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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.
Chronicles of Everyday Bliss: Embracing the Banal Symphony of Life
Greetings from the realm of routine and the mundane, where the ordinary transforms into a symphony of familiarity! Today, the calendar proudly announces the seventh consecutive day of acceptable well-being, a streak that could easily be labeled as the mundane equivalent of a winning streak. I find myself embracing this unremarkable stability with a quiet enthusiasm, realizing that routine has a soothing charm of its own.
As I peer through the windowpane, the world outside mirrors my lack of excitement. Cold, wet, and dreary – a weather report that would hardly make the headlines. However, a subtle joy emerges from the fact that the frost has yet to make its debut, allowing the grass to maintain its lush green hue. Some softwoods, in defiance of the season, still cling to their leaves, adding a touch of rebellious color to the subdued palette of the morning.
The ritualistic symphony of my morning unfolds predictably: the aromatic dance of coffee brewing, the comforting exchange of words with the wife of my youth, affectionately known as Snookums. I engage in a futile attempt to extract pearls of interest from the digital sea of newsfeeds, sift through the mundane emails, and settle into the rhythm of the morning.
In a recent plot twist, Snookums visited the cardiologist, a visit that promised either reassurance or suspense. Fortunately, the verdict was one of harmony – a clean bill of health. Signs of improvement, though modest, ripple through her being, and in our small victories, we find cause for celebration. Gratitude becomes our daily companion, acknowledging the preciousness of incremental progress.
Yet, as I sit down to capture the essence of this unremarkable morning, the well of creativity appears to be under a temporary drought. The pursuit of the great American novel seems to have taken a hiatus, making room for the unapologetic flow of banality. Perhaps, within the simplicity of the mundane, there lies a certain kind of magic – the magic of appreciating the absence of chaos.
So here’s to a morning that lacks the fireworks of grandeur, where the extraordinary takes a back seat to the ordinary. May your day be as banally delightful as mine, filled with the uneventful charm that often goes unnoticed in the grand tapestry of life. Cheers to the banal beauty of a quiet existence!
Conversations with Mz Muze: Seeking Inspiration in the Shadows
I sat down with my coffee this morning, and there she was perched on the edge of my monitor. She had on her usual pink Rayon™ blouse and worn brown plaid skirt. From this angle, I could see the tops of her hose, and the white flesh squeezing out muffin-like. I looked away.
“Well, hello, Hemingway!” she greeted me with her usual sarcasm. “So you are sitting there waiting for inspiration, hey?”
Of all the muses there are in the world, I get a cranky, sarcastic but dated one. She was probably sixtyish or seventyish, with white hair that was overworked by her beautician, worn black pumps that really should be recycled, and as I said, a cheap pink blouse and tatty skirt.
“I was hoping that you had more to offer. I am so sick of the ‘me’ posts. They were necessary to keep the family and friends informed, but now the dust has settled, and we adapt to this new lifestyle. It is time to move on.”
She cocked her head inquisitively like she was a cute something, but the effect wasn’t what she thought it was. “So what do you want to write?” she asked.
“I dunno. Not fiction, for sure. And no more coffee posts. I suppose I could put my inbred curmudgeon to work by griping about stuff, aka Andy Rooney rants. But I just as quickly tire of them as just another form of ‘me’ posts.”
“What about writing about the political landscape?” she suggested brightly.
“I dunno. I am also weary of politicians and political writers. I know what the intellectuals think. I know what the political parties think. I know what the reporters think. But a bad case of the ‘I-don’t-cares’ has settled in,” I replied with a sigh.
“Poetry?”
“I’ve been doing some. It has been fun to exercise the poet in me, but again. I am weary of it.”
“Aging, death, and dying?”
I thought I caught a hint of sarcasm in her suggestion, so I shot back.
“You’ve been away, haven’t you!”
“Well, you haven’t been exactly quivering with excitement to see me,” she retorted.
“You haven’t been very helpful either. I enjoyed the silence!”
“All you enjoy is sloth! Look at you, curled up in a ball of misery and not even having the dignity to put clothes on!”
“I’ve been sick,” I whined.
She cocked one heavily penciled eyebrow, “Every day?”
“Well, some days aren’t so bad.”
“And your excuse on those days is?”
“I don’t have one. I just didn’t wanna write,” I bleated.
She leaned forward and replied, “Look. You need to give me something before I can work something up.”
“That’s what I am doing now—staring at the screen and waiting for inspiration. And pull your skirt down!” I snarled.
“You know you like it when I sit like this,” she replied with a flounce and a moue.
