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In the Indigo Hour: A Song of Steadfast Love
A veil of azure sighs descends, it’s true, A hush upon your love, a muted hue. The hands of time, they turn with patient grace, While you, a constant, hold a loving space.
The days, once vibrant, wear a softer dress, But love’s unwavering flame, it burns no less. Your strength, a quiet shield, deflects the chill, A steadfast presence, ever loving still.
Though shadows linger, whispers fill the air, Of laughter past, a love beyond compare. You hold her hand, a silent, gentle vow, To walk this path, with love that sees her through.
The weight you carry, etched upon your face, A testament to love’s enduring grace. Each whispered word, a teardrop held at bay, For her you’d face the darkest, endless day.
But in the quiet moments, hearts entwined, A hidden language, love for ever kind. A tender touch, a gaze that speaks so deep, The promise whispered, though you try to sleep.
For love’s a tapestry, with threads of gold, And silver threads, a story yet untold. You’ll face the dawn, with courage as your guide, And walk beside her, with love as your side.
A Lamentation
—
My bones are weary, a battlefield worn thin.
The sun climbs high, yet I greet it from this sea of sheets.
Is this peace, this endless waiting for the final call?
Have I chased shadows, grasping at fleeting dreams?
A life unfurled like a dusty tapestry, triumphs lost in the fold.
The world outside thunders on, a distant, vibrant roar,
While here, time stretches, a slow, relentless bore.
The window, a portal to a life I can no longer touch.
Children I held once, grown tall, their laughter a fading song.
Faces from the past flicker in the firelight’s glow,
Friends, foes, lovers, where did the years go?
My voice, a rusty hinge, creaks when I speak.
Words choked by the dust of regret, the sting of deeds undone.
Was it all a charade, this grand play of life?
An empty stage whispers tales of wasted strife.
The world races on, oblivious to this cage of bone.
The warmth of life a distant ember, its glow almost gone.
Here, in this stillness, only shadows reside,
A quietude laced with regret, with nothing left to confide.
The Ballad of the 3 am Pickle: A Tale of Midnight Munchies
Let’s face it, 3 am is a weird time. Most decent people are tucked under their covers, counting sheep (or battling sleep paralysis, no judgment). Me? Well, I was engaged in a heated negotiation with my stomach, which apparently had a very specific agenda for the night: pickles.
The Ballad of the 3 am Pickle (and the Chatty Corn Flakes)
“Pickle!” it declared, its voice echoing dramatically in the 3 am silence. My mind, still clinging to the remnants of sleep, mumbled a feeble, “Go back to sleep, it’s the witching hour!” But hunger, it seems, has no respect for time zones or spooky vibes.
Ten minutes later, the Pickle Monster roared again, this time accompanied by a symphony of stomach growls that could wake the dead. Clearly, negotiation was futile. Frigid air be damned, I stumbled towards the kitchen, on a mission to appease the Pickle Overlord.
The fridge light revealed a meager offering of burger chips, but then – a beacon of hope! A shiny new jar of gherkins, practically begging to be devoured. Who placed these magical morsels here? A roommate with impeccable timing, or perhaps a sleep-deprived pickle fairy? Whatever the source, they were mine now.
Armed with chopsticks (because who wants to get their fingers all vinegary at 3 am?), I dug in. The satisfying crunch, the electrifying pucker – it was a symphony for the senses (at least, my taste buds seemed to think so). Half a jar later, I was a blissful, pickle-fueled mess. A quick water refill, a snuggle under my toasty electric blanket (seriously, those things are a lifesaver), and I was off to dreamland once more.
But wait, there’s more! Just as I was about to drift off to a dill-icious slumber, a new voice chimed in from the darkness. “Corn Flakes,” it declared, with a firmness that would put a drill sergeant to shame. I looked over at the clock – 4:15 am? Seriously, breakfast?
“Don’t start that now!” I pleaded, burrowing deeper under the covers. But the Corn Flake Chorus wasn’t having any of it. With a sigh of defeat, I surrendered to the breakfast gods and sleepwalked my way to a bowl of cereal.
