THE TRIP

by Gail Prior

Go RV'ing, Life's a trip

For several years, they had thought about this.

He was 70, so was she

They decided to go on a final spree.

Buying a trailer was a must

They fired their diesel truck up and left in a cloud of dust!

Nevada, California, Arizona, it all seemed to go by in a flash

But in every place, they danced, made new friends, played cards, went on moon lit walks.

In the pool, they created a splash!

They were determined to do all for their remaining time

Their spirits were young but they knew they were nearing the end of the line.

They didn't want to think about future tomorrows

As many had told them all about aging sorrows.

They were happy, they were carefree

And suddenly they were 83!

Their spirits told them it was time for a different trip, a new road

A dance to the end of love.

Their final trip took them both up above.

OH, GIVE ME A HOME…

BY MAG MAWHINNEY

I was thinkin’ ‘bout modern-day travel, for some,

Whenever we get urges to roam

In 40 foot houses of steel on wheels

That possess all the comforts of home.

An Old Wagon Wheel

By E.D. Wilbur

Upon a fence, in a new coat of red,
Brought to use, no longer dead,
For many years it hung in a shed,
One of four, the year Gramp was wed.

It first was used, for a long, long drive,
For the honeymoon, in the year o’ five.
It took two days for them to arrive,
To that old hotel, so young and alive.

On a buggy it was, with a covered top,
Gram washed it out, with an old string mop.
It went for years, and it didn’t stop,
With an old grey mare, and a clippity clop.

The buggy was black, with wheels of white,
Dashboard of leather, and it carried a light,
After Sarah’s wedding, which lasted into the night,
The mare got them home, it must have been quite a sight.

It went for the doctor, when the kids were born,
Covered with flags, a parade to adorn,
To fatten a goose, it went for the corn,
After all this, it was looking quite worn.

It sat so dejected, in the old churchyard,
Dear Gramp was gone, we all took it hard,
The family kept to themselves, the horse stood guard,
Tho Gram smiled through her tears, she appeared
very tired.

The old grey horse, to a pasture green,
The shed for the buggy, a sad, sad scene,
In days gone by, it was sharp and clean,
But it rotted away, the wheels high on a beam.

Three wheels were broken, when the hurricane hit
That old wagon shed, and when it had quit
We put the last in the porch, where Gramp used to sit,
To remind us of him, and his rare dry wit.

Upon a fence, in a new coat of red,
Brought to use, no longer dead,
For those many years it hung in a shed,
Now the wheel is on show, on a fence, instead.

ARTWORK BY ROBIN CROSSMAN: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

By D. K. McRae

It occurred to me this morning as the sun began to rise,
That cats are little people rigged out in a disguise.
Likely, they’re little furry women waiting for their chance
To take their place as humans and to wear the family pants.

They are really not too wicked but sure too clever and by half,
And certainly grow cunning and turn away to laugh.
And the men folk, simple creatures, dog-like stroll through life,
Feel honoured when these creatures agree to be their wives.

And the graceful, slinky feline then gives up her catty ways,
No peeing in the planter, nor tipping o’er the vase,
No shredding of the furniture, nor scratching neighbour’s kids,
She can content herself with chewing hubby’s ego and his id.

Then she’ll sit upon his lap and purr and want to pet,
Seldom thinking of the pearls and furs that she just perhaps will get.
She’ll rub against his leg at night when she wishes to go out
And if she runs into his old girlfriend, why she would never pout.

So that’s it friend, I think you’ll see I’m very accurate,
In my claims, that every woman was once a little furry cat.
So treat them well and scratch their ears and rub them where they wish,
For they are very capable of causing great anguish.