Well...

Well, that's been my fifteen minutes of fame....

Biloxi, circa 1977

    Wednesday Evening on Biloxi Beach

The sun relinquishes its burning grasp
On the beach of Biloxi.
On an easing wind southerly,
Floats the last low gasps
From the swimmer trodding ashore
              east of Buena Vista.
A tourist, relaxing on a renovated pier,
Looks at the last of the sun and lapses
             into a maundering mood,
Understanding that a life must not be lived out within a day.
An O"Day grabs the last shreds of wind
As it enters the Biloxi harbor.
Butch waves a parting to Al aboard the Bristol 27,
              ending the informal race.

The western sands of Deer Island accuse like a finger
           as the sun dies with its sins.

In the gray after  of the sunset,
A girl, in cut-off jeans and a halter,
And her Irish Setter walk near
           the Lighthouse of Biloxi;
And wavelets cuddle up onto the beach,
Resembling a tired child lying down to rest
            having been in the sun since morning.
A mullet flings itself from the Sound
            as if in a final salute.
      Its scales glisten in the lights of land.

And now, some diners on Fisherman's Wharf
Tell of being hard aground
Out at Ship Island and mutter curses
                   at "shifting sands."

From the long past

        Remnant of the Broken Past
                              (210 Mason Court)

And I become aware of the musty odor lingering
               in the shadowed room;
The bare pieces of scant furniture being eclipsed
        by the somber dimness of the stale shadows.

I am before a smudged window-
       various prints proclaiming their past
                         presence here.
Threadbare curtains-once of flowering color-
       hang...testimony of the proceeding.
The dull glow of the sun hangs precariously
                   above the pecans and pines.
          Night steals forward from the east,
                   quickly enveloping the household.

I stand, hands clenched behind behind my back,
       and sadly look around at the unkempt room-
                    the dust and the cobwebs
               collecting and collecting.
And the years of strain are telling their tale on my face.

---But the ones outside go on unseeing, unfeeling...
    And I am here.

Ernie, 1978

uh, stirring the pot a little...

A bacon bazooka!  How awesome!
Maybe this could be the secret weapon  to end the
Islamic terrorists attacks.
http://thatsnerdalicious.com/bacon/the-bacon-bazooka-video/

Bear Killer

I am the baddest 2 pounds
of flesh you'll ever meet.
My name is Cami,
But they call me
"Bear Killer"

With the therapist this last weekend

                 July Night on the Tallulah

Twilight timidly exits the confined valley,
Never sure if it's part of dusk or night.
An ascending cacophony of cicadas
Announce the arrival of the ever-confident night.
         But the Tallulah ignores them  both
         As it cuts its course down to the Tugaloo.
Irregular boulders of quartz and granite,
         spastically positioned by some ancient
                         upheaval,
Attempt to thwart the river so as to stumble
        in its relentless way.
But the river chortles as it washes by them.
       (Even at the dams, it heartily laughs...)

The hatcheted trunks of the old hemlocks
And the blossoms of the mountain laurel
Are cast in a subdued manner
By the flickering orange glow
       of the small campfire.
Seated, somewhat away from the fire,
Is a lone man of middle years
       who ponders and remembers.
The night, ever self-absorbed,
Attempts to muscle its way
       into the light of the campfire.
The bearded man notices and grunts
As he gets up to add deliberately
             more varied sticks to the fire.

The hyper-active river never seems to tire
       in its relentless journey,
In contrast to the lightly gray-haired man
                    Whose shoulders are slumped.
As a smile uncertainly sneaks
              onto his bearded face,
The constellations peek through the canopy
Of eastern whites, red oaks, and hemlocks
              at the man near the fire.

The lone man wonders about events in his life
        And how all would be changed
If he had made different choices.
            No...He would not be here now
        Listening to the whippoorwill
        across the narrow and tree-skirted river-
Always single-minded in its quest.

Every choice has a consequence,
             an outcome or direction.
So, the question  is set before the man
                       by the River,
"Will you be single-minded as I,
Or will you become duplicitous
          as the night and day, ever changing?"

Startled, the lone man frowns reflectively
                 at the question
While the parasitic fire endeavors
                 to entrance him.
The choice is as always:  Thinking of Home...

Bacon isn't just about good taste
it's about smart choices as well.

http://blog.baconfreak.com/category/bacon-pictures