My daughter gets to play with all the good toys

She has been doing really well in her behavioural neuroscience classes at the university. I'm so proud of her, though I wish she could sneak me in to play with some of the cool stuff too. Something about security. Oh yeah, I guess you have to be a student or something. It doesn't count if I hadn't been there for a few years.

Her electron microscope slides of some lichen won a couple awards and this one made it into the 2009 calender, how excited I feel for her. I kind of miss the old campus.

Now that she is down for the Christmas break and seeking refuge from the chaotic life for the one day she'll be able to spend at home. Shes wanting a vegan dinner. I still hadn't decided what I'll be making yet, but I'll get it worked out.

I've pretty much have had the affectionate title of kitchen dad for quite some time. I'd always enjoy cooking at home and for anyone else that happens to drop by.

When Your Angel Appears

Alone in the dark
The air is light
Thoughts drift about
Lost dreams seep in

The secretes of darkness unfolds
When an angel appears
To watch over you
She wipes the tears from your chin

Speaks in the most gentle of lullabies
Holding your hand
Whispering the soft words
Silently by your side

Guiding through the perils
The path is before you
Listen
Listen to her
May you find your light...

Kaleidoscope

My eye ventures the long hall
Ending in a myriad of colors
Through journeys lost time
Of shards, jaded hue’s

With every cylinder twist
New explorations unfold
Further into the recesses
Outer walls of the mind

Turning it the other way
You realize
Your not on your way back

Going forward
Is to pull away.

Litter Me This

Cruising down the interstate
Sadly woes
Wood, cardboard and paper
Alongside the road

A tearful Indian
Comes to mind
Put in bags
Give it time

Won’t be long
As humans go
It will all be back
Don’t you know

Retribution Is as fleeting
Some can’t stop
With all the littering!

Lady in the Scarlet Dress

There was a farm
I used to visit there
The lady of the house
Made the sweetest things
Of crisp golden brown

On a few acres of land
Tended with the loving care
In her scarlet dress

Gather herbs in the garden
For the early morning guest
Memories enough to go around
And more for the rest

Its not there anymore
A long time ago

On the hill above
Looking out
Where it once stood
With the heart's memories
Distressed

You can see
What use to be
The happiness sounds
Aroma's of love
That were prepare

I miss that lady
In the scarlet dress

The Strange Bus Ride

I’m not used to taking the city bus, but my car broke down, so I was going to the shop to pick it up then drive back home. I thought the experience of a bus ride would be kind of nostalgic and bring back some old times when it was my way of getting around town when I was younger.

I would call just to make sure I knew which one to take, where to catch it and how much the fare would be.

The next day I walked down to where I was supposed to be at and stood there at the right time.

Making sure I was having the right amount of change ready as the approaching bus slowed to a stop.

I got on, step up, putting my bus fare in the fare slot. Then I’d noticed the bus driver’s name ID tag was Cecil. I had an uncle named Cecil once, but he had died when I was just twenty. He sort of looked like him except he was skinnier and didn’t have a mustache. I just put it out of my mind and didn’t think about it much more.

I started my way through the isle, not knowing whom I might be stuck sitting with.

Ah, an empty seat, feeling the sense of luck. Now I have the control of who sits next to me.

Not really, I thought. Even though I knew the little control I did have was all depending on how I would present myself when someone would decide to sit down in the seat with me, besides I didn’t want someone strange or weird sitting there.

We came up to another bus stop in front of a grocery store, an elderly woman got on. Putting her bags down as she was paying her fare she looked around. I caught her looking at my seat, great! There are plenty of others, please sit in one of those. I thought loudly to myself.

I turned toward the window, just kept looking outside. Then it happened. She sat down, right next to me.

She smelled of grandma perfume. It wasn’t to bad I thought, I suppose I can tolerate it for a little while, I hope she’s not going very far.

Her perfume kind of reminded me of my grandmother and couple of great aunts, I thought of them once in awhile and missed them very much.

They would tell me some of their funniest stories of growing up. They had all passed on when I was a teenager.

She started talking to me. She seemed to be a sweet old lady. She would talk about her family from long ago. She had two sisters name Kathryn and the other one named Jessie. Her sister Kathryn had a large family and that she had spent a lot of time with and enjoyed her sister’s grandchildren she had missed them for so many years.

