Sunday is Mother’s Day. As it approaches, it brings back many memories of my mother’s impact on my life.

She was a special woman—one who had an opinion on most things, especially how her children should be brought up. This becomes clear in . . .

My Mother’s Way

Over seven decades ago, into this world I came,

A bouncing baby boy, at that moment without a name.

A bundle from heaven, yet the cause of much hell,

A sweet little angel, all could tell.

Upon entering my new domain, many strangers I did meet,

The first, of course, my mother—a woman so sweet.

Good intentions she had, yet her way was strange.

I had not been here long, but already my life she began to arrange.

Now my mother was charming, attractive, and very bright.

This being said, it was not surprising she was always right.

She directed my life in her own righteous way,

Even instructing me on how, when, and where to play.

“The game is too rough, you’ll get hurt,” she would say.

These statements followed me day after day.

She monitored my schoolwork and grades received.

She was both an ardent critic and great supporter of what I achieved.

As I grew from a child into a young man,

The less of me, my mother could understand.

I wanted my independence, to run my life in my own way.

Yet my mother always was there with something to say.

When I started to date, at first I came home early, then, at times, late.

Yet no matter the time, there on the living room couch, my mother would wait.

Her hair in disarray, appearing tired, but eyes focused and intent,

Questions about my date she fired at me, on getting answers, she was hell bent.

My eyes would bulge, my head would spin,

One wish had I, my bed to get in.

Mother continued her inquiry, asking about my big date.

Tortured, I replied, “But Mom it’s getting late.”

She pried still further, about what I did.

“Mom,” I said, “I’m no longer a kid.”

Mom soon got tired of administering the third degree.

Exhausted was I, for it was almost three.

I picked up my drooping head and to my surprise,

Mom’s head had fallen to her chest, closed were her eyes.

I got up from the couch, covered Mom with a blanket, and shut off the light,

Breathed a sigh of relief, and kissed Mom good night.

As the years passed, my mother’s way played a role in the decisions I made.

With her support and prodding, I was successful in climbing life’s grade.

The many things I accomplished pleased Mom and made her proud.

She cheered my successes, as I stood out from the crowd.

Today, as I traverse my daily paths, searching for the answers I need to find,

I try to be sincere and caring, keeping Mom’s words, her way, in mind.

Now that Mom travels amongst the clouds in the heavens above,

I carry with me her unending teachings and her enduring love.

Copyright © 2013 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

We’ve all heard of “fake news.”  However, how do we know what is true and what is not?

For instance, it is announced by a major TV station that, on its primetime talk show, an interview would be conducted with someone we know is a prominent fictional character. But the station treats him as being real. Is this a farce or can fiction become reality? You will find out in . . .

An Unbelievable Interview

     My name is Colin Cantrell. I’m a TV show host and interviewer. I work with my cohost, Samson Leigh, on our Saturday evening show on station KVEX in Los Angeles, CA, called Unbelievable Interviews. One Saturday night in late August, Samson and I prepared for an extraordinary experience many would call unreal. But, they’d be wrong.

     When I first learned of the opportunity to interview someone called Frankenstein, I was rather skeptical. Then I was told he had books written about him and had been featured in a number of movies. In reality, it was not Frankenstein I’d be interviewing, but Frankenstein’s monster. This made me even more hesitant about doing the interview. However, after thinking about it, I agreed to have him come on our show. After all, it’s not every day you are given the chance to meet face to face with the king of horror films.

     The night of the interview, Samson and I sat on the set, behind the black curtain, awaiting the start of the show and the entrance of our prominent guest. He looked over at me.

     “Colin, when you first told me who was going to be our guest on tonight’s show, I was somewhat apprehensive. First of all, I didn’t think this was possible. Probably, just a joke. And, if it wasn’t, having seen his work, I expected an aggressive and unpredictable mad man with a warped mind.”

     “Well, those were my thoughts, too, Samson. I thought he wouldn’t be able to answer our questions and would moan angrily when he couldn’t. And then, maybe he would take out his frustration on us. I’ve got to be honest, . . . I wanted to make sure the exit door was open, so I could make my escape.”

     “And I’d be right behind you, Colin,” Samson stated with conviction. “But then we had that pre-meeting with him to discuss how we would conduct the interview and the whole picture changed.”

     “Yeah, in hindsight, we couldn’t have been more wrong. Imagine meeting, not a monster at all, but a rational, intelligent, sensitive individual.”

     “And the way he dressed blew me away. He had on a white shirt and a blue sport blazer. He looked rather dapper. Didn’t you think so, Colin?”

     “Why yes, I did. Also, I was surprised by his candidness and the extensive vocabulary he used through a deep, monotonous toned voice. However pleasant he appeared, mind you, he still frightened me. But when he thanked us for giving him this wonderful opportunity to set the record straight, I knew we’d made the right decision to have him on the show.”

