Category: POEMS (Page 23 of 30)

Rhymes of all kinds

Retirement is not without Hassles: Fun to Run? #368

December 16, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

For me, running has always been the most effective form of exercise. However, when it comes to “pounding the pavement,” some are more fortunate than others. Somehow, I’ve been able to avoid serious knee and lower back injuries that have caused others to avoid the activity. Running keeps my weight under control, burns fat, and fires the furnace of metabolism. I have become obsessive about doing it every day, but it has never been fun.

I have been able to find two other “streak” runners here in the Portland area, but there are more that I’ve yet to run across. These particular two are both female members of the United States Streak Running Association (USSRA) and run everyday without fail, just as I do. (See Post #6). This morning my “streak” reached 3,275 days, with the nine-year anniversary coming at the end of this month. One of the Portland women is only 3 days behind me, while the other is at 2,160 days, approaching six consecutive years. I don’t have to keep track of the days any more because the USSRA website does that for me at www.runeveryday.com. The current record holder is at 48.56 years and only one year older than I am. In addition, both of the Portland woman acquaintances are not only more than a decade younger than me, but also in the fitness business, so chances are good that they will pass me some day. In the meantime, to keep my lead, I simply have to get in at least a mile run every day – I usually do three.

A few weeks ago, I spoke with one of these ladies about running, and she said that even after all these years it is still fun for her. I countered by saying that “I hate to run.” Every day I somehow force myself to do it, and to me it’s simply a task. Once I’m done, I always feel full of energy and satisfied with the accomplishment, so it’s well worth the effort. It’s the hardest thing I do every day, even before I retired. Weekdays are usually a routine, so I don’t really have to think about it, but on weekends, it’s admittedly hard to get out of bed. This morning I was wishing that I had the more positive attitude of those runners that think it’s fun. I did arise, however, with a poetic mindset, playing with the rhyme of “fun” and “run.” What I quickly came up with is short and sweet, but for me says it all:

Fun to Run?

Some people say,
That they like to run.
They go so far,
As to say it’s fun.

But I often think,
Even before I’ve begun.
I just want this task,
To be over and done!

Retirement is not without Hassles: My Oregon #357

December 4, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I seem to have rediscovered my poetic skills, having finished a second work in progress from my notes. We’ve now lived in Oregon for three and a half years, and have seen our share of the state. If you’re not familiar, these words reflecting our travel experiences will probably not make much sense. If you’re lucky enough to live here, you’ll understand my enthusiasm. Today also happened to be a partially sunny day, somewhat unusual for this time of year, so it put me in a favorable Oregon mood. Enjoy!

My Oregon

Climbed up Mt. Hood,
Had a stroll Seaside.
Took the Goonies tour.
And a Pink Trolley ride.

Went to Multnomah Falls,
And Washington Park.
Been all over the state,
Like Lewis and Clark.

Seen Punch Bowl Falls,
And Crater Lake.
Volcanic Saint Helen’s,
When’s the next Quake?

The Civil War battle,
Which team will lose?
So many food trucks,
Which one to choose?

Baseball Beavers memories,
Trailblazer Red and Black.
Winterhawks for hockey,
Indy Car back on track.

O.S.U. in Corvallis,
“O” in Eugene.
P.S.U. and U.P. in Portland,
“The” college student scene.

Timberline Lodge,
For Casual Dining.
And Jack Nicholson,
In The Shining.

Armisen’s Portlandia,
Plus, Grimm filmed here.
And the movie Animal House,
Bolstered Belushi’s career.

Smelled the roses,
Tasted the wine.
Sampled Craft Beer,
Paley’s to dine.

Powell’s for a book,
Forest Park trail.
Tillamook Cheese,
Deschutes for an ale.

Did the Four T’s,
From Zoo to Pill Hill.
The Timbers and Thorns,
Show their soccer skill.

Voodoo Donut,
Or Blue Star?
Huber’s Café?
Or the Burnside Bar?

The White Stag sign,
Nike for shoes.
A Tri-Met transfer,
Pittock Mansion views.

Fort Clatsop,
Haystack Rock.
The Spruce Goose,
Union Station’s clock.

Fished the Columbia,
Cruised the Willamette.
How’s that pronounced?
It rhymes, dammit!

Did Hood to Coast,
And Pints to Pasta.
The Helvetica Half,
Ran Shamrock Fasta.

Jurassic Park lush,
The trees touch the sky.
The Gorge is gorgeous,
And Seattle nearby.

