Posted in California, Family, Life, Prose

We Were Just Talking

The other day
the other year
40 years ago
or so,
We were laughing about
or, were we just talking
my memory fades
and tricks me
you know?
We were playing
when we were kids
up in the mountains
at the ocean
we were just playing
when we were younger,
You are not very
lying there, while I speak
lying there, dreaming
in your sleep,
We were just together
the other day, it seems
we were talking about
what I can’t remember now
We were together,
when mom went away
all those years ago
just talking, were we,
The other day
when you chose to go away
caught me unawares
and me being
so many hours away
being so many thoughts
I was just talking to you
when the machines were turned
You were just there
looking so peaceful, waiting
waiting for someone,
waiting for someone
to take you home,
I’ll sit here
just a bit longer
looking at you
as if we were kids again,
40, no 50 years ago
saying something
We were just playing
and talking like we did,
we were just saying,
telling a story,
You were smiling then,
like you are smiling now,
and I,
am hovering over you
even though
we are only speaking
in my mind,

As if we were kids again
playing some silly game
with mom calling us home

Calling us home….

Posted in Learning, Life, Poetry, Prose

Beginnings, Endings

I am told of how I began
this life, living, breathing
Of this, remember I do not
but the mere fact of me being
existing, thinking, seems
to confirm this fact,
When I am no more
will I know it? will I know of the end?
If the beginning has no memory
will the ending be the same?
Is it better to have the ones I love
the ones who love me, present?
Or will they only forget
to remember, who I am
who I was?
Existing in this time frame
right now, being alone at this moment
I might just exist as someone
who I once knew, who I once had been

Beginnings, Endings
one in the same
never the one, nor the other
never being
never leaving…

Posted in Learning, Life, Poetry, Prose

Along a Road

Walking along a road
with stones lining the way
and stones being the road,
I daresay

Stones, crunching
my morning repast
with flavors of metamorphic
and plutonic,
but lacking volcanic

Oh, how I miss
a good think
about Pluto
and the River Styx
and the stones in his river,

Stones in the River
glistening, shiny
smooth as a baby’s
slippery when wet
enjoy them while so
upon my road, be they
boring, stones

Skipping stones
killing time
one, two, five
step on a crack
break my mother’s
not with stones, though
not with stones,

Large stones, become
smaller yet
time eats, crunches
my stones
turning them into sand
my sandy road, reflecting
the stones I once knew

When I wasn’t killing

Posted in Life, Poetry, Prose

I Don’t Feel Obliged

Who I am
What I do
Why I want to do some things
and not others,

I don’t feel obliged
to apologize for all aspects
of my life,
not every pain, nor every hurt
why seek sympathy at every turn
of life’s road?

I don’t feel obliged
to pretend that I am someone
I am not,
to worry about every single word, I’ve said
wondering if they were correctly placed, ensuring
that no one, no animal, nor deity
was offended,

I don’t feel obliged
to admit to who I love
when I did so, and why?
the same applies to partial
infatuations, and random looks
at those that don’t necessarily
share my heart,

I don’t feel obliged
to explain why I think
how I write, or who is affected
by those things,
I am not always responsible
for every word, action, or thought
that someone, somewhere felt
was out of place, out of mind,

I don’t feel obliged
having to share every aspect of my life
with others,
the me, I’ve known
has been known my whole life,
all the changes, all the years
I am the one who bears those burdens,
sorrows, joys and contentments,

I don’t feel obliged
calling this post, prose, nor poetry
for it is just another part of what I am
how I think, where my thoughts take me,

I just don’t feel obliged
to do so….

Posted in Denmark, Life, Travel

An Evening in Aalborg Denmark

In the City of Aalborg, Denmark where I reside, a yearly event occurred last night. It is called Regatta, which according to English Oxford Dictionaries means:

A sporting event consisting of a series of boat or yacht races.

Usually it is just some ships docked at the harbor with a number of stages set up offering music and ambience to the residents of Aalborg.

This year was no exception.


There was music, speed boat races, events and playground for Children, and the event I experienced: Semi-finale in Firework Competition (in Denmark) between 3 competitors.

I ended up experiencing the firework show on my favorite wooden ship from 1899, Jens Krogh, and in the middle of the Limfjord Canal, a bit closer to the Firework Show than the rest of the audience present.


Jens Krogh.


Danish ship called LOA.


Russian Ship named Mir (peace) on left, Utzon Hus in middle, where the music took place.


Sunset in Aalborg 2245 (10:45pm)


One of the tops of Utzon House.

I apologize for not posting more about Aalborg, but I’ve been busy emptying my head of my random thoughts. There was a time when I was less fond of Denmark, mainly because it wasn’t California, but sink or swim, I decided to accept it as my home at long last.

Posted in Dogs, Life, Poetry, Prose

Life is Too Short

That’s what they told me
about things like
boring socks,
cornflakes without the crunch
and relationships
that go nowhere,
Who should decide
what I do in this life?
who I love, and why
if my socks don’t match
o,r if Soggy Cornflakes
are my current Mantra?
Life is too short, worrying
wondering why my dog sniffs
my hair,
or, if my toenail trimmer
can do the deed without fail?
I really should enjoy
getting soaking wet
in a torrential rainstorm,
or, revel in the pleasure
of tired limbs after a good day’s work
why spend time with regrets
worrying about the lack of
toilet paper, or if the kids
are using the money saved up
for my retirement?
My garden is filled with weeds
but I say, Live and let live,
at least the bare ground isn’t crying
for my attention,

Life is too short
worrying about the length of this poem
or the content being fitting
for my faithful readers,

They too must choose
the bitter from the sweet
and decide if their lives as well
are too short, for reading
thoughts like these….

Posted in Learning, Life, Poetry, Prose

To Those Who Call Themselves, Poets

A poet, I am not
a writer of small stories,
bits and pieces of my imagination
spilled upon virtual paper,
be I,
You may think of me as someone
who writes in that direction
along the edges, the fringe reality
the modest, easily read prose
stumbling in the dark, while the poets
the true poets dream around me,
I salute you,
my sisters and brothers in arms
you, who understand, wanting to be
calling yourselves, Poets
but I
lack the correct word,
for what I might call