     “And I agree,” Samson stated.

     The lights on the set blinked on and off indicating the show was about to begin. And then, the curtain opened.

     Looking out at a full house, I stated with conviction, “At this time, it is my great pleasure to introduce the very well known, Mr. Frankenstein.”

     The studio audience applauded with gusto, as Frankenstein plodded across the stage and took a seat in the remaining chair at our round, oak conference table. He seemed very relaxed.

     “Welcome, Mr. Frankenstein,” I chanted with exuberance.

     “Please, call me Frank,” he droned.

     “Okay, Frank it is. So let’s begin the interview. First question. Considering Dr. Frankenstein patched you together from many parts, how do you feel?”

     “I get that question all the time. I feel fine. That is, unless it’s raining, which makes my knees ache, and as long as no large open flames are involved,” he said with a deep echoing laugh. “No, in all honesty, all it takes is a stitch here and a stitch there to correct the doc’s hasty actions. Can’t say that I blame him though. He didn’t have much to work with.”

     “I’m not sure I follow you. What do you mean, he didn’t have much to work with?” Samson queried.

     “You know, darkness, an impending majestic electrical storm crackling in the distance, and medical tools that left a lot to be desired. Of course, if you’re wondering whether I’m able to reach over and snatch the life right out of you, . . . I certainly could,” Frank bellowed.

     “You know, I wasn’t expecting a threat like that from you. You make me want to turn and run,” I joked.

     “That somewhat short race you might attempt won’t do you much good. I’m considerably quicker than I used to be,” Frank responded.

     Samson muttered under his breath, “My God, he’s lowered his head and has a menacing look in his eyes. I gotta get out of here.”

     Frank continued, “I’m much more agile after a number of modern microsurgery's. And this makes me more dangerous than ever.” He burst into uproarious laughter. “That’s a joke. . . . Yeah, I feel great.”

     Regaining his composure, Samson asked, “How old are you, Frank?”

     “Well, like many women, I prefer to not discuss age. I was created when Ms. Shelly wrote that first word in her book. However, I like to think I was born with that lightning strike that came a bit later. You do the math.”

     “You were originally labeled a monster, Frankenstein’s monster. But, somewhere along the way you began being referred to simply as Frankenstein. What do you have to say about that?” I inquired.

     “Personally, it doesn’t trouble me. However, while the doc never conveyed it, I know the concept bothered him. I mean, how would you feel if someone took your name and reaped all the rewards? Regardless, I take horror very seriously. Obviously, I enjoy scaring people, as you’ve already seen. That being said, today, I really tend to lean toward viewing myself as that Herman guy, from The Munsters TV show in the early 60s—lovable, laughable, and somewhat uneducated.”

     “Speaking of that comedy sitcom knock off, how did you feel about their portrayal of your character, when the show first aired?” Samson asked.

     “When I first saw it, it really made me mad. Horror is horror and comedy is comedy and it was very hard for me to accept the way the show crossed the line. However, after viewing a few episodes and realizing how popular the show was becoming, I calmed down a bit, understanding, and even appreciating, that they were at least keeping my character in the spotlight. And, I have to admit I developed a bit of a crush on Lilly. Boy, she was one hot babe!”

     Frank became silent and seemed to be preoccupied with thoughts of Lily. Then he shook his head, making me think the bolts in his neck were about to fall out.

     “Are you ready to continue,” I asked.

     “Guess so. But I’m still salivating over Lilly. She’s luscious,” he gushed.

     “Frank, I think I detect a slight smell coming from you. It’s not all that strong or repulsive, sort of a new car smell. Do you emit a death odor and, if so, how do you combat it?”

     Frank spoke in a candid manner, “Yes, you’re right.  Although my body parts seem to be working fine, they were all dead at one time. Therefore, I have this never-ending aroma.”

     Samson grunted, “That would really bother me. I’d try everything I could to get rid of it.”

     “Lord knows, I’ve tried,” Frank moaned. “But there’s not much I can do about it.”

     “What have you tried?” I queried.

     “Well, I’m pretty well known at a number of Beverly Hills high-end department stores’ fragrance sections. I’m the seven-foot tall green guy at the counter asking for a few of those little samples of the latest colognes. Usually, after the sales girl’s initial fright, she dumps gallons on me to eliminate the odor. However, there is never enough to mask the distasteful aroma. Today, I loaded up on car air fresheners.”

     “So that’s why my nose is picking up the new car scent,” I exclaimed. “Well, we’ve covered your odor problem. What about clothing and shoes? You must have a tough time finding a size that fits?”