“Can we work on something else?” I said, trying to put the image out of my mind.
How We Built a Sturdy Bridge Over Quirky Waters: A Tale of Love, Laughter, and Aging Together
When I first crossed paths with Snookums, my now-wife of many years, she happened to be dating my boss. Now, I’m not one to flirt with others’ significant others – it’s just not my style, both ethically and strategically. However, fate had other plans.
One day, my boss swung by the house in his truck, seeking my assistance in loading up his belongings. He had fallen head over heels for a torch singer, and despite my suspicions that she didn’t reciprocate his feelings, he moved out, leaving a void I was more than willing to fill.
Living together wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, so not long after, we decided to tie the knot. Our motivation was simple: we both wanted a companion to navigate the journey of aging. Luckily, she accepted my proposal.
Fast forward to the present, and here we are – two old souls still cohabiting. We mutually agreed that divorce was off the table (though, jestingly, we considered murder an option!). Our morning routine now revolves around coffee, cake, a handful of pills, shots, and candid conversations about bowel movements and other unsavory topics.
And you know what? The bridge we were going to cross when we got there is now there, sturdy and reliable. Despite the quirks and challenges, I wouldn’t change a thing.
I read the news today, oh boy!
In the realm of news, a curious blend, Where tales unfold, a world to comprehend.
A BBC editor, oh what a twist, Falsely reports, a journalistic tryst. No regrets to be found, just a poker face, In Gaza’s tale, truth loses its grace.
Poisonous cantaloupes, a deadly surprise, Claiming two victims, under fruity skies. Beware the melons, sweet but venomous, A fruit salad turned dangerous, oh how ludicrous!
Dictator Kim Jong Un, a man of might, Losing his hair, a follicular fight. Nukes and threats aside, a follicle’s demise, Even dictators face hair’s sad goodbyes.
City mayor on a climate quest, Around the world, with zeal, she invests. But in her city, crime takes the lead, A paradoxical tale, oh the irony indeed.
El Nino dances, a weathered spree, In Hawaii, waves of the fifties we see. Not in age, but in heights untold, A weather anomaly, a story to unfold.
And you, dear reader, in your cozy space, Thermostat set, yet a chilly embrace. Seventy-four degrees, a deceptive friend, As you shiver, pondering irony’s bend.
In this news symphony, a comedic play, Where truths and tales whimsically sway. From false reports to deadly fruit, In this world we navigate, a curious pursuit.
Sunday Reflections: Embracing Quietude and Gratitude
The gentle rhythm of Sunday has arrived, carrying with it a blanket of tranquility. I’ve been quiet lately, not so much from a lack of words but from an abundance of weariness. My own posts, once a source of joy and expression, now seem dull and uninspiring. The allure of fiction has faded, and even poetry, with its lyrical cadence, holds little charm.
This subdued state, I’ve come to realize, is a whisper of mild depression. Yet, the mere mention of it to medical professionals triggers an avalanche of prescription drugs, a quick fix that leaves me yearning for a more natural approach. I prefer the gentle cadence of nature’s healing touch, a slow walk through sun-dappled glades, a soothing breeze caressing my face.
Among the myriad medications I’ve been prescribed, one stands out, a beacon of hope amidst the fog of malaise. When I neglect to take it, the world turns bleak, a stark reminder of its importance. This realization has instilled in me a newfound responsibility towards my own well-being.
As I sit before the glowing screen, the familiar cursor blinking impatiently, a pang of guilt washes over me. The words I seek seem trapped, refusing to flow freely from my fingertips. This technique, once a reliable remedy for writer’s block, has lost its magic. Perhaps it’s the lack of movement, the stillness of my surroundings, that hinders my creativity. It’s challenging to craft words when my life itself is in a state of stasis.
My dear wife, Snookums, soldiers on with remarkable resilience, her spirit undimmed by the trials she faces. She’s embarked on a clinical trial, testing a drug that promises to slow the relentless deterioration of her condition, even reversing it in some cases. Yet, progress is measured in millimeters, and definitive proof remains elusive. Despite the uncertainty, I cherish her infectious humor, her ability to find joy amidst the shadows. Laughter, I’ve discovered, is a potent balm for the soul.
The days slip by like a blur, each one a picket fence post flashing past, a reminder that the final one is approaching. I don’t fear that inevitable day; it will arrive when it’s meant to, and I’ll depart without a backward glance. Or so I hope.
