The childhood trips remembered most:
the channel islands off the coast.
Embarking from Redondo Beach,
most were within a one day’s reach.
Though absent wind, the distance grew;
a one-day trip could stretch to two.
Too much, the seas would chop and swell,
and that could be a queasy hell.
But land ahoy! We’d come alee
and gain some shelter from the sea.
Drop anchor in a quiet cove,
make egg burritos on the stove.
Then beach the dinghy on the sand,
and practice skipping rocks by hand.
At night, a tinkle in the sea
brought phosphorescent shouts of glee.
The stars, like diamonds, sparkled bright
far from the bustling city lights.
The sleeping bags, the damp, the cold
add to the fun at ten years old.
The time flew past; before you know
it’s Sunday morning: time to go.
With anchor up and mainsail taut,
the isle recedes, a distant dot.
The thought of school might bring despair
one thought kept me from going there:
for I was sure no classmates had
a childhood sailing with their dad!
Because my hair and beard are long
It's been assumed I'm dragging through a bong
Be they "legal" or illegal drugs I avoid I have been strong
From many years ago I've enjoyed a Beatle song
I'm a proud hippy from that era so the tooth is also getting long
I'm certainly not from upper class who think their poo don't pong
My attire out of fashion between the legs or on the feet i don't don a leather thong
I like my solitude stay well away from the madding throng
I've enough time on this planet to know where I belong
Be careful with assumptions you may just end up be wrong
Their masquerade
By Dustin Branum
9/21/26
The things they say that is
They ain't
The things they say that was
They wasn't
The things they say is up
Is down
The things they say is right
Is wrong
The things they say was then
Is now
The things they say is now
Was then
The things they say we can't
We can
The things they say will end
Has just begun
Putting all our effort,
Into building ourselves a fort,
Will few problems sort,
If unlocking the gate does not seem worth the effort,
When others won't come out of their fort,
Afraid to trust anyone to guard their port,
When they leave their fort
To drink our port,
And toast another good sort.
I was a child with questions, no answers in sight,
Why was love absent, why was home not so bright?
A little girl stood in a storm alone,
Searching for love that she had never known.
But then two hands held me, old yet so strong,
My grandparents whispered, "Child, you belong."
They did not ask about my scars or past,
They gave me love that would forever last.
They taught me to read, to write, to dream,
To find my voice, to proudly scream.
Where mother left shadows, they gave me light,
They turned my darkness into mornings bright.
So no, I am not broken, not lost anymore,
I have found what I was looking for.
I am not the tears my childhood knew,
I am the love my grandparents grew.
They bargain with tomorrow as though tomorrow were a stranger,selling every sunrise for another effortless night.
They mistake fear for respect,silence for loyalty,and broken hearts for trophies of intelligence.
They sharpen every promise into another useful blade,never noticing that every cut leaves a scar upon the hand that holds it.
The future keeps careful accounts.
It remembers every friendship discarded,every kindness mocked,every bridge burned simply to admire the flames.
Power is a rented room.Time is the landlord.
One day the echoes return wearing familiar faces.
Doors remain closed.Voices grow distant.Even victory tastes of asheswhen no one remainsto witness it.
The greatest deceptionis not the lie told to another,but the lie whispered inward:
"I will never need anyone."
Years answer differently.
The mirror grows older.The kingdom grows smaller.
The applause becomes memory.
At last, there is only one companion left—
the future self,
waiting patiently among the ruins,
to inherit every debt the past refused to pay.
To see this village, search for its wrinkles
Look to the bubbies, who first brought forth life
to the zaydes, who polish their words of Torah ‘til they twinkle
Bubby’s hands may be calloused from
Pesach cleaning, polishing every chalice
Zayde’s body bent from work by day
and relentlessly studying the nights away
But watch their wrinkles break out
as a thousand voices joyously shout
Mazeltov!! Congratulations all around
on their 50th grandchild – count 'em –
Welcome him to bubby and zayde’s little town…
___________________________________
'bubbies' - Yiddish for 'grandmas'
'zaydes' - Yiddish for 'grandpas'
Mazel-tov - Congratulations
Experiences: Do they act entirely on their own?