Many bike about Sun River,
In a Duck or Beavers hat.
Or Ski Mount Bachelor,
Bend there, Done that.

And if the sun is shining,
You can have a five-peak day.
But in the winter months,
The sky is mostly gray.

Oregon has it all,
I’ve tried to explain.
What more could I want?
A little less Rain!

johnstonwrites.com

Retirement is not without Hassle: To-Do List #356

December 4, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I found a poem that I started many years ago that was never finished until today. Perhaps, I’ve just had too many things on my retirement To-Do list?

To-Do

My “To-Do” List,
Has done me in.
Too much for me,
I need a twin.

All those To-Dos,
Plus, the bucket list.
Places to go,
Things that I’ve missed.

I haven’t done this,
Should have done that.
Might have gone there,
Instead, I just sat.

Babe do this,
Sweetie do that.
The Honey-Do list,
Is also too fat.

Much too long,
Can’t do this alone.
Perhaps, I can make,
Myself a clone.

It’s all my fault,
For saying “I do.”
Can we go back,
And start anew?

Don’t want more to do,
Just want to have fun.
Don’t want to be doing,
Just want to be done.

.
List upon list,
Line after line.
Do I do yours?
Or start on mine?

Busting at the seams,
Ready to pop.
Don’t add on,
Please just stop.

So much To-Do,
Once I’ve begun.
Took too little action,
Not much Ta-Done.

Wish I Could,
Make it all disappear.
Cross it all off,
And shout “Ta Da.”

There seems no more,
Left here to write.
I’m finally done?
That can’t be right?

Retirement is not without Hassles: Thanksgiving Poem #346

November 22, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Thanks (giving)

Everyone give thanks,
For another year.
New years eve,
Is nearly here.

Some didn’t make it,
Some in ill health.
Most getting by,
A few with great wealth.

To those on the street,
Or in hospital care.
I worry you suffer,
But glad I’m not there.

I don’t understand,
Why some succeed.
And too many of these,
Are filled with greed.

They don’t pay it forward,
Or offer to give back.
Is it self-importance?
Or feelings they lack?

Share the wealth,
Whenever you can.
Give to those challenged,
Make it part of your plan.

Give time or money,
And your best smile.
Show some compassion,
Go the extra mile.

Always be thankful,
For what you’ve got.
Even if you haven’t,
Got a lot.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Thanksgiving #344

November 21, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I’m approaching the ninth anniversary of my running streak. Today was my 3,250th consecutive daily run that was completed in a rainy darkness. It’s hard to believe that “the streak” has continued this long, and even harder to imagine that it will ever end. Yesterday, it was pouring rain so hard that I had to use the treadmill in our upstairs foyer. I complained when my wife bought it a couple of years ago, but it comes in handy on inclement days, plus I can read a book at the same time.

I just dropped the dogs off at the spa, picked up the dry cleaning, and enjoyed a McDonald’s breakfast. My optician’s office was closed for Thanksgiving, and it made me think about those days at work when there really wasn’t much to do. Thanksgiving was always a great holiday, because there was no stress of gift giving coupled with a four-day weekend. There was usually a pot luck or pitch-in luncheon, and many offices were closed all week. Everyone at the office was in a good mood, as thoughts of turkey and gravy “danced in our heads.” In retirement, these holidays become less significant, because really every day is a holiday now.

It’s a big weekend of sports, as I.U., Indiana University, battles Purdue University for the “Old Oaken Bucket,” with this year’s victor receiving a bowl bid and the loser going home empty handed. I.U.’s soccer team will play for a Third Round NCAA Tournament victory and hopefully continue their undefeated season. There’s an I.U. basketball game that could be part of our Leadership Meeting on Black Friday, and the start of the Phil Knight 80th Birthday celebration at the Moda Center. Sixteen Nike college schools, including the University of Oregon, will battle in this three-day round-robin basketball spectacle here in Portland. Since the event is all about shoe promotion, I propose that we call it the Feet Sixteen as a play on the NCAA’s “Sweet Sixteen.” My wife is upset that I’ll be at the games, rather than spending time with her during this span when she’s not working. Instead, I’ll be in the dog house, but at least it may be the Butler Bulldog house, as her alma mater is part of this turkey tournament.

