Every once in a while, I try to stray away from the comfort of humor and try to write something a little more serious. Here’s a stab at some romantic poetry, reflected from my “dirty-old man” thoughts. At least, I was thinking about my wife. As I frequently like to say, “I’m not dead yet,” as there’s still lead in my pencil.

Curves and Bumps

I just love,
Your curves and bumps.
When I cast eyes,
My pulse rate jumps.

As I admire,
My blood pumps.
I’m deep in Love,
My heart thumps.

I stare at you,
Magnetic pull.
They are the window,
To your soul.

A spark of current,
Flows down my spine.
The positive attraction,
A certain sign.

Brown hair beauty,
Angelic scent.
The two of us,
Were always meant.

I want to touch,
Your quivering lips.
I crave to clutch,
Your shapely hips.

Hold me close,
Squeeze me tight.
Be with me,
‘Til morning light.

Your soft skin,
And perfect pair.
There’s little else,
That can compare.

Be mine tonight,
And forever more.
It’s only you,
That I adore.

A kiss of passion,
Gives me goose bumps.
Above all else,
Our romance trumps.

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com

I’ve got a birds-eye view of snow-capped Mount Hood, as we make our way to out of PDX on the short Alaska flight to San Francisco. The dogs are left behind this time in the care of my step daughter and her fiancé, as we get the scoop on next month’s wedding of my other step daughter. My wife got some work stress relief today at the office, so it should be a pleasant weekend. I had my grumpy game face on as we left town, stressed about potential airport hassles. This is unfortunately a typical mood for me any more as we leave town and the comforts of home.

I met with the realtor yesterday as planned to get her assessment on selling our home and moving into a rental property. My wife is “practicing for retirement,” as I began to do five years ago in anticipation of her next stage of life. (See Post #1). She doesn’t want to be tied to a Portland property, as values may diminish in the coming years. I’m in favor of her downsizing efforts in lieu of future travel.

In an effort to make our home more appealing to potential buyers, the agent had several suggestions, including de-cluttering. We have lots of knick-knacks on shelves and counter-tops that can be distracting. She recommended storing them in the garage and behind closed cabinets. Out of the blue, I came up with this catch-phrase, typical of my rhyming mind: “If in doubt? – get it out.” I applied this philosophy to a lengthier poem that I wanted to share:

If In Doubt?

When it comes to clutter,
And you’re in doubt.
Don’t leave it there,
Clear it on out.

Same with garbage,
When stink’s in doubt.
Spray some freshener,
Or Pitch it out.

Tooth decay,
Some pain no doubt.
Call your dentist,
To yank it out.

At the fork in the road,
If there’s a doubt?
Whatever you do,
Don’t take THAT route.

Or, the library’s on fire,
And escape’s in doubt?
Ignore the Sh! Signs,
And start to shout.

Little old ladies,
If safety’s your doubt.
Don’t cross the street.
Without a Scout.

Banquet food,
Order in doubt?
Don’t get chicken,
Try the trout.

On stormy seas,
If any doubt.
Reset your sails,
To “Come About.”

A tidal wave,
Leaves little doubt.
You’re about to,
Soon “Wipe Out.”

If your belief’s,
A “Giant” doubt.
Go ahead and plant,
A tall bean stalk.

Is “Moby Dick,”
A Tale of doubt?
No need to fear,
That water spout.

On Christmas Eve,
If your gift’s in doubt.
Whatever you do,
You better not pout!

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com

I haven’t been goin’ much of anywhere this week. One of the joys of retirement is I haven’t driven my car in a full week. This translates to no doctor appointments, errands, or traffic hassles. My wife drove to “Date Night,” “Movie Night,” and into wine country, so it isn’t as if I’ve been a total recluse. However, this also means that the dogs haven’t gotten to go for a ride in a week-and-a-half, but I’ll more than make up for it on our trip into Vancouver, B.C. next week. I’ve been carefully planning for this adventure – “Knowin’ where I’m Goin’.”

I wrote this poem, based not so much on travel by car, but rather on the journey through life:

Knowin’ Where You’re Goin’

You’ve got this,
It’s clearly showin’
It’s simply knowin’
Where you’re goin’

It doesn’t matter,
Where you’ve been.
Or what you’ve done,
Let’s start again.’

Your life will change,
On this new course.
Self Assurance,
Your best resource.

A different you,
Assurance showin’
It’s simply knowin’
Where you’re goin’

You recognize,
Where you strayed.
So there’s no need,
To be afraid.

The path ahead,
Will open wide.
A better future,
Can’t be denied.

Your heart is soarin’
Strength is growin’
It’s simply knowin’
Where you’re goin’

Follow your instincts,
It’s right this way.
Start seeing sunshine,
In skies once gray.

I’m sure you feel it,
Deep down inside.
Let happiness,
Be your new guide.

There’s no doubt,
Confidence flowin’
It’s simply knowin’
Where you’re goin’

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com

When I was a teenager, I could sleep until noon. Now, it’s simply naps between all too frequent trips to the bathroom. In retirement, I still get up to my wife’s alarm, so I’ve yet to shed that handcuff from my working days. During her weekends, the cat usually wakes me up, if not my bladder. Wake-up calls and alarms are also essential aspects of keeping on schedule when we travel, many times more grueling than any work itinerary.  All in all, there are very few days, even in retirement, when I can lay in bed as long as I like. In any case, I’m always disappointed and grumpy to leave the comfort of my bed. It’s by far the hardest thing I do every day and inspired this poem:

Sleep Deprivation

The hardest part,
Of every day?
Getting out of bed,
I’d have to say.

