Ye Ole Fishing Hole

Ye Ole Fishing Hole

“Water Lilies” by Claude Monet 1919 Painting

Yay I say to the ole fishing hole
That pond over yonder with the sky in blue
where lily pad blossom clouds
float like dreams past giant oak tree

Like sky above we ponder its depths
not birds of wonder but bass to plunder
Pole in hand and worm on hook
No need to bring a reading book

A hot summer day
that cool shade beckons
beneath the tree
to sit and dream

Of days of plenty
or peaceful times
a pretty girl
or lemon-lime ice

Where have ye gone
ole fishing hole
that place where youth
plied your water

or cooled off
with laughing holler
Gone to the past
The back of my mind

Like that lovely girl
Oh Clementine
The days have past
the man grows old

and wishes for that pot of gold
not metal or green
no not that kind
He wishes for his peace of mind

A place to fish
and ponder time
girl oh that golden hair
and ever were that skin so fair

Did she ever really exist
Utopia’s like a rainy mist
cannot be grasped
Only missed

Unless you find that ole fishing hole
visit again take a long cane pole
sit on the bank ‘neath the grand oak tree
and ponder dreams of long past times

Remember the girl with mysterious eyes
the darkest hair and lovely perfume
The one who danced a special tune
With you alone under brilliant moon

There’s the place you want to be
Not alone nor anywhere else
just sit beneath the ole oak tree
and fish for dreams with the one you love

Copyright © 2013 MJ Logan Writer All Rights Reserved

No republication without expressly written consent.

Kaleidoscope Memories

Kaleidoscope Memories

A child with his kaleidoscope. Photo by Luisella Planeta

Kaleidoscope images. Multi-colored shapes reflected in the mirrors of the kaleidoscope.Kaleidescope memories, a world gone by
Look inside, see mind’s eye
Fuzzy and broken, first glance appear
Closer exam, reality clear

Look in the scope
The life gone by
Our memory there
All colored and mixed
Like shard of mirror
An image splinter

A mind inters
Inside a prison
The past events
And simple wisdom

Open your mind to the world inside
Those memories give a jittering ride
Over the years down forgotten lane
Kaleidescope colors–fall leaves in rain

Listen my friend to voices inside
Friendly voices–a welcoming tide
That overwhelm fears
and wipe away tears

Voices from past, years gone by,
Voices open, your wandering eye
Take you back to misty times
Images shattered by so many lines

Where are we going
but into the past
Life is dream
a pleasant repast
broken pieces
of colored glass

Copyright © 2013 MJ Logan Writer All Rights Reserved

No republication without expressly written consent.



Grocery Store Aisle Image via Pixabay Creator Peggy CCI

Flash Fiction

Eric checked his pockets again, then added chocolates to the cart. From another aisle came a bouquet of flowers. After wandering a bit, he found the card section and selected one that seemed special. Into the cart.

At the end of the card aisle were some bows and ribbons and he chose a fancy matched set for chocolates box.

Finally, he was home. “I was listless at the store hon, got this stuff instead.”

This Flash Fiction was inspired by the word Listless. I chose an implied contextual meaning instead of the usual.

Copyright © 2013 MJ Logan Writer All Rights Reserved

No republication without expressly written consent.



Photo Credit: MrMiniBike at Pixabay



Like cockroaches in the glare of sudden kitchen light, they scattered and skittered into cracks and holes, disappearing into dark places and retreating from the stuttering roar. Left behind in their hurry were backpacks and sacks loaded with cans of food, weapons, and jugs of water.

A mother ran out, risking everything to grab a nondescript duffel and race for cover as the staccato sound of an automatic weapon followed her. Splinters of concrete stung her bare legs and feet. Then all was silent, and all waited for the watchers to grow bored and look elsewhere.

Copyright © 2012 MJ Logan Writer All Rights Reserved

No republication without expressly written consent.

Sweet Dreams

Sweet Dreams

Dreams – Photo by MJ Logan

Sweet dreams
they flee before my eyes
In battle for conscious state
when sated is my need for sleep
but wanting slumber still and deep.

Where did they go?
Whence did they come?
These moments of clarity
when vision of reality
is more than truth.

Sweet dreams,
like watercolor scenes
in rainy-day windows
slip through fingers
in waking moments past.

What is real
in almost slumber,
but escapes our grasp
as the world intrudes
it cannot last.

Sweet dreams
hazy sharp contrast
fuzzy fogged stills
dance for thee
across mind’s canvas.

Wish or want,
hope or dream,
of times to come
so always perfect
then there, now slip away.

Sweet dreams
pastel colored echoes
of waking moment memory
in sharpened real hues
of sleep’s tender cradle.

Where go forgotten wisps
of almost thought?
They flee like clouds
before the winds
of conscious mist.

