Any given moment

 She walked slowly through the aisles of the thrift store, an almost permanent smile on her weathered face. Her granddaughter had brought her there, thinking it would jar her memory or show her that a good day was possible.

The old woman stopped occasionally and held something in her hand as if trying to remember it from days long past. Then, with a sigh, she moved on, seeking out just one piece of a life lived when things were simple.

She stopped in front of a beautiful old hutch filled with vintage dinnerware, holding her hand to her mouth in surprise. That's mine, she told her granddaughter. I've been looking for those plates and the stemware as well. I'll need them for the dinner party tonight.

I'm sure they can be delivered right on time, Grama. But before she could say anything more, the woman walked on, leaving the hutch and dinnerware behind her and forgotten.

They spent the better part of the afternoon slowly looking at hundreds of items, some of which she took great interest in and others that she liked at that moment. I'm tired, child, she said, and hungry, too. Can we have a bite to eat at the diner Grandpa and I loved so much? Of course, we can, let's go now. She held her arm and walked slowly to the car. It was only minutes before the old woman fell asleep, only to be awakened once they reached home.

Did you enjoy our day? she asked her grandma. The woman smiled and said she had a wonderful day. She especially loved the root beer float at the diner, which she and Grandpa liked so much. But now I need to rest for a bit, she said. You'll come again for a visit, won't you? The young woman covered her lap and stayed until her grandma fell asleep.

Memory loss affects many, and there is no cure. What we can do is embrace our elders and listen to their stories, even if they don't make much sense. They believe their words speak the truth at any given moment, and we owe it to them to listen.

Mike 2025                                              

As we age

 As we age, we have a chance to beat the odds every day. We are given the time to make good with our past and not dream too far into the future.

Getting older means we've had time to learn and absorb life to its fullest while realizing every day lived is one we will never have again.

I don't remember waking up one day, seeing myself in the mirror, and wondering how I had gotten here so quickly. Who was that person with silver hair and weathered wrinkles? Where did I go?

Aging means accepting the aches and pains, the loss of friends and family, and the realization that one day, tears will fall for you. It means you can get away with things a younger person can't and laugh inside knowing you have.

Growing old is as natural as the rebirth of Spring flowers, which blossom for a while but eventually turn back into the ground. If we've lived the life we were given to the fullest, we will realize that age is who we are from birth to death and everything in between, and it's up to us to fill in the gaps of stories written and those yet to be.

Mike 2025                                                   

Every waking day

 We were only kids when we met in a cellar bar off campus. She was sitting at a wooden barrel bar with two friends, but it was just her that made my heart skip a beat or two. A long-haired guy in a tie-dyed shirt and strands of beads around his neck with a large peace sign, Madallon, was playing songs he wrote and some he didn't.

The crowd was the usual crowd that hung out on Fridays and Saturdays, with Fridays being single nights and Saturdays being date nights. On that particular Friday, I was glad I was single; obviously, she was, too. I mingled around, saying hi to friends from college and never losing sight of her, who, in time, I would have had enough liquid courage to walk up and say hello.

I still believe fate brought her to the bar and stood next to me. Her perfume was a faint smell of lilac. For a microsecond, her arm touched mine as our eyes locked, and she smiled, a smile I still long for every waking day.

We talked well into the night about everything and anything, not wanting the night to end. At the last call, I asked if I could walk her back to her dorm, and she smiled that smile that said yes. The night air was cool, and I wrapped my jacket around her as we walked silently down the quiet streets, not wanting this night to end.

At her front door, I broke the silence and asked her for a date, and she asked when. "Is tomorrow too soon?" I asked, and she smiled that beautiful smile etched into my soul and nodded, saying tomorrow would be nice.

The rest is history. We both finished college and soon after, we became husband and wife. We traveled for a while in an old school bus turned camper, seeing faraway places that called us to visit: state forests, parks, beaches, and lakes where others like us traveled the roads less traveled. Nature at its best surrounded us with peace and harmony among our traveling brothers and sisters, some of whom were still friends decades later.

From a slight touch standing at a bar to a lifetime of love, we've parked the old bus in our yard next to the hen house. Now, our kids play inside, pretending to be on great adventures like the ones we shared with them. We sit around a campfire, where sometimes friends drop in. A friend with a guitar brings us back to a cellar bar, where he was dressed in a tie-dyed shirt with strands of beads and a peace symbol that hangs from his neck.

We lived a long and happy life together, a long-ago memory that turned into many beautiful smiles and a faint smell of lilac I awake to every waking day.

Mike 2025                                                 

My attic room

 Time has ushered in memories I thought were forgotten. Moments so special from my youth fighting their way to the top to help me relive even the most basic of people, places, and things I buried a long time ago.

I remember the first years of my life in a house so small that my room was in the attic. It was a dark, lonely place where my eyes were affixed to the ceiling, seeing watermarks and peeling paint. The wooden ladder that came down from the attic signaled to me that someone was approaching, and over time, I recognized whose footsteps were coming up to my room in the sky.

Anyone taller than my mom had to duck so they would not hit their head on the ceiling with exposed nails. Dad promised to take care of it, but it wasn't until my older sister came up and hit a nail that it got fixed. I believe she still carries that small scar to this day.

