orange gretta

in hours spent, just past the orange gretta,

in mystery, was his youth there beguiled —

when fear was something conquered, just by goodness,

and evil understood, though just a child


though picnics might have rains that pour and thunder,

and summers spent with friends, their mystery —

it all made sense, just past the orange gretta:

complexity, inside



He seeks to balm his past…

Final Trio

For our final trio prompt of the year, write about any topic you wish, but make sure your post features a bookcase, something cracked, and a song you love.

= = = = =

Up on the aging bookcase
With bindings cracked and worn
Adventures of his childhood
That long ago were torn

From off the edge of innocence
To where dreams fall away
These travels, real in vividness
Now lost in yesterday

With so much guilt upon him
He seeks, to balm his past
The sound of children’s voices
Some harmony at last

As with the coming season
The skies begin to weep
He wishes he could tenderly
Put his
Lost child
To sleep…

The Mystery of the Timeless Day

A long-time mystery finally solved.

Hardy Boys

= = = = =

I’d love to spend a day, just one,
There with the Hardy Boys;
I grew up loving all their books,
Their acumen and poise

They started in the 1920’s –
Kids books were the rage:
But after near a century
They still are the same age.

So if I went to join them, I
Would ask how this could be;
That they would be in high school
Longer than my cousin Dee

Who stayed so long in tenth grade
He was old enough to vote.
But still, with those two boys
We’d grab some mystery by the throat

And squeeze it ’til we solved it.
We’d encounter villains’ anger:
But we would work right through it, from
Cliffhanger to cliffhanger.

I’m sure I couldn’t hang with them;
I really have no clue —
But living in their world is something
I long wished to do

And since nobody ages there,
It does seem quite the place:
The Mystery of the Aging Gene
That vanished
Without trace

= = = = =

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Storybook Day.”

My Name Is Oscar Smuff

Ninety nears I’ve had bad press
My name is Oscar Smuff;
You have been told that I’m a mess
And I have had enough

I am a great detective
I was topmost in my class;
My bow ties are quite stylish
As is my bushy mustache

Who is this W. Dixon guy
Who has it in for me?
I make an honest living
Here in mild obscurity

But he paints me to be an oaf –
A clod – some sort of dunce –
I’ve never even seen the guy
In Bayport. Even once.

It’s bullying, that’s what it is
And sheer mendacity;
My name is Oscar Smuff,
So please
Quit making fun
Of me

A Hardy Boy

He thought…

He thought that wrong was always wrong
Even if hid away

He said that heroes always win
And work hard for their pay

He thought of justice first, and not
Belonging to some faction

He looked at crime as villainy
Calling us each to action

He viewed cruelty as something
To abhor, and not enjoy

He might have been a better man
When he was still
A boy