Well young man, it was nice talking to you. This is my stop up here, Winslow Avenue; this is where I get off.

Yes, it was nice talking to you too. Then I hesitated. With her hand on my shoulder she said. My name is Ester Gaitland.

She had step off the bus and went to the white picket fence gate, in front of a white-clapboarded styled cottage.

The bus pulled away, I thought how much of a coincidence was that.

That was my great aunts and grandmother’s names. My grandmother had a large family.

I spent my childhood with them, some of my fondest memories.

When I got home. I called the transit company. The man there was pretty helpful, at first.

Well sir, he said. We have no one that works here named Cecil. And like I said I check! There is no street in the city anywhere named Winslow Avenue.

And there is no buses scheduled at that stop where you got on at, on the hour. They are fifth teen minutes after and fifth teen minutes till the hour each day.

I don’t know what else to tell you, sir.

A couple of days later I drove where the old woman got off the buss at and looked for that quaint cottage with the picket fence.

As puzzled as I was, it was a vacant field and there was no bus stop anywhere there.

Every now then I think about that bus ride.

I had never ridden a bus since and I don’t think I will be able to again.

Rolling Rocks

When I was about ten I was riding through the mountain pass with my Dad and uncle.

I noticed some signs that said “Watch Out for Rolling Rocks”. Well, that kind of puzzled me for a while. So I finally asked them. What did that sign mean? They both turned to each other. Well should we tell him? About the little Indian brave, my uncle said. Dad replied he’d probably hear about it sooner or later.

Well it started a long time ago. It was about the time when the settlers were moving out west in their wagon trains. Stirring up dust, making noise and camping in the Indians prized hunting grounds. Once that group of wagons and settlers would go through another group of them would go through, doing the same thing to the Indians territory. By this time the Indians were getting madder as each month passed by. They would hold pow-wows of how they were going to deal with these trespassers tromping in their mountains.

After several get togethers of all the other surrounding Indians tribes, they felt there wasn’t much they could about it. None of them knew what could be done; they didn’t want to talk to them. They weren’t quite sure what to expect. So they just hope the settlers would just go away.

Well they didn’t! Now they would wander off the trail and hunt their wild animals, cut down their trees for firewood and other things.

There was this one little Indian brave. What I mean by little was, he was full-grown but he is smaller than all the other braves of his age.

He decided one day to take it upon himself to do something about it. After all the rest of other braves were afraid to confront them.

The little brave went up on the top of the mountainsides and set rocks on top. So when a group of wagons would go that way again he would roll the rocks in front of them.

After all he didn’t want to hurt anyone he just wanted to scare them so they wouldn’t go through there anymore. He made sure no one ever seen him, he was small after all, and was good at hiding and getting away.

After a few times of this going on, the word started to spread back east where they would set out with the wagon trains to head west, that those mountains may be haunted or something.

To the rest of the other Indians they were amazed that the brave little Indian plans were working. The settlers didn’t seem to come by as often. The word traveled fast to the other Indian tribes camps in other mountain passes.

His tribe was so excited about his bravery and contribution. And it was one of they’re own. They would eventually make him a chief. From that day forward he was known as “Chief Rolling Rocks”.

Well sorry to say, some good things are known to come to an end. The settlers found it to be necessary to keep pushing out west to settle the new lands. The stories of how great the hunting, fishing and fertile lands were. They started to come that way again.

He still carried out his campaign of trying to scare the westward bound settlers, but it wasn’t having much effect anymore.

Eventually time went on and the west was becoming more developed. Highways were put through the mountain passes for easier traveling for the modern day cars.

What about the little Indian brave turned chief. He latter went on in spirit to his favorite hunting grounds.

To this day when you go through the mountain passes you will find those warning signs that say “Watch Out for Rolling Rocks” I sometimes had found some over the years where, someone had wrote in chief on some those road way signs.