I grew to love my solitude in my attic room. It was a place where I could play with my imaginary heroes and act out their superpowers, sometimes with too much noise that prompted a hit on the floor from mom smacking her broom on the kitchen ceiling.

I was fourteen years old when my parents sold the little house and moved to a much larger place, where I had an actual bedroom to myself. Nobody had to duck or risk a nail in the head. It was a great room, but the one thing I remember missing the most was being alone to act out my fantasies with no prying eyes. I even missed Mom's broom banging on the kitchen ceiling, signaling me I was being too noisy.

We tend to forget those childhood memories no matter how important they were. I suppose to make room for the memories we built our life around.

I'm into my seventy-first year in this world, and I'd venture to say my memories of my youth are powerful and wonderful, all mashed together to surface and bring me back to the times I loved the most.

People often ask me how I dreamed up the characters I write about in my books and blogs. I tell them I reach back and pull out memories with meaning, then add a pinch of make-believe, leaving it to the reader to figure out what is what.

Mike 2025                                           

Peaceful forests

 I can find peace in a world of unrest, hatred, and violence as I walk deep into the forest, where the only sounds are the birds, squirrels, and the snapping of branches as I venture deeper. 

It's dark among the giant trees, but rays of light pierce that darkness, acting as my guide, and I follow.

The smells of the forest are like sedatives for me. The rich, damp scent of moss and the bark of the white birch fill me with calmness. The smell of a bubbling brook and wet rocks are all meant to soothe my mind and help me leave the noises and smells of the city at the foot of the forest.

As night begins to fall, I use the lights from the neon city to be my guide out of the forest, leaving behind a place of peace that will always be calling my name to come back.

Mike  2025                                                

Words

 When I take a moment to realize how blessed I am, the moment becomes much more. I can talk about all those I love and who love me in return, and I smile with every passing thought.

There are so many stories to share, and I must endure equal amounts of sadness that flow from my pen to a tear-stained paper. But it's not all sadness—far from it. As I reach into my memories and pull out countless times spent with family and friends, it brings me great pleasure, and thanks for the many memories that will stay with me as so many disappear into the light.

A long time ago, I knew my writing would have a purpose, and one day, it hit me that words were my tool to share my thoughts and express my feelings in a way that others couldn't. I felt blessed.

I've asked myself why I write what I do, and my conclusion was that words have to be spoken through song, speech, or expression. You can't keep words bottled up if you have been blessed with the ability to share them. What I wrote touched a nerve or two and brought a smile or a tear, but more importantly, I awoke a memory for the reader.

Books may have lost their appeal to some with the advancement of digital and audiobooks and a thousand publishing websites eager to tell you your work will make a great Netflix movie—all for just twelve hundred dollars. However, millions of people worldwide still enjoy curling up in their favorite chair and opening a new book, as the smell fills your senses like nothing else, well, maybe fresh-cut grass.

I'll always keep writing without concern about whether people will even read it. I write because I love to, and that's all that matters to me.

Mike 2025                                                

I want to laugh again

 I want to laugh again like I used to do back once upon a life.

Fun-filled packed bars with music and laughter that went on all night, leaving you wiped out the next morning that came with two hours of sleep and a mad dash to get to work feeling like crap and looking even worse.

It wasn't difficult to spot your fellow party partners. They were slumped over their desks, rolling their eyes at you as if to say never again. But you knew that was a lie.

It's hard to give up a lifestyle, especially when the consequences of your choices hit you in the face on any typical day. A pain in your arm and the tightening in your chest bought you a ride in an ambulance and the feeling of being scared for the first time in your life.

Your life was never the same after that scare. No more booze, no more foods you loved, and daily exercise you thought was worse than the heart attack itself.

Then, the truth presented itself when you stopped going to your favorite bar, and nobody missed you or at least didn't check up on you. You were out of sight, out of mind, in proper fashion. A few days after your attack, you received a card in your mailbox stained with spilled beer and the oils of peanuts and several lipstick kisses with a name below each one. It was a subtle reminder that your only friends were the day drinkers who spilled into the night, some asking how you were doing and then ordering another shot without any more talk about you. Your life as you knew it ended right there, and then you realized your life was nothing more than people who drowned their troubles until they were gone for a few hours of fun and laughter in a smoke-filled room.

The years passed, and you've been sober for a decade. You stayed away from your old watering holes but did enjoy a nice night out with a new friend who has also been clean for some time now. I suppose there is life after booze, but you have to seek it out carefully so you don't disturb the forces around you to retake control and lead you back down that path you once walked or maybe stumbled.

I laugh again now, more so than I ever did. My mind and body still feel the effects of the abuse I put upon myself, but all the changes I went through were and still are the best life choices I made, and  I stick to that one day at a time.

This story is a self-portrait of my younger life, not just a story. I can still smell the smoke that filled the bar, hear the music, and sometimes wish I could have one more time doing all the crazy things I did. That brings the biggest smile I can muster, but I know it's not to be. Hell, I'd need a bib at my age so I didn't stain my shirt, earplugs to keep me from going deaf, and an Uber waiting outside because I gave up my driver's license ages ago. Life is a bitch, but it wasn't always that way.