We’ll break bread on Thanksgiving afternoon, walk the dogs each morning, spend a day in wine country, go to a movie together, and then go our separate ways once it’s game time. Her daughters are also not going to be with her this weekend, so she’s not very thankful about that either. Thankfully, this is a one-time event, so the next time that basketball might interfere with Thanksgiving will be in 2020 when the I.U. basketball team goes to Hawaii to play in the Maui Classic. We went a few years ago, but she at least had a sunny beach to keep her content while I went to the games. She does not enjoy most sporting events, but has also sacrificed several Thanksgivings to go to Indiana Pacers games while we lived in Indianapolis, and the Texas vs. Texas A&M game during our residency in Austin, Texas.

I hope everyone has a Happy Thanksgiving and that your team wins. I offer this poem in honor of the occasion and the decoration on our front door:

The Sign

Every year in November,
A decoration on our door.
A turkey-shaped sign reads,
“Thanks” and nothing more.

It’s many years old,
Long past its prime.
Perhaps a bit rusty,
Replacement time?

So what do you do?
Just toss it away?
Don’t throw away Thanks,
What does that say?

Does it go back in storage?
Or in the trash bin?
It has a golden message,
Though it’s made of tin.

Can’t trash gratefulness,
Or discount gratitude.
You must always have,
A thoughtful attitude.

Give praise for what you have,
Many blessings to count.
Give to others,
Whatever the amount.

Don’t dispose of hope,
It’s the season of giving.
Show your appreciation,
Happy Thanksgiving.

Creature Features: The Nose Knows #314

October 26, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Whenever we pack our suitcases for a getaway, we have to be careful about upsetting the dogs. We don’t want them to get overexcited about a potential road trip, and we especially don’t want them to worry about us leaving them behind. Both dogs have a bit of separation anxiety, so we hide our bags in the closet, so they don’t know we’re leaving – or so we once thought. Our one schnauzer, Tinker, who we think is part poodle, has a sixth-sense about her, and I now don’t think that we’re getting away with anything. I wrote this poem to honor her superior intelligence, knowing that she probably relays her intuitions to our other schnauzer, her sister Tally.

The Nose Knows 2

There’s something in the air,
You can sense it all around.
Whatever it is?
It will be found.
.
A sniff here and there,
She breathes it in.
Tilts her head back,
Puts her chin in the air.
.
It’s not dinner time,
Or time to go out.
But the look on her face,
Resembles a pout.
.
Whatever your plan,
Tinker knows
Nothing gets by,
Tinker’s nose.
.
Is that another dog.
That smell on you?
Her radar nose,
Picked up that clue.
.
When it’s time to eat,
She always knows.
Like Pinocchio,
Her nose- it grows.
.
And when we walk,
Her nostrils flare.
So many smells,
No time to spare.
.
Resisting your tug,
This spot so sweet.
It must reminder her,
Of a special treat.

Something smells wrong,
You can see it in her eyes.
You’re leaving her behind?
She sees through any disguise.

She’s very smart,
Her nose – it knows.
Wherever you proceed,
Her hope – she Goes.

Your bags are packed,
Her nose starts to twitch.
At first you think,
Just another itch.

But her nose,
Has a brain.
Her intuition,
Senses pain.

She’s staying home,
You say good-bye.
In her eyes,
She’s asking why?
.
Her nose suspects,
Any separation.
She too deserves,
To join the vacation.

If there’s indication,
That you will stray.
Her stink detector,
Gets in the way.

Whatever thought,
Tinker knows.
Nothing gets by,
Tinker’s nose.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Nose #313

October 26, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Part of my retirement responsibilities include several daily dog walks. This is my wife’s way of getting back at me for moving into a condo with no back yard to let the pets romp. In a way, it would be much easier to open the sliding door to a fenced-in backyard, and let the dogs do their own walking. However, I would then also have pick-up duty, lawn mowing responsibilities, fence repair, fertilizing, pruning, edging, sprinkling system maintenance, pool care, and maybe even some gardening work. Instead, I take the dogs out on their leashes at least five times a day, while she’s stuck with a small patio and a container garden.

Admittedly, I am “condo man,” and there is no such thing as the “Great Outdoors,” in my humble opinion (See Post #177). I gladly pay a fee each month to take care of any outdoor home ownership responsibilities. I enjoy spending some time with the pups, and often smile at their excitement of getting out of the house. I wrote this short poem after one of these walks:

The Nose Knows – Part 1 (see Post #314 for a second version)

I’m just a dog,
Looking for a spot.
This Fire Hydrant,
Deserves a shot.
.
Using my nose,
To guide me there.
And when I find it,
I’m willing to share.
.
What’s that smell?
It’s near-by.
I think I’ll give,
This patch a try.
.
I think I’ve found,
What I’m looking for.
Could it be bottled?
Sold in a pet store?
.
At every sweet spot,
Is where I should be.
A smell connoisseur,
Like four- legged me.
.
A quick inhale,
And I’m so high.
A smell this good,
makes a puppy cry.
.
And afterwards,
I’ll leave my mark.
Please bring me back,
To this Dog Park.

