Mass of Daisies
In a state of new bud
Standing tall.

I'll not write of snakes or fleas,
As I prefer the birds and bees.
Nature provides all with many a thing,
Some with beauty and some that sing.
The color we see, in the morning light,
That disappears in the darkest night,
As life goes on, a single item.
It's a great World, ad infinitum.

The morning air
Cool, crisp and clear.
Breathe deep.

A miniature Rose bush, was I,
With buds to open and please the eye.
When my flowers were no longer there,
I was planted outside with little flair,
To survive the Winter weather's cold.
Little attention was paid, I am told,
About the pruning of plants, not chose.
Now here I am; A blooming Rose.

Wind with rain
New plantings knocked down
Wet ground.

The days draw short
Years move along
Quite rapidly.
Much like a song,
A very sad song
Of life's short time.
Memories that fade
And are gone, sublime
Is the mood,
That I see.
Please dear God,
Please help me.

Are you real?
Can you see
That my love,
Will always be
Meant for you
But not for me,
or my life
Of uncertainty.

I feel lost and alone,
when around you.
I ask myself what
I can do,
to make your life better.

East of Ellensburg in Kittitas County
Is an irrigation facility; The Whipple
Creek Pumping Plant exists
To pump water up the hill
As part of theCounty's Irrigation District's
Management of the Highline canal,
Which begins in Lake Easton,
As I recall and is one of the main sources
Of water to irrigate the County farmland.
My grandfather, on my mother's side,
Managed that facility. When I was young
My two cousins and I would spend
Summers there. We could play,
Go fishing or swim below the pumping
Plant. Inside the Plant were huge
Pumps, that propelled the water, up the
Hillside, through huge pipes. It was quite
The project, in it's time.
Our grandfather would also, ride the ditch
Banks for inspection and remove animals
That fell in. I remember, on one trip,
My grandfather pointed out some
Pronghorn Antelope in the Sage brush,
Distance. This was back in the late 40's.
The land East of the Pumping Plant
Is now fenced off and his part of the
Yakima Firing Center.
My cousins and I would go hiking
There before the fence was erected.
We looked for petrified wood fragments.
On several occasions we would find small
logs or branches, 12 inches long. We would
retrieve and take them back to the main house.
The logs may still be there. I hope they are.

In years past, I travelled for work.
At that time in life, it was a small chore,
To leave home Monday morning and go afore.
Sometime by plane, but mostly by car.
Being the newest to the job, I got the oldest car.
It ran OK but leaked oil and smoked a bit.
When at a light, it was a sobering scene.
The smoke all around, the color of cream.
Smells from the engine would run amok.
You could smell me coming for almost a block.
I talked to my boss on many a day.
He told me to park on the lawn and I would
Not have any crab grass. A joker he was.
Complaining a little, was all I could do.
Then I received news of a car that was new.
Drove to Seattle, as quick as I could,
And a new Chevy Bel Air, I quite understood.
Those were the days of good cheer
And good friends. Of small happenings
As the love did long endear.