Fathers and Sons

Under watchful eyes they stand,

Poised upon a precipice,

Regarding the plunge ahead.

Quietly, they watch,

Sitting on, perhaps, a bench,

Nostalgic, proud, and yet, afraid.

Not too long ago, they stood,

Upon the lips of similar brinks,

Regarded then, as now,

By men in quiet contemplation.

Warming Glories

We’re limping along,

Golden Retriever and I.

Blame our lifestyle,

Or genetics, or foolish

Zeal and grandiose

Dreams; she WILL catch that deer,

I WILL move mountains.

Yet, now our joints betray us

And leave us one choice:

Acknowledge it’s time

To sit by this warm fire

And bask in memory’s glow.

Mother! Please!

I was five when last she did it,
After dinner in some restaurant.
I remember throwing a fit
For receiving attention I did not want,
In went the washcloth, to the water glass
And scour away at some smudge
Upon my cheek. Humiliation, alas!
Am I that unclean? Who’s she to judge!

The alarm went off! Blessed relief!
Vile dream, its course had run!
That it could be true defies belief.
After all, I’ll soon be fifty one!
Yet upon awakening, I find a nightmare’d just begun.
What I thought was washcloth is Golden Retriever tongue.