As we embark on this Thanksgiving week, let us pause, reflect on our blessings, and savor the simple joys that life has to offer. May this Sunday be a day of peace, contentment, and renewed hope.
Good morning, and may the day unfold with kindness and grace.
g.
Reflections of an Evolving Morning
The day dawns, marking the fourth consecutive morning I’ve awakened with a semblance of human vitality, albeit a significantly diminished one. Snookums, my beloved companion, had already risen and was seated at the table, her fingers tenderly embracing a warm mug of coffee. A chill lingered in the air, prompting me to adjust the thermostat a few degrees before preparing my morning brew.
Coffee, once a source of immense pleasure, has proven increasingly difficult to tolerate. To combat its bitterness, I’ve resorted to a sacrilegious act – blending it with hot chocolate or half-and-half. The notion of savoring a robustly brewed cup in the morning now seems like a distant memory.
Adaptation is the key to survival, and we adapt as we progress through life. Our morning routine unfolded as usual, punctuated by our customary exchange of lighthearted banter and repetitive anecdotes. A modest breakfast of toast and marmalade followed, after which I embarked on my Sunday ritual of restocking pillboxes and placing refill orders for essential medications.
The long-awaited rains have finally arrived, transforming our parched landscape into a vibrant oasis while the rest of the country remains barren. However, the sun’s waning strength will soon usher in the autumnal palette, signaling the impending transition. This summer, the eighth decade of my life, has been the least productive, a stark contrast to my usual industrious nature. Nevertheless, I find solace in Messiah’s understanding and acceptance of a productivity standard that differs from my own.
With age comes wisdom, a treasure trove of insights that have illuminated the once incomprehensible enigmas of my youth. These revelations have instilled in me a newfound patience and hope, qualities that eluded me for years.
Even the harrowing events unfolding in the Middle East have unveiled hidden truths. The drums of war beckon, their call echoing within my soul, yet I am no longer able to heed their summons. My physical limitations would render me a liability, not an asset. Instead, I offer my prayers for genuine peace to descend upon the warring factions, listening to the rhythmic rumble of passing cars on the highway, an odd yet comforting texture woven into the tapestry of life’s relentless ebb and flow.
Good morning to you all.
A World in Decay
Morning coffee, chilly air
My aged wife sits, unaware
Overcast and rainy skies
Air conditioners quiesce
Niece in isolation, sick
My thoughts like shattered shards so thick
Vague sadness cloaks me in its night
As news arrives, a gruesome sight
The longest grudge war of all time
Yet God and Israel remain sublime
That silence speaks of doom and dread
For those who face them, filled with lead
And I sit here, powerlessly
Watching as the world descends on me
An ominous tone, a chilling rhyme
As darkness falls on this, our time
In the Heart of a Tranquil Morning: Covid
In the heart of a tranquil morning, the sun’s golden rays caress the verdant landscape, a comforting sight as winter’s chill approaches. The tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed chocolate latte mingles with the sweet scent of lemon cake and clotted cream, a symphony of flavors that awakens the senses.
Yet, amidst this idyllic scene, an unsettling silence descends. The world, as revealed through the news, is grappling with uncertainty, its complexities echoing in the stillness of the morning. The absence of God’s voice and Israel’s silence resonate like a deafening void, a portent of impending turmoil.
The specter of Covid looms large, casting a shadow over the household. My niece, who resides with us, took a home test for Covid this morning, and the results have raised concerns. While the test indicates a positive result, it is important to note that it is just a home test and not a definitive medical diagnosis.
In the face of such uncertainty, the phrase “Que sera, sera” takes on a poignant significance. It is a surrender to the inevitable, an acknowledgment that life will unfold as it will, regardless of our desires or expectations. Yet, beneath this veneer of acceptance lies a flicker of defiance, a refusal to succumb to despair.
The world may be shrouded in uncertainty, but the beauty of the day remains undimmed. The sun continues its journey across the sky, painting the landscape with hues of gold and crimson. The grass retains its emerald hue, a testament to the resilience of nature. And the aroma of coffee and cake still fills the air, a reminder of the simple pleasures that life has to offer.
These enduring symbols of hope serve as a beacon in the midst of the storm, reminding us that even in the darkest of times, life finds a way to persevere. The human spirit, with its capacity for love, compassion, and resilience, will undoubtedly weather this storm, emerging stronger and more resilient than before.
While we await confirmation from a medical professional, we remain vigilant and supportive, preparing for any challenges that may lie ahead. The spirit of unity and resilience that binds our family will undoubtedly see us through this uncertain time.
Good morning!!
Rusty's Armory 