An Ode to Housework by Pete

My wife’s in the hospital appendicizing

So I’m all alone finally realizing

Being a bachelor really does stink

With laundry to do and dishes in the sink

I’m folding the clothes and putting them away

Boy! How I wish I had time to play

Finally I take a nap in my chair

When suddenly I noticed a clump of dog hair

I can’t believe this is happening since I just swept

So I rushed to the closet where the vacuum was kept

I vacuumed around even behind the chairs

The only thing left would be the stairs

I don’t want to seem so brash

But, now its time to empty the trash

Son of a gun there’s a hole in the bag

Now I have another mess…Oh what a drag

There’s definitely a lot to keeping our house

That’s why I’m glad a married a cleaning spouse

Now I know why I hate the broom and mop

I’d rather be working out in my shop

Since I have now told you my little tale

Being a house husband is worse than jail

The Good Old Days by Pete

How I yearn for the good old days

Where we all lived in simpler ways

No one seemed to have a care

And were always willing to help and share

While those years have passed us by

Today nobody cares about the other guy

We are all moving in such a fast pace

It’s no wonder we’re known as the Human race

We have to strive harder to keep ahead

Just to afford a loaf of bread.

How busy we’ve become keeping up with Jones’s

While driving so hard we need our cell phones’s

Isn’t it a shame that when we were poor

We even had time to know our neighbors next door

April 2002

An Ode to Fishing by: Pete

It is early in the morning and the Lake is very

Still

While the day is slowly breaking with the Sun

Coming over the hill.

I am sitting here all alone in my fishing boat

Enjoying the peace & serenity while watching my

Fishing float

This is much better than going into work

When suddenly my bobber sank and I felt the

Line jerk

I gave the pole a sharp tug to set the fish hook

At first I thought I might have a big Chinook

Then the fight began as my line started to meander

When I finally retrieved my catch it was only a

Salamander

At first I felt so defeated

But I tried it again and never retreated

I started all over to fulfill my fishing needs

Then I set my hook into a bunch of those nasty

Weeds

Soon I felt that fishing was a big mistake

And maybe I should just enjoy the solitude of our

Lake

7-8-2002

An Ode to Fun Day by Pete

It’s that time of year when we all partake

In the festivities of Funday at Our Lake

We gather together young and old

And watch the fun and excitement unfold

With lots of games in which to compete

While receiving prizes for the winning seat

From the horseshoes, tennis, and volleyball

There is something of interest for one and all

Then it’s time for our big potluck dinner

With so many good foods…. it is a winner

Now it’s time for the Bingo game

Rounding out our Funday and we’re glad we came.

6-20-2002

An Ode to a Full Moon by Pete

The Moon is full and burning bright

While casting it’s shadow of glimmering light

Flying high above Our Lake

It’s a beautiful sight with which to partake

The night is still and the only thing heard

Are the voices of the crickets and frogs uttering

Their word

There’s nothing as pleasing as hearing them sing

I’m just sitting here and wondering

What is it they are trying to convey

Maybe it’s just about their wonderful day

No matter whatever their tune

It’s really enjoyable beneath a full Moon.

DISCOVERIES

By Tom Mahar

I awake in the morning feeling blessed beyond measure

My life has surely changed to include more pleasure

I feel like I have won the prize and taken the cake

But I give due credit to God, my wife and Fishhawk Lake

We have found a place to spend some time

That is quiet and peaceful and generally sublime

The people are friendly and the landscape exquisite

It’s a great place to escape from the city the hustle and all of the bullshit

Time slows - like molasses flows

Layers of stars - more abundant than cars

Crows hang in flocks & can be heard for more than a block

Frogs sing songs - just like they belong

People walk – people talk

Cards are played and at times there is music to serenade

There is cabin crawl – there is dock crawl

God’s glory is evident in this place – not that far from the rat race.

So we will continue to go to this place that we have found

A place where snow makes noise when it hits the ground

Where winters have beauty that can’t be explained

And summers team with life that appears unrestrained

With beginnings come endings and change does occur

Life does not always happen the way we’d prefer

But if I have choices – there are a few I will make

And they are to spend time with my new friends up at Fishhawk Lake.

The Picture

In my family home when I was small

there hung a picture on the wall

of a mountain lake with trees all around

and golden sunlight filtering to the ground

the near distant hill draped in forest green

with silver shiny water sandwiched between

edging the water were neat cabins and homes

all quaintly dressed in earthy tones

a scene so beautiful and serene

I dreamed some day to be a part of that scene

I imagined people living there in harmony

and sharing neighbors who never disagree

the air so crisp and fresh to breath

to put ones body and soul at ease

and stars that burned so vivid and bright

and a moon reflecting on the lake at night

no need for locked door or key

and hugs and kisses would be plentiful and free

there would be no strangers and a passer-by

would promptly be greeted with a friendly HI

such a paradise impossible to most it would seem

but so for me, I have my dream

for here at Fishhawk I have it all

I live in the picture on the wall

shootthebardbob

Paradise

Submitted By:

The Carpenter

The summer morning quiet of the Lake is emphasized by the ever present cawing of the crows, sometimes blended with the raucous call of the Heron, as he effortlessly wings his way;

To his feeding perch of the day.

In the background you hear, not so distant echoes of a Wood Pecker tapping cadence to the silence;

He attempts to keep at bay.

The murmur of the Humming Bird’s beating wings, add but another rhythm, to the harmony of the sounds of silence; intruded only slightly by;

The Ducks impolite babble.

