the northwest,
Is the house on the hill,
Up against the forest,
I love it, always will.
To the right,
Is the conjuring tree,
Just out of sight,
Sun trying to break through you can see.
Staying in the wild,
As it should,
Is the four legged child,
Trying to feed and be good.
Looking from the mild,
From the house on the hill,
At beasts of the wild,
I long for them still.
PRESENT AND ACCOUNTED FOR
Took off from Eugene,
But a half hour late,
The sun made it plain to be seen,
The green landscape beneath our gate .
Uneventful flight,
Landed under the bright moon,
About two inches snow below, about right,
Try for a doctor’s appointment Monday noon.
Too tired last night to make an entry,
Mea culpa.
TO THE AIRPORT
I an hour or so,
Full of coffee and good wishes,
We shall go,
Without doing dishes.
To Mahlon Sweet,
Our departure gate.
For our home so neat,
Leaving for there early so won’t be late.
Have an hour or two of grace,
Women off to Black Friday place,
Heather promised she won’t my wrath face,
And buy some she cant place,
In her own suitcase.
RESPITE
A great day was yesterday,
Fun from dawn through night,
Our endurance did fray,
And slept we tight.
Today the women did,
Women things as women oft do,
For this old man things slid,
As they often do.
Sitting reading at the table,
Keeping watch on the outer scene,
The mists of morn got a noontime label,
And the sun lit the green.
No breeze today,
The conjuring pine,
Left his motions lay,
And that was fine.
A day of rest,
For me and she,
On the morrow preps for the day,
Of Thanksgiving, oh me,
Guess on a diet I’ll stay,
More for me that way.
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HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ALL