Anytime you hear that rocks had rolled down the mountainside on to the road. That just may had been the spirit of that little brave turn chief, still trying to get his message across to the unsuspecting travelers that he is still around even though in spirit

Rest in peace little brave Indian chief, rest in peace…

The Eagle’s Eye

How envious am I, the eagle flies
Over the vast soft greenery
Tree branches supported pillows
The valley divided, by a cool running vain

Rocky walls higher up to the spires
A majestic ram standing his stay
Mule deer grazes on tender fields
Smaller wing masters prowling their prey

An ever-changing subtle way of life
As to a rhythm of a symphony’s sonata
On the warm sweeping winds

The Last Apple Tree

It was a time long ago

Village crops started to fail

On there, out of the way island

Losing most of the trees

Fulfilling building

And other needs

Only one tree left

So much hope to survive

That night

A special campfire meeting

Was called

No more apples should be eating

The villagers didn’t listen

To the rule

They ate

Till there was only one

Left on the tree

Well, they cried our end has begun

We will post a guard to watch

The last apple on the tree

Appointed sentry slept

The last one fell

A mute villager

Found it and wouldn’t tell

Took it home for the family to share

When it was gone

All there was left were the seeds

With his voice no one heard before

We will nurture them here

Then pant them outdoors

The village didn’t know

What they were going to do

Quickly running out of food

All their corps dying or dead

We will have to leave our beloved island

Look for somewhere else instead

The mute citizen with plenty to say

We will secretly

Take these little seedlings

Plant them across the hills

Next spring trees growing everywhere

The island community was thrilled

He was made the village rule maker

For every one apple that is eating

One has to be planted

Soon so many apples to eat and for compost

All the other crops came back

Food for all, wood for most

The moral to my little story is

If it’s your last bite

You hadn’t done nothing to prepare

Give back to mother earth’s care

Later you will be rewarded

With plenty to share…

Star Child’s Lullaby

Sleep my child
Sleep to the flickering
Of the campfire light
Dancing shadows
Dances the tree branches

Dream of the unicorns
Forest fairy rings
Dream of those magical things

What the wood nymph sings
Sleep away my child
Sleep deeply

In your moss maiden bed
Beautiful are the little white flowers
That dances around your head
Close your eyes

Ever so softly grin
Good night
Good night
As the firelight
Dims…

The Last Garden Flower

Last flower in the garden
I’ll be with you to stay
You are left here all alone
The others have faded away

The season has come to an end
Nights are getting colder
Sun light has dimmed

Place your burden on my shoulder
Surrounding fragrance is gone
Greenery is turning brown
If you want to sleep

You may lay your head down
I feel sadness by your bed
The loss of color in your blossom

You are the last flower
As summer heads into autumn
It has grown darker
I look back to the those days
When it was full of life

Under the sunshine rays
Sleep my friend
It's getting late
The last flower in the garden

I'll gently close the gate...

Pleasure

Joy comes to those who reach for their dreams
Some struggles with their perils
For others an illusion
Those are what seems

Simple pleasures are all that is nature
Some never see
Sound of a welcome rain
A well place dream catcher

Sands of a retreating tide
Walking on an ocean shore
Our spirits wander to a distant island
You by my side

Question

Who’s to say?
Where the love goes
While wrongs consumes our days

Who’s to say?
What can make us whole again
When life is so empty

Who’s to say?
How longs the road
The journey has taking so long

Who’s to say?
Where your heart is
When I see, you can’t feel mine

Does your heart find
The love I’d shared
Or like the bird
You, let it go

Who’s to say?
When we are old
A life of regrets, may-be full

Who’s to say?
What will be in the end
When it’s our time
To go.

Nocturnal Slumber

Close your eyes
Rest the wary soul
Let the day slip away

Sleep sleep
In the soft meadow
The stars watch over you

Summer breeze
Kisses your face
In a nocturnal slumber

Mind's Fragile Causeway

No matter how intelligent one feels or how un-fragile their insensibility's can be. The mind is only one incident away of being damage to a permanent state. It seems that their own smarts lends to a false sense of “not-happening-to-me” persona.

I’ve seen the young or at any age be struck down in the prime of their life through mental illness, PTSD, chemical imbalances, head injuries or other types of catastrophes of traumas the body may endure such as a stroke. They are likely to be institutionalized for sometimes upwards of life.

Some may even function in what seems to be a normal existence. But inside is an everyday a constant struggle, just to survive in what can be an inhospitable world. While others have to work hard to keep up a front to preserve their own protection of being ridicule, shunned or they had suffered that unimaginable fate. (to be continued)