Have you ever gone from gridlock to marveling at why?
A song can make you start to cry,
Or why an axiom someone spoke last year
Can fill a quiet room with panic?
You think you've shifted along and grown,
So do a group act without reservation on their
Own?
They perch like dust on an old armchair,
Unseen until you catch them there,
A sudden compulsion to walk away,
A bad habit from a minor day-
It feels like an individual takes over,
Like an old habit luring us under.
They bump your elbow when you write.
They keep you up, jammed into the after hours.
They strive to tell you who you are,
By guiding back at every imperfection.
It's easy to feel like a commuter liable.
In an uncaged train of old, dense thought.
But a memory can't take a single pace,
It's just a bond your body reserved,
They drive the motor vehicle when you drop
The wheel,
And ditto the things you used to sense.
Some have a voice, but you grip the passkey.
They're just a part of you, not who you have to be.
Faces all on fire,
eyes catching the dancing flames~
light in their pupils,
dark fireplace gathers each gaze
keeps them when eyes look away.
Wood splits and whip-cracks,
sparks surge up into night's arms
like stars finding night~
the fireplace adores show-time
in its arena of stone.
Ash calms burnt embers,
stones lament the loss of light
warmth without a flame~
the fireplace cradles the shape
of what can no longer burn.
Smoke has lost its verve,
curling up now from the seams.
staining blank-faced stones~
glowing warm in the half-light
clinging to the afterglow.
Dark, damp, and dank now,
night has drunk the final warmth
Cold soot scents the stone~
the shiny green-black hearth waits
keeping winter for the years.
Morning finds no glow,
only the smell of old ash
clinging to the stones~
the fireplace dreams of footsteps
time itself tending the cold.
The last ember died
while darkness quietly drank
its final warm breath~
the hearth retains every face
beneath its moss and silence.
a gold streamer hangs
as young dove takes first flight
leaving empty nest
They met each other in a dream one night
In the mist by the bank of the river.
When their eyes locked in their own embrace
They both felt a quiver
Each were captured in the moment.
The water hushed the trees.
Thumping hearts and shallow breaths
Were carried in the breeze.
The gap between them began to close
A tip-toe at a time.
At the lightest connection of their fingertips
A bright spark struck sublime.
They both glanced down at their hands
At the feel of irresistible desire.
They thought about what these hands could do
Their imaginations catching fire.
Their eyes locked again with lips curved to grin
They both felt a sudden rush.
She was a lady, he a gentleman
Yet their lust bled into blush.
He ushered her to take a seat
On a bench made just for two.
They took a deep breath and faded away
Into a hazy hue.
Though they enjoy it when they meet
In the fantasies of the night.
It impacts on the loneliness they feel
When such dreams take flight.
Each night when they settle down
The dreams they hope for evade them.
But when they least expect it,
They will meet each other again.
The ‘Founding Fathers’ surely were wise
Washington, Jefferson, Madison and all those guys
Yet how about crediting their wives once in a while
for testing their husbands’ mettle and sharpening their wiles
There are people in this world, who turns off their light,
you see it in their eyes, as they walk in their night.
We all have our own darkness, lingering in the heart,
as we do our best each day, not to give it a part.
Those who have no light, their love has turned to stone,
they say the truth will cut you, slice you to the bone.
Where there is no love, evil, tends to be,
the side we walk the most in, is known of you and me.
One or the other, day by day we live,
what we feed our hearts, is what we truly give.
Learning to fight our shadows, as we walk in the light,
keeps us from walking, in the darkness of our night.
From being overtaken, by the evils, that we can be,
because the darkness in this world, is inside of you and me.
Those who see the truth, keep your light burning bright,
lest we be one of those, who turns off their light
Who feel them a stranger are
Panic-faced. Wan.
Though as oft when sad, cheered along
Sick, handed dock
A lonely way this life-road
Will always be.
For what blows through us, and soul-deep
Of that nerve-shock.
In our love story of us,
Every chapter written,
Shines brighter than the
first chapter,
When we write it together.
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