Tag Archives: metropolis

The Balancing Act Is No Act.

It’s a whirly-twirly pageant in which I call Life.

The bonds I have with my spouse, my family, and my friends are in balance.

The 9-to-5 thing I do five days a week is in balance.

The time I take to write my short stories, poems, and this blog are in balance.

The business I am setting up is in balance.

The time I set aside to unwind is in balance.

Yet, when other outside energies rat-a-tat-tat-tat their way into this equilibrium, standing on a bottle with one toe just might be easier.

It’s one heck of a balancing act, and the best way to live is to have everything measured out in moderation.

©2022, excerpt from “Postcards from . . .”

Hey, Punkin!

Yow.  It is that time of year again, where the overkill has returned.

Pumpkin pie.

Pumpkin tea.

Pumpkin bread.

Pumpkin soup.

Pumpkin coffee.

Pumpkin waffles.

Pumpkin creamer.

Pumpkin pancakes.

Pumpkin ice cream.

Pumpkin air fresheners.

Pumpkin flavored candy.

Pumpkin scented candles.

Pumpkin flavored whipped cream.

Pumpkin blow-up yard decorations.


©2022, excerpt from “Holidays on the Edge”


I am on a retreat – a personal retreat – this coming week for quiet reflection at my cabin in the woods. A week of no newspapers, no radio, no television, no Internet. Quiet, peaceful, detached from the craziness of the world, embracing calm and sanity among the changing leaves, singing birds, and crisp October weather with pen, paper, laptop, and a classic book.

Wishing you a good and peaceful week.

Meaningless Tripe

A few words and phrases that have lost any meaning, if they had any logical meaning in the first place:

Climate change


Global cooling

Global warming




Social distancing



Vaccine (and all forms of the word)

Virtue signaling


“I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you.”

©2022, excerpt from “Supreme Theater”

Twilight Bay

The other evening, in the greyish-blue twilight, we escaped from home and drove a couple brief miles to the old part of town.  We parked my car along the waterfront, drifted over to a bench built for two, and we snuggled in.  The heat of the day still lingered heavily in the air, yet the fresh, cool breezes off the bay and the anticipation of watching the sun dip dramatically below the horizon made us disregard that heat.

I detected that the breeze and the lateness of the day made the usually bluish-green hue of the choppy water turn blackish.  As I stared at one particular spot in front of me, it didn’t really look like water.  Instead, it appeared to be undulating tar.  The more I stared at the water, the more it became black, the more it looked like tar, the more it undulated.

We got up, held hands, and wandered in a westerly direction along the railing next to the bay.  Pelicans inaudibly flew overhead and over the bay – not one stopping on the lawn or sidewalk to plead for a nosh, as they usually do.  Instead, that night they were making a beeline for the ships in the harbor.  Perhaps dinner was a guarantee there.

A large, fat gull was sitting on the railing facing the sunset, long enough for us to admire his feathery goodness.  With a stretch of his wings and a push off the railing he was out over the water, but not before I could snap a picture of him.

In the distance, a lone sailboat bounced in the bay.

Serenity prospered and offered to all who would take it, the pacific beauty in an otherwise insanely troubled world.

©2022, excerpt from “Tales of Sunsets”



One of the quirky things about this house I am renting is that every time I come home from work, I must play that garage door opener like a castanet – click, click, click, clickety-click, click, click, click. 


All right, maybe that is not so funny to the average reader, but I know you are NOT an average reader.  You have a good imagination and an inquisitiveness that just won’t stop.  Well, at least I do.

There I am, sitting in the car in the driveway, in front of the closed garage door.  I reach for the door opener.  I aim it towards the solid part of the door.  Click click.


I move it in the direction of the little windows.  Click, click, click, click.

Again, nothing.  I aim it towards the middle of the door.  Clickety-clickety.

Nothing once more.

I aim it at the upper windows of the garage door.  Click.

Door opens.

Now run this scenario quickly in your mind.  Add a little finesse in the wrist movement, hear me say, “What the heck?” about seven times, and “Ugh” about fifty.

One thing I am learning about living here in this part of the country is that everything moves in its own time.

Looks like garage door openers think so, too.

©2022, excerpt from “Tales from Yodel-O Land”

Dawn to Twilight

The sunrises and sunsets are exquisite from across the meadow that comprises our backyard, and with the vast openness of the view, one can see clearly the brilliance, albeit the show lasts only for a short time.

The other morning, I was up early.  The enclosed porch was awash in pinks and yellows.  Upon opening the door that leads into the room, I saw the colors interspersed between the branches of the myrtle tree and oaks.

At sunset, the sun flashed and flaunted oranges and reds as it fell below the horizon.  It was a quick sunset; it wasn’t waiting for anyone to dally with a camera.

Nature is vivid and bold, velvety and subtle.  No matter where any of us live – in the town, in the countryside, in any state, any country, any continent, from the water, from the air – we all have and experienced lovely sunrises and sunsets that are nonpareil – and worth appreciating and sharing, and maybe just treasuring within one’s self.

That’s gratitude, isn’t it?

©2022, excerpt from “Memories of Strandhill”

The Kayak Trip

We spent a week out of town with one of my long-time friends, taking life easy away from the Rat Race.

One day, the six of us decided to do some kayaking down a river.  It would be a day trip to take life slow and enjoy Nature.

There we were, six of us in three kayaks, moving silently among the banyan trees, avoiding spider webs, and catching glimpses of wild birds.

Then – splash!

One woman and her husband in our party became stuck in mud when they kayaked too close to the river’s edge.  Her husband jumped out of their kayak, and the two other men in our party did the same.  The three men heaved and hoed, trying mightily to remove the stuck kayak.

This was a daunting task, indeed, for the woman weighed at least 200 pounds.

One of the men lost his sandals in the muck—

And not even an offer from the woman to replace them, or a “thank you” for helping her out of the river muck.

That’s gratitude, isn’t it?

©2022, excerpt from “Weird Florida”