Month: December 2007


    It was many years since I was a lad,
    And bedtime came,
    No excuses to be had,
    It was time, the same.

    Wintertime for me was grim,
    My bed was made,
    All neat and trim,
    A brick hot from the oven was laid,
    Between my covers.

    Though wrapped in a heavy towel,
    ‘Twas too much heat in too small a space,
    Thus it made me howl,
    But to do it quietly I had the grace.

    The door would be closed and the windows opened,
    And the beast of COLD,
    As betokened,
    Began it’s stalk.

    I’d go deep,
    Into the comforter,
    Trying to keep,
    In that comfort given by the ER.

    A hole the size of my nose,
    Was all that was open,
    Through that hose,
    Was all the icy air for copin’.

    Weird dreams came to see,
    Frigid me,
    Of warm places they were and free,
    Places where I’d want to be.


    The clock says so,
    And the calender too,
    But the white doth flow,
    From the skies above,
    And a man asks what’s new ?

    Not much  new  I say,
    Just different,
    Other names today,
    Perhaps another accent.

    Time and weather,
    Are noted,
         For doing whatever,
        And the boat is floated.
    A  surprise white Christmas,
    Ere the snow is cleared,
    Another fluff of white muss,
    And of this, I’m wearied.


    Keeps on, getting deeper,
    Think I’ll become, 
    A winter sleeper,
    Maybe a bear become. 


    Words writ in the sky,
    What could they say ?
    Not I,


    Uncrossed tees or undotted eyes, in a way.

    On the way home,
    From a shoulder shot,
    Lavenderish sky gives some,
    Assurance that Christmas day will be somewhat hot.


    Home in the night,
    Warm and comfortable,
    In the glow of tree light,
    Unwrapped a few,
    Things glorious and new.


    In the night came proof of unreliability,
    A ten per cent chance of snow,
    They said –  but weather always shows undeniably,
    Dawn with six inches on the ground, snow – you know.

    Santa’s elf our grandson,
    Clearing walk and porch of white stuff,

    And in our drive is Santa’s sleigh,


    While inside the house,
    Santa is loading,
    No room for a mouse,
    But goodies will he bring.


    Heather and I nestled,
    In a spot warm,
    While the rest wrestled,
    Goodies in a swarm.


    And then a lineup,
    Of the mamas, grand mas and greats as well,
    Heather and two great grands,


    And of daughter Sue,
    Grandma of the same two.


    And from there it went on,
    And one might say,
    On and on and on,
    But it was gay, in the right sort of way.

    Many pictures taken, jokes exchanged, stories told,
    Hopes related that we hope come true,
    As well as all our hopes for YOU !







    Looking out the window,
    And saying perhaps,
    ‘Twil be as they say,
    Later in the day snow. 

    Across town we hied,
    To hospital to visit son, 
    Good thing early we tried,
    Snow falling  had begun.

    Nursing a grudge  and shivering,
    Against cold sludge,
    We made our way back across town,

    Southward along York Street,
    Snow carrying a world of woe,
    When did we meet,
    A  place I well know.

    1311 the place that became my heaven,
    An old mansion that became,
    AA to the max,
    And where I learned to play the game,
    Of not falling through cracks.

    I do stop by now and then,
    Take in a meeting and talk,
    Telling other’s stories or ten,
    Our stories, much alike nor do we balk,
    At telling them.

    1311 York Street

    The faces change,  though the stories do not,
    Different words maybe,
    Same meanings, a lot.
    There is hope for those like us !



    A third shifter, dyed in the wool,
    Up and awake and stirring about,
    As day folk have not had their sleep in full,
    Ere the sun rises, no bull.

    And sights town while day birds sip their java,
    Trying to remember WHY,
    And flow like slow lava,
    To their bed saying goodbye.


    And what’s more remarkable yet,
    He was still running,
    When the sun had set,


    And to top it off,
    Is totally happy,
    Cough, cough,
    Now for a little nappy.
    Make a mark on the wall,
    December 19, 2007 is the day,
    I did more than all,
    An encore ?  NO  –   I say !


    When winter has us in an icy grip,
    And skies a grim gray,
    Then it’s time for me to slip,
    To the computer and play.

    I hie me back to last summer,
    When snow melt was running full,
    And Fourth of July yet a comer,
    I stand in the sun and listen to the lull,
    Of Clear Creek,   see the ripples,
    With sun glancing free.


    Ah,  and then I am free to be me.
    I have a movie with sound on this creek at this time,
    But can’t get it to load up.


    In  my days of yore,
    When dead, you’d enter,
    A funeral home before,
    You’d enter the cemetery’s center.

    Deep in my reminisences,
    Is the one across from Crown hill,
    Among coincidences,
    A few blocks from  where we hold forth still,
    And where we shall be in the long, deep silences.

    A gorgeous funeral home – strong,
    Extensive property it has – well planted,
    A rose arbor a block long,
    But like all things, has been supplanted.

    Cemetery,  funeral home and crematory
    Now across the street,
    Clustered now, the modern story,
    Who now, there shall have a seat ?


    I wonder, will this grand old edifice be bulldozed ?  A church is housed there now,
    temporarily I guess, as the huge realtor’s sign is prominent as well.


    Our earth a canvas,
    Gently brushed by Mother Nature,
    With magic as she has,
    Ends up more vivid and greener,
    Than e’er before.
    Looks so bleak and glum above,
    ‘Tis but a dip of her brush,
    That  she applies with love,
    To make things lush.
    She swings it side to side,
    To and fro,
    As far as the landscape is wide,
    She does go.
    And having painted,
    Like any good artist,
    She lets it dry.
    Photos taken on Memorial Day near Fort Logan National Cemetery.


    In winter here,
    Green mountians become white,
       Seemingly near,
    That gorgeous sight,
    To me is very dear.

    The wondrous brilliance,
    The gemlike sparkle of sunlight,,
     From the mountains glance,
    Though my neck muffled,  I’m in high dellight.
    Very little better than:


    When eyes freshly seeing new,
    My mind yet a blank slate,
    Wonder of magic grew,
    Experiences were great.

    The world out of doors,
    In the morn,
    Like something freshly washed,
    And hung to dry,
    Still dewy wet,
    Caught my eye.

    It was all so new,
    And immediately I was awed,
    My appreciation grew,
    In background a crow cawed.

    Then there were times,
    Silent the beauty was,
    Splendor rhymes,
    Dressed in guaze.

    Nor could I tell anyone,
    How enchanted I was,
    The words for that were none,
    I can but try.
    This bit is a tribute to a girl named “Sweet Pea”  who
    once in the wilds of Missouri, walking with her guru
    one morning her eyes and heart wide open  —
    told her folks they had been walking in the Qiat Fo’rest.

    May her heart and senses ever be open to the glory of the world.