Mike 2025                                                   

Word puzzles

 It used to be simple for me to write and tell stories. I would open my mind, and a floodgate would open, spilling so many words that I could hardly keep up. Now, I fear that with older age comes a slowdown of my word river, which now seems but a trickle of its former self.

How is it that something once so powerful as a well-written story can turn into a game of hide and seek for the right words?

Life is like that, I suppose. You start with a young mind filled with ideas and stories to be told. You didn't care back then if people liked your work; it wasn't for them to like; it was meant to sharpen your tools for what greatness awaits. And so the journey begins.

You've lost count of the stories you've written, some just short blurbs and others books that never sold much. Again, you didn't care, as the stories were yours to do with what you pleased, like seeing copies in the library and people looking inside, some smiling before putting it back with the other dusty tales of someone's imagination.

Sitting down at my old desk with a single light flickering in the darkness always seemed to spark an idea that must be told. My words came to me in a flurry, and finally, an abrupt stop told me it was over the end. But I always wanted more.

I've discovered that writing gives my mind a rest from everyday life, which has gotten progressively more confusing. I fear that soon, the words will dry up and be locked away for good. And then what? Crossword puzzles, word find, or staring out a window, begging for inspiration. It's a slow loss that leaves me feeling empty and alone. I try to remember the characters in my books saying their names out loud, which I must admit would probably seem crazy to anyone nearby. Sometimes, I could rattle off dozens of names, each with their own story they allowed me to write. Other times, I struggled to find one name, but my mind was like a blank sheet of paper.

I feel blessed to have had such a long life and the chance to tell the stories I had to write. You have to understand that much of what I've put into sentences didn't always come quickly, but they did come. Some came to me so quickly that I questioned if it was my fingertips pounding out the words.

To date, I have written over seven hundred blog posts, with an overwhelming number of a dozen readers. But that doesn't bother me because one day, one of my kids or grandkids will stumble across a key drive with everything I've ever written. They will read them because they will be a part of who I was: my journey across vast oceans and neighborhood bars, my life as a hippy and a biker, my strong work ethic, and my never-ending love for each of them.

I don't foresee myself whithering away in a guest bedroom or a place for old veterans—not for me. I see my dog lying beside me, the clicks of the keys that put him to sleep, and me pounding out anything that stays on the screen. Jumbled letters that have no meaning make me smile because I'm doing what I do best: searching for words in my puzzled mind.

                                                                                  

                                                                  

Mike 2025

Once again, this is a reminder that I write stories, not so much facts. There's no need to contact me to ask if I'm okay. Thanks for reading.

                                                               

A smile and a wave

 The old man sits on the front porch as he has done for too many years to remember. He watches as children grow and dogs follow, and each passing day brings him closer to the love of his life.

He made some friends along the way but didn't know their names. They were just passersby on an evening walk, smiling and sometimes waving like friends do.

He's seen the trees grow from saplings he planted when he built their house, and now, they tower over the roof, heading in the same direction he hopes to go. He rocks slowly in the swing he made for her one Christmas, remembering the look on her face as she embraced him and told him it was perfect. They sat on that swing every evening when the sun was setting her hand in his as the world around them passed in front of their eyes with a smile and a wave.

It's just him now as he slowly swings, keeping one hand on the spot she sat beside him, leaving the other hand free to wave as the passerbyes looked his way, knowing that swing would soon be still except for times the gentle winds blew. When he passed, They sat together once more on the swing he made for her one Christmas many years ago, her hand resting in his as they rose beyond the tree tops to a place where everyone waved and smiled and true love had no end.

Mike 2025                                       

Unread words

 When I walk away from writing, it's as if I have left a piece of myself behind. My pen leaves everyday sights and sounds untouched, and my imagination hides itself.

I feel like a half-written song whose melody stops halfway home, leaving someone to pick up where I left off.

I purposely do this to myself to understand how important it is for me to continue even if my words are never read.

I sometimes wonder if centuries from now, my work will be discovered in an old cardboard box tucked away in a hoarder's garage, doomed to a moldy death, or maybe discovered by a bargain hunter who cashes in on the stories of a simple man from years past whose only wish was to tell his stories and bring a smile, maybe a tear, to a reader he'd never meet.

Mike 2025

                                                                    

Call of the flute

 Ringlets of smoke rose from the simple shelter as the sounds of a flute melted into my soul. Each note is a message that found me in a place of solitude and reflection, away from the city's hustle, walking a long, winding road upward to where the ground and the sky kiss hello.

The smell of patchouli and campfire smoke stirs memories of years long past but never completely forgotten a culture of peace, love, and harmony with nature.

That life stayed with some as they continued the journey, while others, like myself, strayed, leaving with memories and a burning desire to return.

Now, here I am again, high atop a mountain, walking until I find the small group of yesterday's people sitting around the fire and listening to the sound of a flute close enough to pierce my soul once again.

We are few now older and maybe wiser, but we agree that time didn't win; we did. We may have walked down the mountain a long time ago, but the footprints we left behind us will continue to attract others who once lived in the grassy meadows among the trees and the stars, returning one last time to hear the call of the flute.

Mike 2025                                           

 He never thought he would live somewhere over ninety, but he was blessed. He often remembers people and places he should have forgotten, but they are as clear as a bell. His movements aren't as well-oiled as they once were, but give him time, and he will reach his destination.