I guess you’ll just,
Never understand.
Why this dark stain,
Smells so grand.
.
Maybe you would,
Find this odor fine.
If you just had,
A nose like mine.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Boss’ Day #303

October 17, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I have been the boss of myself since the first of this year. With no more personal “8 to 5” work demands, there is no Boss’ Day for me this year. Instead, I would like to honor a former boss, who liked his Budweiser, and often joked about his “low alcohol light” being on when he wanted a drink. He was like a car when it’s low on oil, and the dashboard “OIL” light serves as a cautious reminder, His flashed, “BUD.” He never drank on the job, but liked to relax with a cold one after the day was done. We never had to ask what he wanted to drink. I was reminded of this yesterday when I wrote the post (#302) about “My Hangover is Hungover,” regarding the aftereffects of too much to drink.

It had been a long time, but I think my “low alcohol light” went completely out this weekend, if not broken. I drank too much and paid the “dark” consequences the next morning. As a result, my “low alcohol light” has not glowed or even flickered in the past couple of days, and I don’t expect it to come on for awhile. We do have a fundraiser at a winery this weekend, but I will be good. I wrote this poem many years ago that it was time to share:

The Light’s On

Turn this light out,
Whatever it takes.
Fill ‘er up,
My head now aches.
.
I’ll take one of these.
And serve me one of those.
Can’t get enough to drink,
Hook up the garden hose.
.
Goes in one end,
Then out the other.
Extinguish that light,
I’ll have another.
.
My low alcohol light is on,
The beers in me long gone.
My spirits flushed away,
Another drink soon on its way.
.
A shot or two,
Should make things right,
Tequila on the rocks,
Oh, and add a Miller Light.
.
Line ’em up,
Clear the way.
And make it quick,
Ain’t got all day.
.
I’ll sit right here and whine,
Doesn’t matter-red or white.
Just flip my switch,
Turn off this light.
.
Pull my chain,
Pass the Dickel. *
As it goes down,
I feel the tickle.

I’ll be right back,
The light’s still glowing.
I’ll make more room,
Just keep them flowing.

My low alcohol light is on,
The beers in me long gone.
My spirits flushed away,
Another drink soon on its way.
.
Double Martini please,
A straw would be nice.
Hold the Vermouth,
No Olives or ice.
.
I’ve gone too far,
A flashing light.
Get this booze,
Out of my sight.
.
Things are spinning,
I’m seeing double.
The light’s gone off,
Now I’m in trouble.
.

*See Post #260

Retirement is not without Hassles: All I Want To Do #302

October 16, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I may still be hungover from Friday night’s dinner at Ivy on the Shore here in Santa Monica. I’m not getting any younger, so starting with Happy Hour at five with two martinis, then drinking two more at the restaurant after accepting a glass of “welcome-in” champagne, adding a couple of glasses from my wife’s bottle of wine, and capping off the evening with a generous pour of Limoncello for dessert, turned me into a stumbling, bumbling drunk.

I woke up Saturday morning with a headache, and the Sheryl Crow hit, “All I Want to Do,” playing on my wife’s phone. Coincidentally, it was the background music as part of a friend’s Smilebox tribute to their recently departed dog. It was late morning, long after when “the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.” After I finally got my nauseous self out of bed, a run on the beach was predictably painful. As a result, I remained abstinent from alcohol until after the Cubs’ loss. We did finish off the to-go bottle as a nightcap late last night after getting back from Dodger Stadium, but it’s been strictly diet colas ever since. One big negative about Marriott Hotels is that they only serve Pepsi products.

Saturday evening my wife and I were “bleacher bums,” as Yasiel Puig and the Dodgers easily outscored the Cubs. The unexpected “all-you-can-eat” Right Field Pavilion deal took away some of the discomfort of the hard, wooden seats, but did little to settle the obnoxious fans in our section. I’ve been making a big deal out of Birthday 66, having posed for a picture in front of the “Trail Ends Here” Route 66 sign on Santa Monica Pier. A similar picture of me was taken at Pier 66 in Seattle, peering through the symbolic numbers. Puig’s uniform #66 took away any buzz that was left from Friday night. He hit a double for his first RBI, and followed with a solo Home Run against the Cubs vulnerable pitching staff. He was indeed Muscle Beach strong in leading the Dodgers to victory in Game 1!