Now, by this point, you might be wondering what kind of sleep-deprived fever dream this is. Well, let me tell you, it’s just another Tuesday in the wonderful world of me. At least the corn flakes weren’t pickles, right?
P.S. My 6 am appointment with reality (and medication) was…interesting. But hey, that’s a story for another day. Until then, happy snacking (and sleeping…hopefully)!
Embers to Bonfire: Kindling Hope in the Later Years
Today, dear friends, I confess to a touch of laziness. The sun paints long, warm fingers across my windowsill, tempting me to simply bask and breathe. It’s a privilege earned, this slowing of the pace, this savoring of quiet moments. Like the setting sun itself, I’m entering a new phase, a golden time bathed in a different kind of light.
And as I sit here, the words of the prophet shimmer in my mind: “And afterward, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions.” (Joel 2:28) It’s a promise that transcends age, a reminder that life’s embers hold an ever-burning spark.
Though my steps may not be as sprightly, my heart brims with the same wonder as those young visionaries. Every sunrise ignites a fresh curiosity, every wrinkle on my hand whispers a story. The world, with its vibrant tapestry of experiences, unfolds before me like a well-worn yet precious book, each page whispering secrets meant to be shared.
So, dear friends, don’t shed tears for a slowing pace. See it as a deepening, a chance to savor the richness of each moment. Let us all, young and old, embrace the dreams that dance in the twilight, the prophecies whispered on the wind. For the embers of our lives, when fanned with love and hope, can still ignite a bonfire that warms the generations to come.
Remember, the Spirit knows no age. It flows through the laughter of children, the wisdom of elders, and the quiet contemplation of a golden afternoon. Let us open our hearts to its embrace, and together, dream dreams that paint the future with vibrant hues.
Fading embers
Sunlight spills through the dusty window, painting a warm rectangle on the worn chair nestled against the far wall. My wife, the girl I chased fireflies with under endless summer skies, sits there, dwarfed by its embrace. “Are you alright, love?” My voice trembles, the question hanging heavy in the air between us.
“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her voice faint, carrying the weight of years in its quietness. Sleep descends, her eyelids fluttering closed. My eyes track her movement, shifting from the computer screen in the room’s center to her peaceful form in the chair.
At my feet, our old dog, a loyal she, snores softly, her breaths shallow with age. She finds solace in this quiet corner, oblivious to the winter gnawing at the edges of our lives. Outside, the trees stand stark against the bleak sky, skeletal fingers reaching for the gray clouds. A chill seeps in, mirroring the one deepening in my bones.
Silence settles over the room like a thick cloak. We are two figures adrift in a sea of unspoken anxieties, waiting for the tide to turn. My fingers hover over the keyboard, yearning to capture this scene, to bottle the bittersweet ache in my heart. But the words dance just beyond my grasp, as elusive as the youthful laughter that once echoed within these walls.
Chasing Sunsets and Dust Devils: A Day in the Life of a Man in Paradise
It is a brisk February day here in my little corner of paradise. Woke early and had coffee and cake with Snookums, my loving wife of two score and four years. She still is showing some signs of improvement and is learning to adapt to her handicap. A little chatting and sipping, and then into the studio to complete my morning routine.
We went shopping for the first time since the stroke yesterday. We didn’t get much, just bed sheets and some greeting cards. She had a time of that in the days leading up to the trip. She knew she needed to go to the store, but was having trouble remembering why. But she did well with the trip in spite of the bitter cold. I gave her a little coaching in the self checkout, but she did it without the usual frustration in trying to recall steps. If she doesn’t think about it and just rely on reflex, she remembers how to do things like self-checkout and cooking, though we keep a cautious eye on her when she is around the stove. It feels kind of good to begin to return to some normalcy, but on a vastly scaled back normal.
It is hard to believe how green the lawn is even after a cold snap. If I took a picture, you would just see a weedy yard that needs mowing and trimming, and you would expect the yard worker to be in a tee shirt. But if he was, he would also be one huge goosebump.
