Richglimmers's profile

It was not barking dogs that Woke us up at night nor a cat’s screeching meow or drunk’s slamming brakes. Listening several times over We realized that they had Returned once again, a cry Heralding once-extinct wolves. Ancestor’s years ago had Set out with guns drawn Craving aimless carnage And dead carcasses for thrill. Killing dozens of wolves Innocent here in the land We call home and giving No sanctuary to these Vagabond hunters. Killed without reason, buried without ceremony, They never ...

My favorite Irish Lake rests quiet as a lark In the remote corners Of county roscommon Oh to be there again and Have the sunlight strike The north shore as I fish for most of the morning. Old blue jays no longer Migrating tend the forest And sings songs that tell Tales of youthful times. This is a hidden land For the outside world Knows not of it and The tourists don’t Have it on their crowded itineraries. Changing colors of Trees that were Introduced by long ago Norsemen paint autumn vistas...

Don’t give up Don’t give up now But reach for far Stars as if easily Within grasp. Men have fought against All odds before to live In happiness again, to Run with the bulls another Day, to win love though it appeared totally lost. Free as a hornet after Securing summer meals That satisfy, triumph Through these trying hours and breath hope Till it takes shape. Let a song lift your Heart the way a Widow realizes he Is still alive and Coming home with Arms and limbs intact. Don’t give up though ...

I brought juice And white wine To a picnic under The north point. She arrived on A Harley riding With style showing She was seductive. We spoke of summer Festival and all things In between save the cost Of lunch and petrol. Then climbing aboard The hog of hogs we Sped downhill full Speed ahead while Holding hands high. On the first curve My life flowed before My eyes and I realized Amazingly I was young. The next bend Brought thoughts Of later that day And naked things. When we crashed into ...

On a frigid Carolina morning, I dreamt of reading the memoirs of St. Augustine while vacationing in Italy during summertime. The afternoon breezes always gave me that second wind to start the next chapter and be amazed by the pages. He had lived a life marked by toil and Spartan meals, so I limited myself to salad and chianti as I progressed. Book two was the gem, It stood out for several reasons, chiefly the man who sold Augustine snacks. Though early middle ages lacked in contemporary offe...