Once echoed (Blogophilia 34.15)


 

Just this once

I want to be a winner

Just this once

I wish for peace

Just this once

I wonder about the handbasket

Just this once

Over the echos

Of just this once.

Comments

  1. BlogophiliaFebruary 24, 2024 at 9:23 PM

    Poignant poem. Never give up on wishes or dreams - eventually they may come true! KUDOS Earthling!!!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

In Honor of Al Jaffee

Image
The image below is probably the most politically incorrect graphic the great comic artist Al Jaffee ever produced. Originally published in a special issue of MAD magazine in 1971, it brought protests for its seeming disrespectful tone. It even launched a brief FBI investigation into possible political subversion.  So, why am I bringing it up? 2 reasons. First, Mr. Jaffee just celebrated his 95th birthday. Second, In all of the turmoil of the Election, it is important that the pledge be for all people. Not just the moneyed elite. More importantly, to weed out infection the poisons of bigotry by all people need to be aired. Burying thoughts and ideas through euphemisms and language discussion allow the opinions to fester. The quote "Just because you silence a man does not mean you convert him" very much applies. Donald Trump has made efforts to silence his critics. His critics have made a double effort to silence. him. And nothing gets done.
Read more

The Date (Blogophilia 13.5)

So, here she was at Manuel’s, her usual fifteen minutes early.   A quick glance to make sure the lipstick line was still straight.   Satisfied, the compact disappeared into the leather purse.   Kari hadn’t been this nervous meeting anyone in quite a long time.   But then, it had been at least 20 years since she had been on a blind date.   What will he look like?   All Mary told her was he was a bachelor with a paying job and no kids.    Nothing about how old, or whether he was a slob or a crackhead.   Not even the guy’s name.   Only that she thought Kari would enjoy his company.     Just be at there at 5:30. Sipping on her gimlet, it seemed like she had never left.   The Musak was mostly Sinatra and the political types still hung to their tables like they were still in high school.   Tony, the manager, gave her a peck when he saw her and said she could come back to work any time.   No.   She’d had enough of slinging swill and dealing with the obnoxious, of stepping over the hoo
Read more