While all around, the Song Birds are all atwitter in their effort to calm - this rabble.

Do you hear it? For this crescendo;

is not quiet - at all;

It is Nature – conducting her rhapsody of jubilance that greets you each day, if only you would listen - to her call;

This is paradise!

Cabin Life

No football, no basketball, no hockey on tv...

In fact, There's no tv reception to be...

The tube is only for videos--to see...

There's no computers (yet), no sirens too loud...

No horn honking, or an angry crowd...

Just occasional rifle fire, when hunting is allowed...

No sounds of traffic, even those on the lake...

For, electric powered boats barely make a wake...

Even voices are lowered for the animals sake...

Time to deactivate your life, and occupy your mind...

Fall back, or move ahead to another place and time...

Discard false pretenses, and search for things that bind...

Connect yourself spiritually, to a path you think is right...

One that you've pushed aside, and hid from others' sight...

Ponder over their meaning as you sit by the fire light...

Relax. Allow your senses to taste the food and the brew...

Breathe deeply, then exhale. Allow fresh air to flow through...

Whether at night in the stars, or in the morning dew...

The cabin is temporary. A retreat, if you will...

A place to rediscover yourself. A sanctuary in the hill...

The lowest gear of movement--almost a stand still...

Read that book you always meant to, but could not...

Write that letter, that poem, that you would not...

Unveil that hidden person you always felt you should not...

Set aside that busy pace that made you so weary...

Sometimes you have to stop, to see more clearly...

Sometimes you have to step away, to love more dearly...

And,

When you leave the cabin, and go back to the place...

When you live and work at your worldly pace...

Where trials and tribulations, you every day face...

While staying one step ahead of the human race...

I hope the cabin,

Will help you make one less decision from haste...

And one more decision out of grace...

End

Two Chairs at Fishhawk

Two chairs at Fishhawk

catch my gaze, as I pass by...

They sit on the bank, shaded by overhanging trees,

Facing the southwestern sky...

They were there last week--last month--last year,

For the two years I've been fishing the lake...

They've always captured my thoughts,

and imagination, of their fate...

Never have I seen them occupied

by persons in the real...

But, they're always occupied

by what I see and feel...

I see two strong Indian braves--who fought,

over the fairest maiden of their tribe...

Then, bonded themselves in friendship,

when she became a white mans' bride...

I see two Chinese cooks,

sitting in the morning dew...

preparing themselves for a busy day,

of feeding a logging crew...

I see two pioneer children

awakening, and stretching with a yawn....

Sitting in those high back chairs,

Watching the salmon spawn...

I see two weary fire fighters,

Who lost to a changing wind...

Looking out at the thick, dry forest,

Waiting to do battle again...

And, I see two withered, but proud faces,

Of Chiefs, who revered this land, and its game...

They were watching us, and seemed content,

That we were doing the same...

So,

The next time you are hiking, or in your boat,

And, those two wooden chairs come into view...

Close your eyes--just for a moment--

You may see someone sitting there, too...

Dave Bryen

I woke into a breeze blown,

fog shrouded, bird-songed

squirrel flurried morning.

Only a hint of the other shore

shouldering its way through

opaque wet air.

It is like this some mornings

as the world washes its sleep

from its eyes.

Maybe a few hours before the

syrupy air is lifted by the sun’s clarity.

And then, the thick air

fractures by two big, throaty,

angry chainsaws warming up.

I can hear the blade scrape along

the channel in the bar, waiting

for the thick oil to heat up and lubricate

the razor sharp teeth angled just so

to make the saw bite deeper.

And they play with the throttle.

getting the motor used to gulping

gas and air together, massaging that machine

watching the blade flash its

shark hungry appetite, impatient

to find the reason for its life.

Hot fury shatters this morning,

made even worse by the fact that

I cannot see.

I can only listen. I hope

They are only clearing brush,

a road crew maybe, trimming limbs,

freeing wires. Two saws, harmonious

In a noise way.

They are playing music out there,

Loud enough to hear at this distance

Across the lake. I hear it when the saws idle,

heartless, throaty and eager.

But then my hope crashes.

I hear the tree shriek

as it tears away from what it left

in the earth, a brief swash of air

and then my heart feels the air

compress against it as a huge

Douglas fir thunders to the ground,

shuddering, and my heart now

collapses with another kind of weight.

The creamed coffee in my mug shakes..

Is it mercy or cruelty that

I can’t watch the forest

go down tree by tree? Is it better to

imagine what I will see when the veil lifts

or grieve piece by piece, inch by inch,

tree by tree? I imagine my wife,

whose soul can be found in the big

trees. Am I glad she does not have to

hear them scream as the fibers wrenched

from each other and the interminable

silence and long wait until their long

impact hits her heart?

But you, dear builder, dear home owner

will never have to face this forest

or how the lone bird wailed one cry.

You will only see the neat stack of two by fours,

beams, plywood, smell the unmistaken bite

of newly sawn fir, the clean straight

dimensions that will stand in your walls

carry the drywall and paint the ease of

your house. The echo of a two by four

falling on a sub-floor is no match for

displaced air or the

whiplashed nobility of the fir quivering.

You won’t hear the snarl of the saw

through wood or fear the new view

out my window for years,

brown broken ground, ugly with

graying stumps. You will be inside

the warm house, watching nature shows

on your big screen TV, lamenting

in your mind about the destruction of

the Rainforests

but not feeling it in your heart.