Sometimes, he would have to think very hard to pronounce a name or put a face to it, but give him some time, and he would speak to them as if it were a gift.

He often wondered what it must have been like when he could dress himself, but that seems so unimportant now. And the stains on his shirts are just reminders of last night's supper or a midnight snack.

He shows little emotion when his grandson shaves his week-long whiskers or his granddaughter makes his favorite dessert, but he is smiling inside.

The days mean little to him as each one runs into the next, but he knows his family will visit him one day, and he patiently waits. One by one, they file in, holding his favorite dishes and speaking to him as if he's deaf as well as old. Little did they know he could still hear the buzzing of a fly landing on his piece of apple pie.

He looked at all of them, each a story he could tell as they grew up and he grew old. His great-grandchild would sit close to him, whispering in his ear that she knew he was very old, but she loved him just the same. She asked him why he had no teeth and if he was always this old. Her parents would tell her to quit asking so many questions, but he waved them off and told her to ask him anything, and he'd do his best to remember.

This was his life now, and when they left the house they grew up in, he cried a little, knowing the time would come when he had to say goodbye to everybody and everything he had tried so hard to remember.

His family honored his wishes to stay in his house, where all of his memories live, but time was growing short when he'd have to live in a strange place with people he didn't know, and he prayed to God to let him stay home.

He was ninety-four years old when the angels came to him and took him to a place he had always prayed he would go—a place where he could feel young again and look down at those faces he now remembered so well. Sometimes, he would pay a visit to his great-grandchild as she slept, answering all of her questions and telling her stories of her Mom, whom he missed so much.

She would tell her parents about her talks with him in so much detail that they would pause in disbelief.

Everything is good now as he begins his journey to the place he prayed to go. And he wonders if he will find his grandmother, who made the perfect peach cobbler.

Mike 2025                                         

His shadow

 Growing up, I craved his approval. I followed him around like his shadow, wanting to be just like him. I wore a baseball cap that said John Deer, just like his, and work boots handed down by my older brother, the same kind dad wore.

He taught me to throw a ball and take a punch, to work hard, and to mind my elders' words without question. He also taught me a darker side of him, evident in my Mother's bruises and the empty bottles thrown in anger at anything in their way, including me.

My brother left home after high school, leaving me alone to take the brunt of his anger, but I promised myself one day I would make him stop. That day came when I was Seventeen.

I woke to hear my Mom's cries and found her curled up on the kitchen floor, clutching her arm in pain. I'm okay. She said don't make a big deal out of it. Your father is a good man. He drinks too much, that's all.

I found him in his workshop, his head tilted back, getting the last drop of whiskey. He saw me and threw the bottle towards me, aiming at my head, but I was faster than him and caught it in mid-air. Without any thought at all, I threw the bottle at him and struck his head with a thud I hear to this day.

My Mom testified at my trial, showing the court her many scars at the hands of my father, who she buried on the family plot where only three people gathered to pay respects. I was not one of them.

Years passed, and Mom grew old and silent most days. She rocked on the front porch swing until I got supper ready and helped her inside. She passed at Eighty-nine and was buried alongside her husband on the family plot. I said my goodbye, sitting next to her on that swing she loved so much, but I didn't go to the gravesite, which would only bring back memories of a man I once loved and followed around like his shadow.

I did my time, losing thirty years of my life. I'm not angry at anyone and admit my crime without remorse. I'm forty-seven years old, wondering what's next as I sit on the front porch swing, taking the last sip from the whiskey bottle, looking for something to throw it at. 

                                                                      

Mike 2025

               Like all of my stories, this one is fiction. I always combine details of truth with fiction to create the story I'm trying to convey to readers.

Ocean treasures

 We are walking on a beach, your tiny hand in mine, as quiet footsteps disappear behind us. The rhythm of the waves breaks each with its own melody that sometimes bears gifts from the farthest reaches of the sea.

You let go and run towards something the sea will reclaim if you don't grab it. You hold it to your ear, walking slowly back to me, a smile on your beautiful face as you put it in your bag with other treasures.

You said a small bottle could be that of a pirate, and a piece of wood covered in barnacles could be a piece of a treasure chest lost at sea until a storm washed it ashore. Colored pieces of glass hundreds of years old, made smooth by the tides, could have been bottles or glassware from a king's table.

Soon, the sun will set, and the beach will sleep until dawn, when my little treasure hunter and I will venture out again, leaving our footprints to be washed away behind us and a world of adventures waiting ahead.

Mike 2025                                                  

Gift of memory

 I can close my eyes and see the endless sea, the vast forests, and the majestic mountains reaching to the sky. I can smell the salt, the pine, and the wildflowers that grow in the meadows.

I can reach into my memories and pull out pictures of a simple life when Mom stood at the kitchen window watching me play and Dad reading the Sunday paper his unlit pipe in the clay ashtray I made for him.

I can walk down the streets of my youth and remember each store and soda shop where I went as a teen, listening to the jukebox play my favorite songs. I stop at the ball field and can hear the crowd's roar and feel the parents' pride under the Friday night lights.

I see the day I boarded the bus to boot camp, leaving the boy behind and becoming a man. I remember seeing the ship that would be my home for three years and marveling at its size and power.

