Welcome To My Blog

 

To help you select the stories and poetry you might want to read, below is the list of all posts made to my blog since its inception. Posts are listed in chronological order from the first post made on April 18, 2019, until the most recent post (The most recent post appears first on the blog). Please browse the list of posts to find the titles that most intrigue you. Then do one of the following:

 

1.         Place the title of the post in the space beneath the header, “Search This Blog.” With regard to poetry, a post may contain more than one poem. You may have to insert the first two poems listed to find what you want. Then click on search. The posting should appear at the top of the screen for you to read. Or . . .

 

2.         Using the date a particular posting was made, go to the “Blog Archive” to the right of the posts and click on the particular month in which the poem or short story was posted and scroll down until you find what you would like to read. Please note that if you scroll through all the posts on the screen and don’t find what you are looking for, below the last post on the screen, on the right, are the words, “Older Posts.” Click on this and you will find the additional posts made during the particular month you have selected. Scroll through these until you find the story or poem you wish to read.

 

Enjoy the journey, as you read the creations of my heart and my mind.

 

Thank you.

 

Alan

Alan Lowe
Poet and Writer

slolowe@icloud.com

https://slolowe44.blogspot.com/

 

 

 

 

The end of our work life is something we usually have some control over. Most of us plan for it.

 

Then we retire to live out our dreams. Our to-do list can be long and intriguing. We hope we complete it before . . .

 

 

The End Of Retirement

 

     It was a warm April day in Maricopa Village. At 2:00 pm, three males and three females gathered in a little theater, which would hold an excited crowd—128 men and women, all over the age of fifty-five. The six waited anxiously, in the seats facing the stage, for their director to enter the building.

     Suddenly the house went dark. Then lights sparkled throughout the venue, and . . . Julliette Cane stood before them, dressed in a lavish red dress and high heels. A beautiful woman, in her early-fifties, she knew how to impress an audience.

     “Close your eyes. Wish that everything you could ever imagine could come true. Feel the spirit resonate throughout your body. You have the power to perform amazingly,” she chanted.

     “What? Who do you think you are—the wise ass on the hill? You’re nothing more than our director of this godforsaken show we’re being forced to put on for a bunch of old codgers,” Michael moaned.

     “Hey man, sit down and shut up! She’s also our drama teacher. She knows what she’s doing. It’s what we need, faith in ourselves,” Andrea shouted.

     “Well, If you don’t have it already, you’re not going to get it from her,” Vannie stated, in an unbelievably strong tone.

     “Listen to Andrea,” Collette said. A teacher should be respected. So do it! And if you don’t realize how she just told us what we need to do to be successful today was a role she was playing, you missed the point completely, and you don’t belong here.”

     “Calm down everybody. We go on stage in twenty minutes. This is your chance to shine. They’ll love you,” Julliette said with a lilt in her voice.

     “Ms. Cane, do you really think these old folks are going to like six teenagers performing a play called “The End of Retirement,” Justin asked.

     “Justin, we’ve been rehearsing for six weeks. I’ve placed my magic touch upon you. The stars are shining and all of you will light up the stage.”

     “There you go again, Ms. Cane, with your wizardry gibberish,” Michael shouted.

     “But I am a wizard, young man. And all of you will rise to the challenge, for it is my wish for you to do so.”

     “Ms. Cane, I only have a small part. So may I be excused? I’m not an actor,” Seth muttered.

     “Oh yes you are. And every role, small or large, is an integral part of the play. So the answer is no, Seth.”

     “Okay, but I’m supposed to be seventy-five years old and I’m only seventeen. What’re they going to think?”

     “But you will become seventy-five. I will see to it.”

     “No costume is that good,” Seth replied.

     “Who said anything about costumes.”

     “We’re not going to be wearing costumes, Ms. Cane?” Vannie asked, confused by Julliette’s statement.

     “Well, not exactly, but in a way.”

     “Huh, what way?” Collette queried, somewhat perplexed.

     “Settle down, everybody. We go on in fifteen minutes,” Julliette gushed. “We’re going to knock their socks off. And maybe some other clothing, too.”

     “Those old people are going to be nude. I think I’m going to be sick,” Andrea screamed. “I’m out of here.”

     “You’re not going anywhere, Andrea. And you will be as old as they are,” Julliette stated. “Now everybody, go back stage. The house doors are about to open.”

     With that, the cast exited the seating area and went behind the curtain. Talking and laughing flowed through the crowd entering the theater.

     Jullette looked at her proteges and smiled. “Please sit. This is your big day.”

     “My what? Michael shouted.”

     “Keep your voice down. This is your debut and you’ll be great.”

     “You really think so?”

