To Old

Ok….to clarify for my two maybe three followers. This is not in reference to masturbation.

I am moving…again. As my name “Traveler” indicates. I have no anchor. Therefore, this week has been a ball buster getting my house ready for market.

( My happy yard wlork face)

 My next location is near the Atlantic. Twenty minutes from the beach. However, I am already planning my next move. For various reason I will go into in later blogs, there are doubts this experiment will work.

I have been nomadic all my life. Longest I have been at any one location was six years….sixth through twelfth grade. I actually moved once then but remained in the same area.

I like change. Fresh starts. New beginings. All the phrases that would sounds good here. Or at least that is what I say and believe on the surface. In reality, below the surface. The hidden me. I am afraid. 

I am afraid of settings roots. I am afraid of attachment. I am afraid of people knowing ….me. I am afraid of hurt, loss and loneliness. I do not want to open up or be known. Yet, I want all these things. 

So I move on. Claiming a Pirates life. Roaming with no anchor. Pretending it is not lonely. 

In reality… I to old for it. To alone for it. Maybe I will find my anchor in time. I hope so. Before time is gone.


No Flowing Words


Today my words will not flow. I am slinging my tattered soul onto page hoping someone can put my puzzle together. I am filled with everything yet feel nothing. I want to sleep but not dream. To die and be risen. To exist but fade away.

  I reaced out for love and found a vipers strike in its place. Venum coursing through my. My flesh rots from inside out. Slowly falling from bone as my heart yet beats. A sorrow, worn and battered heart. If my hand could release it so would be done. May my ears fail, my eyes dim and be gone from me.

  Before last breath passes my lips may one arrive. In love and compassion take my hand. With tear in eye press sweet lips against mine. Whispering “pass in love dear one”.

My South

The sun bares down on you like heat from an oven. Rich earthy dirt aroma fills the air. Thoses white stains on clothes are from the salt of evaporated sweat. Shade would be nice but is hard to find in the fields. You stop your truck in line with the irrigation system just to get sprayed and cool off for a bit. Waves of hot air snake up from the road, even the dirt ones. Evening comes and you catch a breeze. By that time eighty feels cool. You pop open a beer, sit in your swing and wave at your neighbors. The good ones will stop and sit for a spell. Eventually several folks are gathered around. Music starts to be played. Ice chest are gathered  and the drinks are freely given. A fire is lit in the pit because sixty is just cold. Stories are told. Hands are held and eventually we all part ways. Tomorrow starts early. Then we will do it again.