Bedtime is easy,
The day is done.
But getting up,
Is never fun.

Even on Christmas,
Why get up early?
My mood is dark,
I’m feeling surly.

Let me sleep in,
For all our sakes.
You’ll see the difference,
A couple hours makes.

Don’t wake-up,
A groggy me.
Don’t poke the bear,
Just leave me be.

You’ll regret,
What you might find.
The angry me,
Is never kind.

I can’t get up,
I need my rest.
Don’t dare stir,
This wasp’s nest.

Sleep Deprivation,
I strongly detest.
Now go away,
Don’t be a pest.

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com

I’m joking in a sense, but my wife may be a Foodaholic. She’s always talking about food, clipping recipes, watching the Food Network, planning a dinner, or making a reservation. It’s both endearing and maddening, as she enjoys the preparation, presentation, and flavor of good food. Unfortunately for me, food is just fuel, so I’ve never had the appreciation that she feels. Frustration goes both ways, but fortunately opposites attract. I do enjoy our “Date Nights,” and the opportunity to experience a new restaurant with her every week. Just like a Broadway Show, I love watching the smile on her face, and any other of my feelings just don’t matter.

Throughout our 20-year relationship, my wife and I have certainly had our fair share of top restaurant experiences. We’ve been to several thousand different restaurants around the world. You can take just about any Top 100 list and we’ve been to at least twenty, including most of the 10 best. Even my wife will admit that it’s nearly impossible to impress her anymore, but she keeps trying. Since they change all the time, finding the perfect one will be a lifelong quest. It’s not even worth putting them on a Bucket List because they sadly may be out of business before we get there and under a new name or chef.  Just this year, I finally got a reservation at The French Laundry, the only dining experience that was left on her list. We also frequently talk about Alinea in Chicago, as one of the most unique nights at the dinner table. 

As I think about the two of us sharing a meal, it was worthy of a poem to define our drastic differences:

Gastro-Romance

She’s a Five-Star girl,
With an attitude.
A fine food fondness,
Always in the mood.

She’s a Five-Star girl,
With Michelin tastes.
She checks Zagat,
To see how it rates.

A Gourmet goddess,
No less than the best.
Let’s see if the menu,
Passes her test?

Her passion for food,
And its presentation.
The chef’s cuisine,
A sensual sensation.

Opposites attract,
Love is blind.
I’m not a gastronaut,
But she doesn’t mind.

An exceptional palate,
Refined taste buds.
Hers are discerning,
While mine are duds.

She’s a caviar junkie,
With champagne taste.
While I devour,
Each bite with haste.

I’m a food flunky,
She’s a connoisseur,
She knows what she wants,
While I’m never sure.

I like my food soft,
Missed the flavor boat.
My dentures don’t fit,
My tongue wears a coat.

I can’t seem to savor,
Just want to chow down.
As she watches me eat,
I can see her frown.

My manners are poor,
She’s full of grace.
I slurp my soup,
With crumbs on my face.

She’s a Five-Star Girl,
I’m a fast food man.
She watches Food Network,
While I’m not a fan.

She’s the Foodie,
Enjoys Extravagance.
For her Date Night’s,
A Gastro-Romance.

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com

Sometimes I feel like I should have been a country music songwriter. I seem to have a knack for taking a serious subject and twisting it into a chuckle. I was not even drinking when I wrote this poem:

Day Drinkin’

The bar is open,
The sun aglow.
A shot glass raised,
“Look out below.”

Over the lips,
And down the hatch.
Trying to get through,
Another rough patch.

The numbness helps,
The sadness gone.
I’ll keep this up,
Until it’s dawn.

I’m upset,
Can’t see straight.
Lost my love,
Filled with hate.

The whiskey soothes,
Another please.
The pain inside,
It seems to ease.

As I sit here,
Day Drinkin’.
It often leads to,
Late night thinkin’.

Bad ideas,
Destructive views.
It’s never easy,
Being in my shoes.

The sun goes down,
I’m all alone.
I try to call her,
On my phone.

Is she out again,
With him tonight?
While I’m becoming,
A sorry sight.

Thoughts get hazy,
The bottle gone.
And I wake up,
On someone’s lawn.

When morning comes
I then start thinkin’.
If I were smart,
I would quit drinkin’.

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com

My life is great – consider the bookends. I was spoiled as a child and currently enjoying retirement. In between, it hasn’t exactly been a Disneyesque fairy tale. Without going into detail, I’ve had my share of ups and downs. It’s some of the darker moments that I reflect on in this poem:

On The Mend

I was sad,
And felt depressed.
My life put through,
It’s greatest test.

At last some hope,
I could depend.
After losing,
My best friend.

I felt alone,
No one to care.
Dealt a hand,
That wasn’t fair.

Dreadful thoughts,
Filled my head.
But chose the path,
Of promise instead.

A bright future,
Shines ahead.
When I once thought,
I’m better off dead.

A stronger me,
No more dark days.
I feel the warmth,
Of the sun’s rays.

I have to admit,
I saw the end.
Then found my way,
I’m on the mend.

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com