Tuesday, July 12, 2011

An old man and a yellow alley cat

     Sometimes I lose sight of why I started this Twitter journey and how Olde Yeller Cat came to be. We're all here for our own special reasons: loneliness, broken relationships, escape from the boredom of being alone, trying to promote our writing, searching for expression in poetry, photography, art, or sharing our expertise in psychology, and business, or simply as an easy way to let folks keep track of us.

     My name is Henry. Olde Yeller was an alley cat I came to love; she isn't around anymore, or if she is she's looking down from her cat heaven. This copy of my first blog tells the Olde Yeller Cat:

     Just like the skinny olde alley cat that was trying to rub breakfast out of my kitchen door we often barge into each others lives uninvited; we don't mean to be intrusive, sometimes we're just hungry, or cold or just looking for someone with whom to share our lives, our misery, our good fortune, or a meal. Hungry, cold, critters, and folks for that matter, don't have any politics, or religion, or views on how to save the world, or how to cure its ills, that all comes later after our hunger, and needs are taken care of, until then we're all the same. Maybe thats what we're missing, all of us, for just a few moments, being like that skinny olde alley cat rubbing on a strage kitchen door asking to be part of  a strangers world.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Blue eyed temptress

Blue eyed temptress
again haunts my dreams
morphs raging rivers
from calm blue streams
turns a flowered meadow
into a storm tossed sea
Blue eyed temptress
dream siren
calling me

Thursday, June 23, 2011

I Wonder

From the last kiss to the pain
from the wonder to the rain
and I wonder once again
was I
the one
to blame
why I didn't hold you tighter
why I didn't ease my hold
why I let you wander so long
without being one bit bold
Had the last kiss lasted longer
had my ardor been much stronger
oh, I wonder
once again
was I
the one
to blame

Monday, June 6, 2011


In the midst of a
black and white land
of burnt skeletons of homes
a raven sits
on a blackened tree limb
looking down
at the ground
at a mass of black feathers
beneath puffy white clouds
in an azure sky
and in the stillness
of that moment
my soul echoes
the blackbird's 
silent cry

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Blind Lady

"Heard your tap tap tapping, ma'am. May I hold your arm to cross the street?"
"Thank you, son."
"Anytime, lady. Us blind folks gotta stick together."

Friday, May 13, 2011

Go ahead

Go ahead... one more time
say it like you mean it
repeat that same old lie
then we'll both go home
and start again to die

Hold me close... one more time
hold me like you mean it
before we say goodbye
before we both go home
and start again to die

Watch the trees a weaving
weaving while we wave
cold raindrops a falling
as the love 
we gave

Go ahead... one more time
say it like you mean it
repeat that same old lie
then we'll both go home
and start again to die

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

The bum

Joe the cop crosses the street to escape my rancid smell. Pretends he doesn't see me, in my greasy, dirt stained, torn, and ragged coat. I stand shivering under the awning of an empty store front. "Hey, Joe" I holler. He doesn't even look my way. I cuss at him under my breath, not loudly enough for an approaching couple to hear. "Hey, mister" I speak to the man. He tries to speed up but his lady friend hesitates, opens her purse and hands me a five. "God bless you." she says. I smile and head for the liquor store.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Granny 1942

In her seventies regal, tall, and skinny she hoed and planted and weeded her half acre garden. It was all she had left. Scratching mosquito bites, swatting flies, her clothing soaked with sweat; snuff trails crossed her wrinkles from the corner of her mouth to her chin as she prayed to the wind in her Indian tongue, but the wind seldom heard her pleas.  Her hoeing done for the day, bees making their last flight, and chickens on the roost. She searched the sky at the whine of the plane and cursed it - the source of all her ills - grandpa gone, her penniless, alone in a three room shack fending for herself. Grandma 1942 Alabama back wood country.
[revised 7/16/2013]

Friday, April 1, 2011


Her detour to me in my rocker / a timid touching of my arm / a silent cry for just one kind word / an I love you I never said
Her footpints on the desert sand dunes / a timid touching of my arm / her laughter echoes cross the mountains / an I love you I never said
Her detour to me in my rocker / her fragrance hugs the lonely sea / a silent cry for just one kind word / an endless search~a memory
Her footprints on the desert sand dunes / her fragrance hugs the lonely sea / her laughter echoes cross the mountains / An endless search~a memory

Tuesday, March 22, 2011


     Strumblings: like strumming open string chords on an almost in tune cheap guitar, while mumbling (supposed) thoughts of wisdom while drinking coffee in a 1960's vintage coffee house in Venice, California.  Well my guitars gone - sold it to help pay for my sons tuition in a millwright trades class, stopped mumbling in Mrs. Snuggs 7th grade class when she made it her lifes goal to make me "talk up", as for words of wisdom, all I know about has come about from mistakes I've made along the way, and (I'm almost at the end of this first Strumbling, so if you've hung in there this long hang around just a bit longer, the boring stuff is done) Where was I? Covered guitar, mumbling, and thoughts of wisdom. The only thing left is coffee. McDonalds regular, one cream, two sugars please. Thank you.

     I know, right off the bat, there's going to be disagreement with what I'm about to say but I've got age on my side so that trumps folks with minor points of view that are different, excluding, of course: editors, English teachers, publishers, successful writers, and others with similar credentials. Seems like, maybe there should be a trumpet fanfare or a drum rull or some such, first.... Oh well here goes, anyway:
theonlythingthatdifferentiates mumblemumble agoodwriterfromabadwriterishisher mumblemumble slantonwhatheorsheiswritingabout. Strum open C chord. Twice. Somebody in the back yell Author. Break time.

Saturday, March 19, 2011


Was I the cause
of all your nightmares
Heart breaker
Did I lead you up
unending stairways
to the
very top
of the world

I know I don’t
deserve forgiveness
Heart breaker
but as I watch my
final seconds
you were
the only
one I loved

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Don't Drink The Fish

The mule-pulled wagon shook as the four iron strapped wooden wheels danced across holes, ruts, and river rock in the sunbaked dirt road. Our rear ends ached from the wooden seats endless pounding, our breathing labored from stifling dust, little rivulets of sweat burned our eyes, itching dust streaked our faces, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky to hide us from the white furnace's glow. Pop finally pulled over and we climbed down from the wagon, scooted down the red clay bank to the shallow creek. "Watch out for the minnows, don't drink any". We cupped our hands and scooped up cold clear water that gushed out of the earth from an underground river that began somewhere far away. Thirst quinched, dirt streaks washed off of our faces, and momentarily cooled by the slightest of breezes we climbed back up the bank, got in the wagon and the torture started all over again.

Friday, March 4, 2011


Pump pump~racing heartbeat / got to clear approaching trees / pump pump~gasp for air / strain to lift a little higher / higher still~higher still / pump pump / trees below / breathing slow / gliding down / down / down too fast / falling / falling / pump pump~racing heartbeat / pump pump~gasp for air / rising now / level flight / gliding down / falling slow / slowing heartbeat / breathing shallow / fence ahead / far below / pump / glide / pump / glide / sleep.. / sleep.. / sleep...

Monday, February 21, 2011


Decades of autumns
Costume balls mark the years
Young Lovers no more
Long forgotten tears
But on moonless nights
on a deserted loading zone
Their shadows
still embrace