Memories can take me anywhere I wish to go and to anybody I want to see, all in a fleeting but very real thought. I sometimes find myself so deep into the thought that I'm actually there, smelling breakfast cooking as Mom scurries about the kitchen making school lunches and Dad reminds me today is trash day. I see myself getting on the school bus and seeing the faces of my friends so very young.

I've always thought that I lived two lives: the present and the hidden memories I can recall and put pen to paper for the world to see.

The best thing about memories is that you get to choose the ones that brought you joy and happiness. These will always be there when you call upon them. And the bad memories will only stay as long as I allow them to.

My wonderful life of memories has been a gift that I cherish beyond anything else, and I hope they remain with me until I am but a memory.

Mike 2025                                              

Once upon my time

 I was happy once upon a time. I would laugh so hard my mouth hurt, and tears would roll down my face so hard I thought I'd drown in them. I was wild back then when age was just a number and fun was what I lived for. I was charming, yet I could be hurtful if I didn't think before I spoke. I thrived on danger, riding my bike down mountain roads and living just to do it again. Jumping off bridges into rapids, But I also tried to avoid harm when I realized I was getting closer to an ending I didn't write.

Then, as if time took a giant leap forward, I was old. The thrill days were behind me, as was the lifestyle I lived with a passion and will never forget.

If you saw me today, you would see the scars, some hidden beneath the wrinkles of age while others stand out, leaving you wondering about the life I lived. Where once vivid tattoos adorned my skin are now faded roadmaps to nowhere covered with age spots.

I didn't want to grow old, but nobody does. But If I try, I can still find some happiness in the eyes of my grandchildren, whose innocence and energy find their way into my heart. Moments like that take me back to the times spent with my children as their teacher, their friend, and the one person on this earth who never stopped loving them.

I often wonder what I'll miss the most, and the list is long and includes hearing the roar of a waterfall, the serenity of the forests, a baby's cry wanting to be held, and those three little words that never get old.

I'll miss morning coffee with the one I love, a stroll down a country road, and the smell of freshly mowed grass, muscle cars, Harleys, chocolate cake, and Ferris wheels.

Every day, I remember and forget my journey as my hourglass slowly stops moving and my life fades to black. Now, moving on to my next chapters, I know I will write someplace dreams are made of, and those around me will voice their approval, bringing a smile and tears to their eyes as they hear my words that went unnoticed and unread until now.

Mike 2025                                                          

What becomes of a writer?

 Where does a writer go when the words stop? Do they become just another lost soul forgotten, or will his words live on in the minds of those who faithfully followed his craft? What will become of the readers who found themselves within his stories feeling as if he was speaking only to them?

Where does a writer go when he realizes that soon, the ink won't flow, and the words that once came to him so easily will become a battle to conquer?

What becomes of a writer who can't write? How will he fill his days without words? Will he live for his dreams where words once again flow, and new stories will be told only to wake up and can't be remembered?

In this writer's mind, I would find a peaceful place where the water flows downstream through a quiet village, with a cottage tucked away in a meadow with lush grass and wildflowers as far as the eye can see.

I would welcome the quiet, sit on the porch with a blank piece of paper, and stare at it, wishing for just one more sentence.

Mike 2025                                          

Day drinkers

 The basement bar was smoky and damp. The regulars crammed together, bellied up, with the common goal of forgetting their day. The barmaid had been slinging drinks for so long that she knew everyone's choice of liquid courage and sat it down before the customer could ask. She must have been a looker in her day, and she still tried hard to use her charms, often getting her a good tip, but mostly just a half-baked attempt at a smile.

An old Wurlitzer jukebox played the same songs. It mainly featured hits from the fifties, but no one seemed to care, as it was better than silence. At eight o'clock, the three-piece band played requests as the bar began to fill up with a younger crowd as the day drinkers finished their drinks and said goodnight. A much younger barmaid took over with plenty of skin to show off as the day bartender left without fanfare and a half-filled tip jar.

A few day drinkers stayed until their money was gone, trying to act half their age and usually making a fool of themselves as the crowd turned away in disgust, not realizing that they would probably become day drinkers themselves one day.

Closing time meant last call, and although nobody needed another drink, the barmaid filled their glasses and poured more beers assuring her a good tip to top off her already overstuffed tip jar.

Once the bar had closed and everybody had left, some with a sure thing if they could make it home without getting sick, and one lone ranger who believed his flirting with the barmaid would make for a lucky night found himself being shown to the door by the night janitor.

Just a few hours, and the day drinkers would file in as the barmaid stocked the liquor shelves and tapped a new keg. Sometimes, she would fill wooden bowls with peanuts or some salty treats to keep them thirsty in an attempt to make them happy and donate to her tip jar.

She looked around the joint, happy with what she saw, and plugged in the old jukebox, which played the same old songs nobody noticed. As the door opened and the bell above it rang, her day drinkers, whom she knew by name, bellied up and smiled, and her shift began once again.

Mike 2025                                              

If I couldnt write anymore

 If I couldn't write anymore, I imagine I would find myself among the tallest trees in the forest, whose lives, like my own, have almost completed the circle of life gifted to them. Together, we could share stories like how many seasons we have lived, how many storms we have braved, and whether anybody will hear us when we fall to the ground.