The news hardly gets a passing notice from me. About the only thing that holds my interest is the Middle East. Politics have all but vanished from my interest. I have turned into a pessimist and the future of things is not a very hopeful one. So I turn inward. I have fought. And fought. And funded, and funded. But now, other will need to carry the torch. I have done all, and now I stand.
But that gives me a little grief in these morning coffee posts. Hopefully I will transition to another less virulent crusade.
So goes the foggy brain this morning.
Where Cruces Meet Kachinas
The saga took shape in my mind as the first light of dawn stirred my thoughts. Starting a new masterpiece at this stage of life might seem unconventional, but the allure of crafting an introduction resonates with me on a profound level. What do you think of this first glimpse into a newly illuminated mind?
In the hushed crucible of the Sangre de Cristo, where wind carved stories into ancient pines and sunlight gilded adobe walls, lived Don Miguel, a man etched by time and the austere practices of the Penitente Brotherhood. His faith, woven with the threads of Spanish ancestry, found solace in the rasp of penitential chants and the sting of self-flagellation. Yet, lately, dreams of disquieting beauty haunted his nights. Visions of swirling sands, whispers carried on the desert wind, and shadows dancing amidst sun-drenched fields gnawed at him, leaving a residue of unease on his weathered face.
His daughter, Isabelita, born of her mother’s strong Catholic faith and the ancient wisdom of the Hopi, possessed eyes the color of storm clouds and a gaze that seemed to pierce the veil between worlds. Unmarried not from lack of suitors, but a devotion rooted deeper than romance, she had chosen her father, a choice whispered about in the village like wind through cottonwoods. Now, she navigated his anxieties, the echoes of unseen worlds dancing on her tongue as she delved into his dreams.
A drought, she might murmur, its roots tangled in forgotten sins, or a forgotten spring found again, gurgling beneath the scars of misunderstanding. A storm brewing on the horizon, she might warn, or a flicker of unexpected joy, a hummingbird’s kiss in the cold desert air. But these dreams, spun from darker threads, stirred a serpent of fear in the sun-baked village. Some scoffed, dismissing them as the fancies of an old man burdened by penitential rigor. Others, eyes wide with generations-old superstitions, saw omens in every shifting dune, shadows in every flickering candle flame.
Caught between her father’s austere faith and her mother’s whispered prayers, Isabelita stood, a bridge between these worlds. Her heart, a tapestry woven with threads of both traditions, ached for understanding. Could these unsettling visions be divine omens, whispers from ancestral spirits, or warnings born from the harsh beauty of the land itself? Could she, with her dual heritage and unyielding faith, decipher these dreams and bridge the chasm of fear that threatened to unravel the tapestry of their lives?
Whispers of Tranquility: Embracing the Subtle Symphony of a Gentle Morning
Greeted by the embrace of a crisp yet sunlit morning in this secluded haven, I find myself immersed in the subtle beauty of a remarkably mild winter. The temperatures, gentle in their touch, scarcely flirt with freezing before graciously yielding to the warmth of the day. The hardwoods retain their rich, verdant hues, while the softwoods have delicately shed their leaves, creating a tapestry of nature’s transition.
There’s a tranquil joy in rising with the dawn, witnessing the sun casting its enchanting glow over the landscape in a hushed serenity. Amidst the pecan tree, young cardinals engage in a playful dance of courtship, a prelude to what promises to be a vibrant and lively spring. A fleeting glimpse of a young mockingbird hints at the lively symphony that may soon unfold.
In navigating the ebb and flow of my daily well-being, simplicity reigns supreme. A routine of medication dictates the balance between health and ailment – a reminder of life’s delicate equilibrium.
Turning to the wider world, the news, or lack thereof, occupies my thoughts. The silence on matters concerning Israel leaves me yearning for insight, yet the pages are dominated by tales of Hollywood glamour and the shadows of Epstein. Even the somber narratives are overshadowed by more sensationalist topics.
In the midst of life’s rhythm, Snookums treads a path of resilience, albeit with moments of vulnerability. The departure of friends punctuates her days, and we acknowledge the solemn litany of those who remain and those who are missed. While there is a tinge of melancholy, truth prevails, and she faces the reality with unwavering strength.
