Corked

I was nineteen and thought zinfandel was the answer.
I drank it with some, all and none
by the neon glow that I thought was the moon.
It looked real…but it was way too light.

I was thirty-five and thought zinfandel was the answer.
I drank it with some, all and none
By the moon glow that I thought was neon.
It was real but deeper…darker…crimsoner.



Now I still think zinfandel is the answer.
I drink it with some, all and none
And we create our own glow.
Complex…yet oh so very simple.

The Redder the better.

The Black and White Pirouette

Editor's note; First of all...please accept my apologies. Been way too long since my last post. I've been meaning to...I think I need to re-prioritize. Also...I was in the mood to pull some old stuff up. And Again...I apologize if you don't quite get these. The next two are going to be old school writings but then I want to talk about Vince Lombardi and the beauty of the power sweep, good friends and holidays. I know...you can't wait.



It was a dance. A dance no one else could do
to a song that doesn’t exist but in her mind.

Everyone, everywhere was chasing the ball but her.
It was black and white. Kicking it. Goaling it. Score.

She wasn’t interested. She danced.
Oh, how wrong. Why?
Because we say so.

It’s black and white. Forget the dandelions.
Forget the clouds. Score.
That’s how we win the game.
Who’s game?
Yours.
Not mine.
Understand?

It’s not the score. It’s not the game.
It’s the dance of the black and white pirouette.