If I can't write anymore, does it mean I have nothing more to say, or did the words go to sleep, and the quiet takes over until my entire world finally rests after decades of late-night thoughts and early-morning coffee? Will I still remember the circus and the oceans of the world? Will I see the faces of those I love in my dreams and feel the warmth of a child's hug?

If I can't write anymore, how will I express all the beauty and wonders of life that fill my every waking hour, and how will I know when my last sentence will be written? Will I just know, close my laptop, and walk away? I know that day is not that distant, but I do know it's not today.

I still have words to write, stories to tell, and the endless hope I've touched those who get lost in my world of words.

Mike 2025                                               

Last ride

 He pulled off to the side of a country road, his throat parched and his goggles dust-caked. Climbing off his bike, he brushed the dirt from his chaps and grunted at the sight of his steed, which hours ago had shined like the morning sun. Standing and looking out over the wonder of nature, he was happy for the first time in a long time.

They told him he was too old to ride anymore and that he should sell his bike, but he ignored anybody who agreed. He rode his first bike at age seven, and countless bikes followed, each holding a special place in his heart but never any fear.

He chose the days he would ride carefully, only venturing out on sunny skies with no rain in the forecast. He didn't go too far from home, at least until today, when he took off at sunrise and never looked back. It was a cool autumn day when the mountains burst with colors, and the air filled his lungs with a cleansing no medicine could ever hope to do.

He rode throughout the day, taking back roads to avoid traffic and stopping along the way to stretch and gaze upon the beauty of nature and God's gift to us all.

The Road King performed like it always had, never breaking down or failing to get looks of approval from passing bikes of weekend warriors. The rumbling of power beneath him let him know how alive he felt, and not once did he feel too old to harness the wonder of it all.

With his tank almost empty, he unstrapped the gas can he knew he would need, poured it into the tank, and rode on. Nightfall was upon him as he rode further into the darkness and the dangers that lay ahead. He felt like a kid again testing his limits, throwing caution to the wind and never thinking twice about his safety. After all, that was his plan.

A passing truck noticed him around a dangerous curve. He was motionless, his bike on its side, still smoking but running as if to say it wasn't done yet. Per his request, he was buried with his Road King, two warriors at peace, riding through the mountains of heaven's endless curves, the only true freedom he had ever known.

Mike 2025                                            

The mirror

 He looked in the mirror that had been staring back at him for decades. Years ago, he smirked at his image, taking in the youth and confidence to begin a new day. He practiced what he would say to a girl he met at work or a speech he had to give to a crowd of his peers. He'd straighten his tie and comb his hair, and after taking one more look, he'd jump into his day full of possibilities.

He looked into that mirror every day, which was the same but with another wall to hang from. After all, time always follows you no matter where you hang your hat. For him, it wasn't vanity; it was a time clock to remind him his image was changing each time he looked into that mirror.

Wrinkles appeared out of nowhere. His days in the sun were etched across his brow like tiny rod maps of his life.

Today, he leans on the sink, looking at the man in the mirror, a man he barely recognizes, but there is no mistaking that smirk he sees as he remembers his youth and how it played out.

He's not quite sure why he removed the old mirror from the wall and stuck it in a drawer. Maybe he didn't want to see where it took him from this day forward. Perhaps he tried to remember his last time seeing himself as he used to be, but the reflection looking back at him couldn't allow that.

Maybe someday, one of his grandsons will find the old mirror tucked away in a drawer and hang it on a wall where he can look into the glass and practice what they'd say to the new girl at the office.

Mike 2025                                            

The farm

The morning began like any other summer morning on the farm. Chores were done before breakfast, and sunrise brought with it the chance to do something to feed the masses. His dad was a farmer, as was his dad, who worked the land for generations. It was all they knew, and they wouldn't change a thing. Simple things like the smell of fresh-cut hay and the earth itself 

giving you a gift you could never repay.

The sounds of roosters crowing and cows mooing, the distant sound of the combine in the south field, and the school bus tooting its horn as children finish breakfast and run down the dirt road to catch it.

Everyware the farm is work in motion as each job is completed and you move on to the next one as the morning gives way to the noon hour and a ham sandwich your wife packed for you the same as her mom did and hers before. Sometimes, she joined you as you ate, discussing the crops and a teacher-parents meeting tomorrow to discuss your eldest son's education. They both knew he'd be a farmer as it ran in his veins, just like you, your dad, and all who came before him.

You reminded your son about the meeting tomorrow at supper, but he paid little attention, knowing all he wanted to do was farm the land and marry his sweetheart, whom he'd known and loved for as long as he could remember, just like his dad and his before him. No meeting would change his mind as he felt needed on the farm; truth be told, he was.

Nothing else about college was ever mentioned, and their son grew into his own man and took over many of the duties his dad once did, like his dad and his before him. He married his sweetheart, and they were blessed with children who grew up and learned the ways of farming. 

Time has a way of passing down the torch, and his life slowed down once he did. Now, drinking a mug of morning coffee, he sits on the front porch swing with his lifelong sweetheart, listening to the carbine in the south field, the roosters crowing, and the cows mooing, knowing they've helped feed the people who depend on them, just like in his days and his dads before him.

