Bill’s Garden is near a beach,

Filled with flowers of all seasons,

Colors, shapes and sizes.

A garden of inclusion,

One of beauty,

But most of all one to be shared,

With all those around him, those who know him.

 

For Bill is a garden of friendship.

Nicely blurred, light streams into a room,

Not just illuminating, any window could do that,

But softening, making it warm yet bright.

Whoever invented fluorescent light,

Artificial in all its fake glow,

Must never has seen the light from this window.

 

 
The troubled bridge showed its bones of youth,

Some muscles left over,

Not atrophied, but not as they were.

Signs of trophies in a past of strength,

When I supported all who passed by in need.

 

A design followed by many,

Certain angles, forged stability,

Joints secured by lap joints, proven over centuries,

And bolts of the strongest iron,

Built to carry railroad engines and their truck.

 

But now, I seem troubled,

Unused by all, except children and teenagers,

Seeking a thrill,

The river now a magnet for shopping trolleys and old strollers,

Washing away all signs of my historic past, as a stream below erodes.

 

This bridge is now a place of tranquility,

Interrupted by short outbursts of conversation,

Or a dangerous, wonderful discovery for children,

Finding something purposeless in their midst.

And those underage drinkers and smokers, searching for peace.

 

Still, I appear, a troubled bridge to some,

Yet pleased with my new role as a destination.

The flower continues to bloom.
While petals delicately reflect the setting sun,
Underlying strength readies her for the eternal dawn,
Where the sun shines eternally.

Upon the face of God.

 

 

 

In Memory of Theresa Darling

 

 
Never sure when needed,

She walks to her post,

Ready to take the pulse of enjoyment,

And watch for the occasion of danger.

 

 

Sometimes a thin line, hard to discern.