Lucid moments illuminate the landscape of her recovery, and a newfound interest in her home emerges. Family, from brother to niece and great nephew, thrives in their own corners of existence.
However, amidst life’s tapestry, a poignant loss echoes – a cherished canine companion who ventured into the unknown and never returned. Thoughts of the potential encounter with coyotes weigh heavy on the heart, deepening the hues of melancholy that touch Snookums’ spirit.
As I share this seemingly unremarkable post, I extend a warm good morning to all. In the midst of life’s muted hues, I navigate the day with a quiet acceptance, awaiting the subtle magic it may unfold.
“Christmas Morning Whispers: A Gentle Reflection on Miracles and Routine”
Ah, Christmas morning unfurls its quiet splendor as the sun ascends, casting a colossal, deep orange orb that morphs into golden rays, painting the landscape in a gentle glow. Nature, too, plays its part – the Bermuda grass slumbers in dormancy while the resolute rye and buffalo grasses persist in their verdant embrace. The anticipation of a killing frost lingers, a pause in the rhythm of the seasons.
Yet, amid this picturesque tableau, a quiet melancholy tinges the day. Christmas, once a tapestry of tradition and mystique, has undergone a transformation in the prism of personal observance. No longer a participant in the customary festivities, there’s a careful acknowledgment of the sanctity others find in this day.
The reminiscence of childhood Christmases resurfaces – the balsamic aroma of the fir tree intermingling with the sweetness of peppermint candy, the parlor radiating warmth against the backdrop of the bitter Colorado winter. Those were days of enchantment, a memory bank that contrasts with the present.
The morning unfolds, marked by the early rise of Snook. Her tenacious spirit, a long-standing companion, grapples with the aftermath of a stroke. Distinguishing between the commonalities of aging and the stroke’s impact becomes a nuanced task, but there’s a glimmer of hope in the signs of improvement. Snook, a formidable force, has weathered recent bouts of bedridden respite, a stark departure from her indomitable routine.
Normalcy tentatively weaves its way into the day. Post-morning coffee rituals, I retreat to the studio – a sanctuary where news, correspondence, and sporadic bouts of writing converge. The brevity of my morning musings hints at a shift, a departure from the verbose journaling of yesteryears. Perhaps brevity holds its own charm, encapsulating the profound in succinct expressions.
Every sunrise heralds a miracle – the daily rhythm of medications, coffee rituals, and the embrace of the writing muse. In the routine, there’s an inherent miracle, an acknowledgment of the gift of another day.
To those cherishing the day’s special aura, may it unfurl in all its uniqueness. For those deeming it akin to any other day, may its specialness find you in unexpected moments. Good morning to all.
Shadowfall
In shadows deep, where secrets hide, There walks The Shadow, cloaked and sly. A whisper on the moonlit breeze, A phantom dancer, unseen, at ease.
His name a sigh, a whispered fear, His eyes like embers, cold and clear. He haunts the corners, dark and lone, A memory of what might have been known.
For in his heart, a love once burned, A firefly’s flame, forever yearned. Luna, her name, a moonlit song, Danced in his arms, where they belonged.
But fate, a cruel and twisted hand, Tore their love apart, across the sand. A whispered plea, a fleeting touch, Then silence fell, and oh, so much…
The echo of her laughter sweet, A phantom kiss, a bittersweet defeat. He walks the path with grief as guide, A love lost, a shadow by his side.
But though the darkness holds him tight, Her memory burns, a guiding light. In every whisper, every sigh, Luna’s love lives on, and will not die.
So let him dance in shadows deep, This hero cloaked, where secrets sleep. For in the darkness, hope takes flight, And The Shadow holds on, with all his might.
Remember, dear friend, this is but a seed, A whispered rhyme, a whispered creed. Take hold of it, let it take root, And watch your hero blossom, bear the fruit.
Weave his tale with threads of light, Of love and loss, and endless night. Let Luna’s memory guide his way, And paint The Shadow, bright and grey.
For in the dance of dark and dawn, A hero rises, shadows gone. His love, his loss, his whispered name, The Shadow’s legend, etched in flame.
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