During my 66 Birthday celebration in Seattle, I had my picture taken in front of Pier 66. We also went to see Tom Petty, who died a month later at age 66. Today I’m flying out of Alaska gate #66, so the number continues to be a reoccurring “sign of the times.” I should probably get my next tank of gas at Phillips 66 (See Post #234), and go to Vegas and bet on rolling Double Sixes – Boxcars. Maybe the Cubs can score 6 in the 6th tonight?

The bottom line of this past weekend in Santa Monica – “All I want(ed) to do is have some fun.”

My Hangover’s Hungover.

Too many drinks,
With little to eat.
This morning I’m lucky,
To stand on two feet.
.
Yesterdays breakfast,
Is on the front lawn.
I seem to ache more,
As the day goes on.
.
Hung at my hang out,
And drank until drunk.
Last night is a blur,
And I’m still in a funk.
.
My Hangover’s hungover,
Longer than should be.
I have a headache,
Of the worst degree.
.
It’s no wonder my friends,
Have left me alone.
All night paying homage,
To the porcelain throne.
.
My Hangover’s hungover,
Much longer than fair.
I’m feeling so bad,
And need nursing care.
.
What’s the recipe,
To cure this malady?
Hair of the Dog,
Is just not for me.
.
Run down and ragged,
My head could crack.
Shouldn’t have chugged,
That first six pack.
.
Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz,
I need a quick cure.
How much pain,
Can one man endure?

Wrung out, strung out,
And in no condition.
I hurt everywhere,
And have no ambition.

I can’t remember,
What happened last night.
My eyes just can’t take it,
Turn off that damn light.

I had foolish thoughts,
After drinking alot.
That’s when I ordered,
A second, last shot.

My hangover’s hungover,
I drank until drunk.
I must have imbibed in,
More drink than I thunk.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Eagle Scout #289

October 4, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

As I look back on my life, there were moments that need to be preserved in time. On my last post (#288), I wrote a humorous poem about an unforgettable camping experience when I was ten years old. I’ve often wondered how that night might have changed my life? Someone else has the physical scars to prove it, but I’m left with mental scars, wondering what ever happened to the “bully” that tried to scare a group of young kids? The actual story of “The Hand” is recounted in post (#150) and the poetic tribute was posted yesterday. Several years ago, I started a humorous poem about the consequences of “The Hand” on my life. I found the poem half-finished and just updated it today. It may explain why I don’t like camping. Here is the newly written sequel:

Eagle Scout

Looking back,

I have no doubt.

I should have been,

An Eagle Scout.

I started as,

An Indian Guide.

Father and son,

Names to decide.

But getting together,

We couldn’t agree.

“Big” Turtle for Dad?

“Straight” Arrow for me?

I wouldn’t be “Little,”

Nor could he be “Broken.”

Like a stubborn couple,

Truer words never spoken.

After his war service,

No tents for my Dad.

The camping experience,

I never quite had.

Next a Cub,

The Scouting norm.

I got to wear,

A uniform.

It sounded so serious,

A manual to learn.

Meetings to attend,

I had concern.

Earn those badges,

Make them proud.

Words in my head,

That echoed loud.

Cub then Webelos,

Then official Boy Scout.

Shiny new knife,

Oaths to learn about.

Then came “The Hand,”

And no more Scouts.

Wounds were inflicted,

I can still hear the shouts.

Could have been a doctor,

Maybe a lawyer?

Or better yet,

Your employer.

A nuclear physicist,

Perhaps your President?

But with an “F” in camping,

I was hesitant.

But I am what I am,

The Eagle flew away.

Could -Would-Should,

But my knife got in the way.

Category: POEMS (Page 23 of 30)

Retirement is not without Hassles: Fun to Run? #368

Fun to Run?

Retirement is not without Hassles: My Oregon #357

My Oregon

Retirement is not without Hassle: To-Do List #356

To-Do

Retirement is not without Hassles: Thanksgiving Poem #346

Thanks (giving)

Retirement is not without Hassles: Thanksgiving #344

Creature Features: The Nose Knows #314

Retirement is not without Hassles: Nose #313

Retirement is not without Hassles: Boss’ Day #303

The Light’s On

Retirement is not without Hassles: All I Want To Do #302

My Hangover’s Hungover.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Eagle Scout #289

Eagle Scout

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