Deep inside, he worried that changes were coming and profits would dwindle as the super farms produced more than the smaller farms could ever do. Some would sell to the big operations, while others would continue to struggle on the land they've farmed for generations.

He felt the changes coming, which could be good in some ways. But for now, sitting on the porch swing with the love of his life, he would remember his dad's teachings and his before him and all the wonderful memories he had, giving his wife's hand a gentle squeeze and a smile as big as the land itself.

They were farmers, and like those who came before them, they worked the land, loved the land, and belonged on the land as much as his dad and his before him.

Mie 2025                                           

The written words

 Since he has survived the last seventy-something years, how little he wanted to retain may surprise you. He chose who and what he wanted in his life, often being labeled as a recluse or a homebody, neither of which bothered him.

Early on, he decided he enjoyed being alone with his thoughts, building a library of sorts to reflect on when he felt the need to learn.

It didn't bother or matter to him that while the other kids were playing, he walked deep into the woods and spent time with the trees and everything else the woods had to offer.

It was there in the quiet that he wrote about what he was feeling at any given time. Propped up against a giant pillar of wood, he opened his eyes and his mind to everything around him, and the words flowed. When he needed inspiration, he would read a book, but only those he connected with, like the cedars of Lebanon or the prophet, two of his favorites that he read many times.

Years and decades passed, and he still found great comfort and joy deep into the world of tree soldiers where the songs of birds always greeted him, along with the squeaks of small animals and, on more than one occasion, the glare of a wolf who stood his ground as if to say, "I welcome you here.

Soon, he will write his final chapters and reflect on the times he didn't join in with others but remained alone with the knowledge that mattered to him.

Were you ever lonely? He was asked. Never, he replied. My life has always been filled with adventure, surprises, and a love for all living things. Through books and my mind, I traveled the world and filled my heart with wonder. I've seen more in a day in the woods than most would ever see in a lifetime on a crowded street or at a picture show.

I am the designer of my life and will continue to live it through my mind as long as the words flow, my heart beats, and the wonder of the written word thrills me.

Mike 2025       

                    

Winters blanket

 He thought to himself, " Winter came early." Then he noticed some lingering leaves trying to hold off being buried in the deep snow and hanging on for dear life.

The pond would be frozen soon, and his grandkids would come and skate for hours while their mom and dad would sit with me by the fire pit drinking hot chocolate, but I preferred a different kind of liquid warmth.

My daughter remarked that it looks so barren this time of year. The trees are bare, and the lush woods are a field of wooden soldiers. The green grass is now a colorless landscape of frozen mud.

I took a drink and smiled a bit before saying, There is beauty all around you if you know where to look, even in the harshness of winter. The first real snowfall covers everything with a blanket of white, waiting to be disturbed by curious creatures and kids seeking fun building snowmen and making angels.

The stream that runs through the property is taken for granted most of the year until a snowfall covers the rocks, and tiny ice cycles attach themselves, leaving a picture any artist would love to capture.

The thing I find the most soothing is the quiet. There are no construction crews hammering away and saws screaming. Traffic is all but lost, as only the emergency vehicles will be heard, but hopefully not.

The crackling of a fire in the pit and the laughter of the children as they race around the frozen pond, unaware of anything else.

To me, winter is a time for cleansing the earth and allowing time for Spring to be reborn, rising from the once-frozen ground. A blanket to protect what waits below to dazzle us after the snow leaves until next time.

Mike 2025                                    

The dance

 Fifty years had passed since that Saturday night school dance. He was seventeen, and she was sixteen, and little did they know that someday they would marry. She looked so beautiful in a blue chiffon dress her mother made for her, and he in a shirt and tie he borrowed from his older brother.

The school gymnasium was decorated with streamers and balloons. When no one looked, a refreshment stand served fruit punch sweetened with booze. A band was hired and played all the favorites the kids loved dancing to, giving the chaperones a lot to look out for.

He asked her for a dance, holding out his hand, which she took as he led them to the crowded dancefloor. I'm Mary, she told him. I know, he answered back. Who wouldn't know the name of the most beautiful girl here? They danced the night away, telling each other about their dreams and plans until the lights went on and the dance ended.

Her best friend's dad was picking them up, and they both hoped he was running late. They exchanged phone numbers on pieces of napkin, which she put in her purse and his in his pocket. He watched her pull away, seeing her look back and smiling at him as he began his long walk home.

Her father didn't allow her to date yet, so all they could do to be close was talk all night until they fell asleep. A year passed, and he was called to serve his country. They wrote to each other sometimes, wondering if the mail would find him in a faraway jungle. But she kept writing, and he did his best to respond.

He came home at the age of twenty-two, and she was twenty-one. She met him at the train station, seeing him immediately as he ran towards her and scooped her into his arms, which he had longed to do for so long.

They married that day and began a lifetime together as if no time had passed at all.

As the years passed, they found themselves chaperoning the high school dance, remembering theirs as he gave his hand to her and led her to the dance floor. They danced until the lights went on, then took a taxi home with her in his arms, both smiling.

Mike 2025                                 

Forgotten

 His big toe ripped a hole in his sock, but it didn't bother him unless it got really cold, then he felt the difference between a hole and not. His shirt, one of just a few, was stained with the menu of the week, but he didn't care; he called it his taste test of meals.