Sweet dreams
they flee before my eyes
moments pass
swirling fog battle
for sleep and wake.

Try thee capture the ghosts
of mind’s creation
Before they skip from vision;
a fleeting glimpse
of moon passing clouds.

Sweet dreams
Would I sadden at the loss of
painted precious thought
that slipped like sand
through child’s play fingers.

Sweet dreams
every moment precious
real and then not
gone without gasp
forgotten but not.


Copyright © 2012 MJ Logan Writer All Rights Reserved

No republication without expressly written consent.

Pheasant Under Glass—NOT

Pheasant Under Glass—NOT

Photo of Winter Pheasant by Lost in Fog at

It is the day after Christmas sometime in the late 1990s. We are heading home from northern Wisconsin back to Illinois and my wife Margaret is driving the pickup. There are two dogs in the cab and I’m half dozing, drowsy from the holiday excitement, one last overstuffed meal from mom’s kitchen, and lack of sleep. We top a rise and you can see for a good two miles. Ahead on the right is a large field with a truck parked in it, some one hundred or so yards from the road. Two people stand behind the truck wearing orange vests and they are obviously going hunting. As we draw close at seventy plus miles per hour, Muse begins to write…

The Muse
Ken watched as his son Mark, just twelve years old the previous month, loaded the single-shot 20 gauge he had given him for Christmas. The boy had completed his hunter safety course that fall and had his certificate which was as good as a hunting license for one year. Despite Mark’s successful completion of the course, Ken kept a watchful eye on his son. Firearm safety is something you learn through practice, and practice makes perfect. Nothing short of perfect is acceptable when it comes to firearm safety. Ken’s father had taught him, and now Ken was teaching Mark.

Mark was excited. They hadn’t had a chance to hunt after he completed the course because his dad had been busy finishing the fall harvest and preparing for the winter. Then his dad gave him the new shotgun for Christmas and Mark was proud, awed and excited. There were just a few days left in the pheasant season and Ken could hardly tell his son there wasn’t time to go hunting. In fact, he’d planned for them to spend the day together and he knew there were pheasants on the property. A day on the farm not spent farming was a rare day indeed and the fact was not lost on Mark.

Earlier that year, Ken had spent time with Mark, practicing shooting with clay targets thrown with a hand trap. Mark was developing into a good shot and Ken knew if given a few chances, Mark would put a pheasant or two on the table.

The long, shallow ditch was perfect pheasant cover. The depression provided shelter from the wind and the small shrubs and tall grasses hid the birds from predators like foxes, coyotes and hawks. A good strategy for pheasant hunting is to walk a ditch, hedgerow or fence line, one hunter on each side.

Ken pointed to the ditch and said, “You take the left, I’ll go down the right side.”

“Okay,” Mark replied, obviously excited. He didn’t realize his father was giving him the easy side. If a pheasant flew up and veered left, it was easier and more natural to shoot in that direction. On the right side, you had to turn to follow the bird.

The two started walking slowly along the ditch, separated by ten or fifteen yards of sparse cover that consisted mainly of low brush and tall grass. Here and there remained a few cattails, their fluffy heads shredded in the late fall winds and early snows.

“Kick that brush pile,” Ken advised.

Mark walked in and kicked and stomped on the pile of brush left behind when Ken had trimmed the bushes down the previous spring. Still, the stomping and kicking revealed nothing.

They continued on, walking slowly and Ken giving advice. They stopped here and there to kick another brush pile or examine a piece of cover. Ken was sure the ditch held pheasants most of the time, he’d seen them when working the field. Still, no birds flushed and they came to the end of the ditch.

Mark was a little disappointed and Ken could see it. “Well that ain’t the only place we’ve got birds,” he told his son. “Come on, we’ll go try the north field and walk the fence lines over there.”

The two shouldered their shotguns to walk back to the truck and try elsewhere… Father knowing that sooner or later, Mark would get his chance. Son eager to show he had learned what his father had taught him and excited at the prospect of it.

The Images
Old No Hunting Sign on an Old Fence PostAs we passed the hunters, I glimpsed the shiny new stock on the boy’s shotgun and the sun glinted off the new, blued barrel. I saw the boy open the shotgun to put in the shell and even at highway speed and the distance between us, the excitement on his face was plain to see. The man was talking to him, pointing and giving instructions and the boy was nodding, listening―patiently impatient. We passed the pair and then the shallow ditch in fifteen seconds or less and there at the end, watching and listening, was a single rooster pheasant with two long tail feathers. He was alert and knew for certain that danger was afoot. Just as we passed by, he turned and ran for the cover of a fence line, just another forty yards away. The “No Hunting” sign nailed to the fence post was plainly visible.

Copyright © 2012 MJ Logan Writer All Rights Reserved

No republication without expressly written consent.