Walk a Lot Grin a Lot I grin a lot . . . I walk. I slow to visit every dog I meet my cat is at home she always sniffs out my trips: Dogs are okay, other cats are not.

See you on the Trail

I am not as young as our moon

but with drink and medicine

I may be there very soon.

I ain't in any goddamn race

but with the power of my Edison

and if driving talents keep pace.

I always have thoughts of tomorrow

and may decide to scale Kilimanjaro.

Look Over Yonder Somewhere

I'm gonna miss me when you're gone

I'm gonna miss you when you write my song

Sing in tune if or when you can

and maybe beat on your old pan . . .

I'll watch for you on the horizon

and grin ear to ear when you surprise me

'cause I know you're watching to see

what the hell is really over yonder . . .

It's us . . . you and me.

Early Traveling

I was not the cool kid

nor a stalking child

just a thumb in the air

without a flower in my hair . . .

O just to get out and about

from Odessa to the Pacific

watching skies of suggestion

my travels were my wit . . .

Bridges without too much water

some nestling birds for safety

there and back, windmills in mind

I counted out steps between waterings.

I always knew my name.

Days of Sorrow

The bone-aches of age

are a reminder

that some of us are in cage.

I walk

I talk

I even strut some

but never locked by space . . .

I can run

under stars that are kinder

than a simple stage

of endless rage.

The Circle in Gold

The Circle in Gold

I'm running and walking,

grinning without talking

let the snow pile up and melt

it's the sweetest weather to smell

among the Delta Ponds trails.

Meet me for a bit of trot and walk

smile a lot but no need to talk,

make certain to wear your felt.

Gato Malo Redux

The songs I sing from my mind

don't always  tingle with rhyme

but are songs I know

my heart shouting to the wind.

Please remember this

a kiss is just a kiss

but a sigh goes beyond tomorrow.

A kiss is often followed by sorrow

or rows and rows of a beautiful today.

Have you noticed the twist & turns?

D. Parket certainly took note . . .

The yapping of birds, just a bit hasty,

she balanced as almost nasty . . .

DP thought feathered friends

somewhere beyond a pale of sense,

their yapping and scolding stirred

stirred in a soup of arbutus seeking sun.