     “No, I know so,” Julliette replied confidently. “So go out on stage and let the audience know who you are, a seventy-year-old retiree who’s facing entering the next stage of his life, one from which there is no return, or is there?”

     “This is weird. So I’m dying, right?”

     “It appears you are?”

     “ But I’m just a kid.”

     “Not on stage you’re not.”

     “So where’s my costume?”

     “Just look in the mirror,” Julliette directed.

     “You’ve got to be kidding. That’s not me. It’s some old geezer.”

     “Look again, for that’s who you are, now and forever.”

     “What are you saying?”

     Staring at Michael, the other five teens cringed at what they saw. Andrea tried to get up from her chair, but her aging legs gave way and she collapsed onto the floor.

     Collette gasped and tried to help Andrea, but she couldn’t catch her breath. She felt like she was going to faint. She peered into the mirror on the wall and what she saw was unbelievable—an eighty-year-old woman looking back at her.

     Vannie and Justin, overwhelmed at what they’d witnessed, stood frozen in place. Looking at each other they began to shake uncontrollably. Their wrinkled faces and gray hair were unbelievable.

     Vannie began to cry, tears flowing down her aged face. Justin limped over to her and put his arm around her. Two people, now in their late-eighties, shared their dismay at what was happening.

     Seth looked at all the old folks around him and didn’t know what to do, for he felt young and full of energy. His skin was smooth and void of wrinkles and other signs of aging. Could he get out of here before he fell prey to the disaster he’d witnessed? he thought. Maybe having a small part was a blessing.

     Then his eyes started to water and his back felt like he’d been run over by a semi-truck. A voice he hadn’t heard before yelled, “I’ve got him. I’ll wheel him out.” And he pushed Seth, now an elderly man in a wheelchair, down the ramp on the side of the stage.

     On stage, Julliette sung out in glee, “This has been a marvelous improv performance,” as the audience applauded, for the curtain had disappeared and flew above to the heavens, making what should have been private a very public event.

     Now in a white gown and halo adorning her head, Julliette murmured, “Welcome my children to my heavenly stage, where you shall blossom in a way you may not have imagined. You are blessed to have been given this opportunity at ‘The End of Retirement.’”

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

It is through words that we share our dreams, fortunes, and misfortunes. They are the key elements in the development of our story. 

 

At times they can be elusive. But you need to find them, because . . .

 

 

You Have Much To Tell

 

Thinking of the right words to get your points across is not an easy thing to do.

As a poet, words dance through your head, asking to be chosen, as they make their debut.

 

You pray that you are able to blend them together to make your wishes come true.

Dreaming of a future where all your desires are met, a wonderful verse comes into view.

 

It opens your mind to change in a way you never expected and drives you in a particular direction.

You accept this opportunity to accomplish something you’ve never done before and want to do it with perfection.

 

Rising to life’s challenges, you enter the unknown and, as one verse leads to another, you believe you’ll get your message across.

But challenges aren’t easy to overcome, and the words jump around, leaving your mind at a loss.

 

Not being able to focus, you put your writing on hold and stare out your office window, as things go awry.

A man approaches a woman, with gun in hand, and demands she give him her purse, as she lets out a cry.

 

The challenge is yours, if you are up to accepting it, so you run out the door onto to the street.

But before you can take action, you hear sirens blaring, as a police car and the thug meet.

 

Believing you were up to doing a good deed, you know the next steps you must take to get the right words on the page.

So you volunteer to distribute food to the homeless three days a week, and in conversation with them engage.

 

With your heart beating warmly and a smile on your face, your writing turns out well.

Through the power of words brought to life through your poetry, you have much to tell.

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Sports may become our love in our youth. We live to achieve success in them.

 

I liked baseball, stickball, touch football, and track. But I loved the charm and . . .

 

 

Magic of Bowling

 

Welcome to the magical, mystical world of bowling. “Dream or nightmare?” that is the question. 

 

From the age of twelve, bowling was my passion. Every Saturday morning I made my way to the lanes with the hope of achieving a high score burning in the pit of my stomach.

 

I wanted to be a star. To make others look at me in awe, as I lived my dream, was my desire.

 

Losing was not an option. My team had to win, and I had to take the lead, as we crushed our opponents.

 

Every strike was a delight, every spare a treat, every miss a disaster. And a split was a catastrophe.

 

To believe I relished coming to the bowling alley every week to watch the pins going in unanticipated directions or not falling at all was difficult to understand. And the ball missing its mark completely and ending up in the gutter was excruciating. Was this enjoyment?

 

Sometimes I wondered if the stress was worth it. Sometimes I wondered how long I could accept the failure. But, at other times I’d scream, “Oh my, another 200! What a great sport.”  

 

 

Copyright © 2026 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.