Sweet victory…
First published by Jean Oct 12, 2008
Beyond true young,
yet refusing old,
I claim my life
as won.
Jean
Can’t hold my breath forever…
First published by Jean Mar 3, 2012
spending too much time
trying to make sense
when there doesn't seem to be
much sense to make.
spending too much time
holding my breath
waiting for the answers
turns me blue.
too old to waste time
turning blue
being dizzy
staying confused.
hurting.
pretending my name is
Vincent or Emily or Ansel or Georgia or Marjorie K
is time better spent.
I know none of those
names are mine. And
I figured that out
all by myself.
Gorilla my dreams…
first published by Jean Nov 29, 2008 on her web site "Pondering"
I love this photo... it says .......Pondering....... all over it.
Photographer is Ralph Rankin.
Met him at the art festival last weekend.
He also does some wonderful work in pottery.
Maybe we should have a caption contest? Huh? Yeah?
Leave your ideas in the comments. Somehow we or I will pick a winner. I'll even give a prize to the winner.
Let's do it!
UPDATE: Get all your captions in by 10 pm Tuesday. I'll figure out some voting thing so a winner can be picked.
NOTE: This post is close to 20 years old. I'll let Jean comment; it's her post.
Continue reading →Photo and poem…
first published by Jean Oct 6, 2009
Morning's pink mist nightgown
lifts slowly,
uncovering the beauty
of the coming day.
Point of View…
First published by Jean Mar 16, 2012
I understand
that you don't.
from this side
it's clear
you're looking
through mud.
stop stirring the sediment.
it settles for a reason.
now, look again.
The Old Gazebo…
posted by Jean Dec 22, 2006
Winter. Late afternoon.
The beach is empty. The air is grey-blue.
The ocean is grey-silver, scattered with foamy white waves.
At the high-tide mark is a long wooden, railed walkway leading to
an old gazebo perched on top of the highest dune.
Inside the gazebo is a picnic table with benches.
Under the table is a pair of small deck shoes.
Between the shoes is an empty styrofoam coffee cup.
The most interesting thing is on the table. An open book.
The pages on the left are flapping lightly with the breeze.
The pages on the right are clipped together by a pen.
They struggle to move with the wind..
On that first page on the right is a single handwritten line.
In the most delicate and precise penmanship. It says…
"I am going home."
Questions …
Posted by Jean April 25, 2026
Do you pray?
Why? and to what?
Do you get answers?
Did someone teach you
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...?
it's been a long time
since my last confession.
Do you feel better after Amen?
I thought about joining a convent
until I read "The Nun's Story".
That's when I started asking questions.
I was 10.
over, under, around and through…
First published by Jean Oct 25, 2012
it's a tap dance with
no rhythm.
it's a waltz
counting 3-2-1.
no square dance has
four corners.
the tango isn't
done with one.
the two-step is
out of step.
the last dance
will always be
ashes, ashes
we all fall down.
trying doesn't
feel like doing.
even the leaves
don't make sense.
when they dance
down the street
it sounds like rain.
March 11, 1945…
Today is Memorial Day ...
Jean posted this in 2012 and suggested it to me. Even though he didn't die in war, I didn't want to wait until next March 11 so I thought I'd post it on Memorial Day ... which is still worthy of a day to itself - May 30 - and not an excuse for a 3-day weekend.
I know I've mentioned
before that my dad served
in the Navy on the
USS Randolph during WW2.
As is so common with veterans,
he didn't share many details
of his service with his family.
He talked about learning to box
and getting his nose broken.
He talked about making an
attempt in track and breaking
his ankle in the long jump...
or, was it pole vaulting?
The most serious thing he talked
about for a long time was one of
his mates who died from alcohol
poisoning after a day of drinking
in the hot sun.
If he was asked where he served, he would only say
"in the Pacific". He mentioned being in Hawaii and
having no desire to go back. He enlisted after Pearl Harbor.
One day he showed us a scrapbook he made. The cover is a
piece of scratched plexiglass with some brown stains
near the edge. When I asked him what the stains were,
he said, "Oh, that's blood from the Kamikaze pilot
who hit our ship." He wouldn't say anymore.
Not long ago, I read the book "Flyboys" by
James Bradley. It talks about US forces bombing a
tiny (three miles by five miles) island called
Chichi Jima and eight pilots who crashed there, were
captured, tortured and killed by the Japanese.
This book mentions the USS Randolph as part of the
support forces in the bombing raids on Chichi Jima.
This is where dad's ship was when it was hit.
I lift a beer in memory to a couple of Mr B-Bar buddies from long ago.