He didn't know what a manscape was; he thought it meant somebody had escaped from prison. His beard was white, and there was some mystery about what may be living in there, but he didn't care.

A small family of mice made their home in his home, and that was okay with him; everything breathing needs shelter somewhere. He'd hear them on the counters at night, their tiny feet running from one place to another, landing on a scrap of something he dropped, but he didn't care.

His house was small and needed many repairs, like the roof that leaked and the pipes that corroded almost daily. Trying to fix things was a constant battle until he quit fixing them and let them be what they would be, much like himself.

He expected to be found one day living in a state of disarray that swallowed him up and spit him out, lying on a stained carpet with a giant hole in his sock and a shirt with the day's menu splattered all over it. The paramedics would wear masks to help with the stench as they tried in vain to revive him, but he was gone.

The city tore down the place as a family of mice raced to the house next door for shelter and food scraps. It was just another story of being forgotten in a world where what should matter does not.

Mike 2025                                        

Pickled eggs

 I ducked into a corner bar to escape the blizzard and unbelievable cold that chilled me to the bone. I'd been here some time back with my dad, who propped me on a barstool with an orange soda and a handful of quarters to play the one-armed bandit, but it was a long time ago, and I forgot about the place. There wasn't any live music, just an old jukebox spitting out the classics of days long gone. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and dampness. Cheap perfume filled the air worn by a few elderly women sipping their cocktails and hoping someone wanted to dance.

Two old men sat hunched over, staring into their glasses, wondering whether they should have another. After looking at the bartender, another round was ordered. A large glass jar filled with pickled eggs and a rack of potato chips that had probably been there for a long time was the menu that I passed on, choosing Hunger instead.

The bartender, who also happened to be the owner, asked me my father's name. When I told him, he scratched his bearded face and smiled. I knew your dad very well. He said it seemed like yesterday he was standing exactly where you stand now. I can't count the times your mom came and picked him up. Yeah, I said she did that a lot.

As the storm stopped, I played a few songs on the jukebox and drank too many beers, and nobody cared. I finally left, but not before telling the owner thanks and saying I'd make it a point to come back no matter the weather.

Walking home, I realized how much I had in common with my dad. Someday, I'd have to try a pickled egg and some stale chips.

Mike 2025                                          

quiet

 I was so much younger than when life was lived for the next moment. There were no limits, only adventure, fun, and the never-ending feeling of never getting old.

When I think back at the years and all they brought with them, I smile a little and cry at times, both from joy and sorrow. So many have passed before me, and it doesn't seem fair sometimes that I was left here to be the caretaker of so many souls. To keep their flame burning bright and to remember them.

There's so much quiet now as a once full house is replaced with different-sized frames and people staring back at me. Is it odd I talk to them? I don't think so. How else will I remember their voices?

On cold winter nights, I listen for the silence to speak, but it doesn't make a sound, as even the snow treads softly.

I've found peace within myself as I look back on all the memories I made, and I even retain some of them, which is a welcome surprise. Getting old isn't that bad. It's just lonely at times until a child and grandchild stop by and disturb the silence so I can join life again in a world that isn't meant to be so silent.

Mike 2025                                      

Peaceful souls

 If you ever lie in a summer valley looking up towards the heavens and find yourself lost in the stars or make a paper boat and set it free with the current, then you've known peace.

If you've camped in the forests or mountains and smelled campfires burning and music playing to a beat of its own, then you've known joy.

If you grew your hair, wore tie-dyed shirts, cut off jeans, smoked a little weed, and dropped some purple haze or brown barrel, you've experienced the joy of finding places in your mind you never knew existed.

We were a generation of exploration, with the freedom to do as we pleased and the desire to let the system know we had a voice that would be heard. We gathered by the thousands to absorb the music others saw as the devil's work, but to us, it was a part of who we would become, and we welcomed it with a loudness that shook the ground beneath our bare feet.

Love was shared, and casual sex was another part of our culture. Babies were born and loved riding shotgun in vans painted with flowers and incense billowing out of the windows. We were gypsies who always got a funny look from people who looked down at us as being a bunch of freaks hell-bent on destroying the comfortable life they lived, pretending to have all the answers, and all the while jealous of our happiness.

We condoned war and saw it as an action of the war machines who answered disagreements with missiles and bombs, killing women and children for reasons only the old war dogs knew. Some refused to go and escaped to Canada to live in peace and our way of life.

But only a few continued living in the forests or traveling the countryside, finding refuge among the cedar trees and lush valleys we fell in love with as our children grew.

Eventually, the groups began to disband and go their separate ways, some choosing to live among those who hated us while others held on to their beliefs and traveled to what we called relocations to small towns, where we opened bakery shops and record stores. We wore our tie-dye shirts and had long hair. We burned a joint when we wanted to and turned once boring towns into tourist traps and income sources. Decades later, the towns remain a part of our culture we loved so much with our kids, sometimes keeping our chosen life alive and following in our footsteps.

As for this old writer, I will always have that period of my life to remember what I fell in love with. I burn incense and have long hair, and when I need a reminder, I put on a tie-dyed shirt, roll a fat one, spin Zeplin on the record player, and send a paper boat down the river of my youth.

Mike 2025