I used to be a writer

 I used to be a writer in days gone by. The words came to me even if I didn't want them to. Some said I had the gift of storytelling, but I thought everyone was like that but had a more challenging time expressing it. I'd write about everything from those days gone by. People I knew, places I'd been. I'd write about love and sorrows. If a writable thought came to mind, I wrote on paper bags, napkins, scraps of paper I found blowing down the road, and anything else I could find. I wrote my entire life, and I'm seventy years of age and still banging away at the keypad. I don't anticipate writing another book; I had my fill of that. I no longer want to be edited except for my good friend Grammarly. Now, when I write, I want it to be of some importance, hoping my children and grandchildren will read some, if not all, of my work. There are at least one thousand, if not more, pieces of my writing on my computer and hundreds of handwritten pieces in boxes gathering dust in a closet.

It's my belief that I wasn't meant to be a known writer. When writing them, I knew my books would only be important to myself and a very small handful of people who enjoyed my ramblings. Yes, I used to be a writer once, and before my mind is lost, I'll reach for the words and smile when one or two find me.

Mike

Waiting

 I've loved once. She was all that was good in my life: so many firsts, too many to recall. However, I remember her soft skin and her scent always close, smiling with that beautiful smile I long to see again. Time can't destroy love, as love has no time limits if it's real. I know she sees me and watches over me until we meet again, wherever that may be. Her laughter will guide me, her arms reaching out to hold me. We will become as one as it was always meant to be. I loved once in my life, and she's waiting.

MO

Fading seasons

 I wait with little patience as winter's fury refuses to give way to the splendors of spring. The dirt mixed with snow, creating what looks like a charcoal drawing, being erased a little each day. I have been looking through leafless trees that will soon be lush and green, allowing me little space to see past the first few. The air I breathe is crisp but lacks smells so familiar during springtime, like barbeques and freshly mowed grass—newly painted houses and dirt. Snowflakes replaced with fireflies and a feeling all is well in my tiny space on this earth. Then, just as quickly as it arrives, it's gone, fireworks light up the sky, hotdogs are grilled outside, and ice cream cones now have 36 flavors. The heat blankets the land as a drought comes, and the colors of spring wilt and die. One day, you awake, and there's a slight, very slight chill in the air, and you see color in leaves, a most welcome sight, at least briefly, as you remember last winter's wrath and the charcoal drawings. 

MO

Fade to darkness

 I don't see death as a punishment but rather as a gift we receive and earn. Our entire life is a series of events that define us and is determined by our actions in a short span of time. I know in my heart that heaven and hell exist, and both continually pull at us; eventually, one winner will prevail. I believe my God is forgiving, but his patience can run out. It's our job to see that it doesn't happen in our lifetime of good and evil. All of us sin at some point and ask for forgiveness, hoping we are heard through prayer and faith in our beliefs. Others will say sin is just a part of life, and when we die, only darkness remains where our feet once stood. Questions are many as we continue our journey, only to be answered when the soul leaves the body and judgment is swift and deserving. To me, having faith and believing in something bigger than any of us gives hope that everlasting peace awaits us when it's our time to be called to the gates we see so clearly in our everyday lives.

MO

Woodland friends

 The frozen ground crunched below his boots as he made his way deeper into the woods. The air was brisk, freezing his beard and numbing his fingers, but he pressed on. He was in his seventieth year, although he felt younger most of the time. As he ventured further, he got that familiar feeling that he was getting closer to his destination. There was a stillness surrounding him and a sense of peace that soothed his very soul. Soon, he felt eyes upon him as he sat on a fallen tree and took out a gunny sack filled with chunks of cheese, carrots, lettuce, and berries of assorted kinds. He carefully set all of it on the ground, then sat back and waited. First, the rabbits came, then a fox. Soon, a raccoon and a family of squirrels all found a treat and vanished into the woods. In his hand, he held a bunch of wild berries, waiting for his special guest to come out of hiding as he had for the past ten years. He was cold, and the sun was giving way to another frigid night when he saw her. He held out his hand so she could smell the berries, and with caution, she came closer until she was within reach of the most welcome treat. He spoke softly to her in a voice she had learned to trust, and when she felt safe, she got so close he could look into her eyes and feel her breath as she slowly took a few berries from his hand. He carefully stroked her head, which she allowed for a brief moment. He added that to his list of memorable times in his life. Then, with no warning, she was gone back into the woods, hopefully safe for another year. As he left the woods for the warmth of his cabin, he spoke to God, asking to keep her safe. He made three more trips into the woods with a gunny sack filled with treats, and each time, she appeared and gracefully allowed him to stroke her head for just a moment until the day he fell to the frozen ground. All around his lifeless body, the animals of the woods sat near him in silence as if mourning their loss. He wasn't a threat to them. He was their friend and would be missed. It was a bitter cold day as the young lad went deep into the woods. His grandfather had told him stories about his times in the woods and how the animals became his friends. On this day he found grandpas gunny sack and filled it with all the things he was told they liked. He sat on the same fallen tree and spread the treats around him, waiting for some movement that finally came as the animals of the woods began to come out of hiding slowly. But where was she, he wondered. He saw her as he was about to give up and go home. She remained hidden but showed her head and questioning eyes. He sat back down and offered her berries he held in his hand. Very slowly, she approached him but stopped short of being too close. He set the berries on the ground and then moved back until she felt safe. She took the treat and quickly ran back to the safety of the woods, looking back briefly as if saying I knew we'd see you again.

Mike

Age and wisdom

 The gray skies will soon give way to blackness as time in the hourglass slowly runs out. My words reflect my state of being, and some speak to me in no uncertain terms. I've learned that age and wisdom join together and speak the same language, hoping just one person hears them, gets something from the message, and takes away one thing they will never forget. Life is too hard to try and understand it all. Yet we spend our entire time here doing just that. When we see our reflections in the looking glass, it's a reminder that if we haven't left a good impression during our time here, we have to try harder before the sands in the glass stops moving.

Mike

Veteran pride

 Marines kept boots on the ground, serving beside soldiers, always happy to see them. While others flew above, protecting us from the unseen enemy. Some sailed the oceans, always diligent and ready at a given notice to let the lead fly and keep our boys safe. There was brass on hats and hats drawn on with markers creating peace symbols and the number of days left in country. There were missed targets, and the enemy got our supplies. It would be days before we saw them again. On the ships, the crew ate crackers and tins of tuna that made cats scream. But there was laughter and song among your brothers in arms as each one felt pride even though so many were welcomed home by being spat at. We learn from war and thank the lord; we know that any serviceman or woman willing to give up everything, including their life, deserves the loudest welcome home in every airport, train station, and bus station in America. I am as proud as my father, brother-in-law, and everyone I ever knew who wore the uniform. We are a nation of good people, honest people, and people who want to believe we will stand up and fight for what we believe in. In these troubled times, it's like a time bomb waiting to find a target, but rest assured, our military stands in front of us, beside us, and entirely around us to keep us safe. I don't know of one single Veteran who wouldn't stand tall once again, including myself. I don't know one Veteran who would walk away if called. The uniform may be tight, but what it symbolizes will always fit. I mourn my fallen fighters and honor the sacrifice of thousands who came home wounded, some to fight another day. A Veteran is like no other person on earth, and you can thank the lord for that.

MO