     “I used to, before it became so easy to shop from home. I had a tough time hunting things down. After all, Rodeo Drive is all about trendy and they don’t cater to the big and tall, nor do they stock any shoes over a size ten.”

     “That must be terribly frustrating. Do you feel it is a waste of time, roaming through those stores and finding nothing?” Samson inquired.

     “With regard to clothing, that’s true. But there are other very intriguing things to look at in those stores.”

     “Like what? You’ve piqued my curiosity,” I declared.

     “Well, women—absolutely beautiful women. There was one I kept staring at one day some time ago. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her.”

     “Don’t keep us in the dark. Who was she?” Samson queried.

     “I didn’t know at the time. I never got close enough to ask. She was a lovely, light-complexioned gal with flowing blond hair. After she noticed my preoccupation with her, she asked me to mind my own business. When I didn’t, she began twitching her nose. I didn’t understand why or what she said next, . . . something about casting a bad spell on me.”

     “A bad spell? Reminds me of another famous TV comedy show. You know . . .”

     “Yeah, I didn’t then, but I do now. Bewitched,” Frank shouted. “I have to admit to having a crush on Samantha, too.”

     “Are you enthralled with all gorgeous TV stars?” I asked.

     “I’m only ‘human,’” he screamed.

     Deciding not to pursue that remark, I turned to the audience and stated, “Our time is about up. I hope you’ve enjoyed our interview this evening. It’s been marvelous talking with our guest, Frankenstein.”       

     They began to applaud, but then, Frank reached over and grabbed Samson by the neck. Laughing uncontrollably, he screamed, “I will now suck the life out of you.”

     I was dumbfounded at what was happening. Unable to move, I sat, frozen in my chair and watched, as Samson’s body fell to the floor. The audience was in shock.

     Frank, with head bent, exited quickly through the stage door to the alley alongside the studio. Freaked out by what had happened, I rushed to Samson, who lay face down on the ground. I knelt alongside his body and turned it over. What I saw made me sick to my stomach—Samson smiling at me. I wanted to kill him. However, my anger diminished when the audience, realizing the death scene had been a hoax, stood and applauded. And the following Tuesday, the show’s ratings jumped to number one.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Are you a smart money manager? Have you saved enough to protect yourself from an economic downturn?

Did you do the right things to prepare for a secure future? In dealing with your finances, you could discover that you have . . .

Too Many Accounts

Growing up, Dad always told me I needed to save money on which to retire.

So I set up ten stock accounts on which to live comfortably until I expire.

As it turns out, this may not have been a smart thing to do.

You see, the economy took a dive, and so the dollars in my accounts are few.

When I go to my broker, it causes great pain.

All ten accounts have had a serious drain.

This makes things quite difficult—little money on which to live.

As you can imagine, so few dollars, all to creditors I give.

I often regret that when this was done,

I had not set up a checking account, named as one.

Nor did I open a savings or money market account or invested in a CD.

In hindsight, I should have put money in a safe in my bedroom wall for security.

And placed cash under my mattress, with some also in the corner of the          
     room—dollars piled in a heap.

More under the couch cushion, and a stash buried in the backyard deep.

Then I should have set up a guaranteed account, that is, one protected for life. 

Doing this would provide continued support for me and my wife.

As I reflect on my plans, I now know what I should have done.

I should not have been so ambitious, at least with one.

And I have no one else to blame for my disastrous fate.

I just did not do it, and now it is too late.

Copyright © 2010 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Did something ever happen to you that you couldn’t explain? You begin to wonder if it did occur or if your imagination was playing tricks on you.

You reach out to another person who might have seen what you’d experienced. But they leave you even more confused, as you will see in . . .

What Stranger?

     I sat at my large mahogany office desk staring out the window. The trees fluttered in the wind. The autumn leaves escaped their branches and floated, like colorful, small magic carpets, to the ground. The sun cast shadows across the rolling hills surrounding the parking lot.

     I turned back to my iMac. My mind continued to drift. I didn’t get much sleep last night and my body suffered from its absence. I struggled to stay awake. My head started to fall. It began a slow descent toward my computer keyboard.

     The ring a ling, ding a ling of my computer calendar reminder rescued me. I jerked my head up and back to the reality of the day. In the center of my computer screen, a beautiful Hawaiian princess held a card indicating the time and day of the appointment I had across town—a date with my psychiatrist.

     The last thing I wanted to do was see my shrink. He thought I was a real head case who blew the simplest things out of proportion. But I needed this visit as an excuse to get me out of the office and release me from the dullness of my day. Maybe the cold fall wind blowing against my face would awaken me.

     My therapist’s office was eight blocks away—a twenty-minute walk through some pretty upscale, store-lined streets. I liked to gaze in the shop windows, not to look at the goods on display, but to catch a glimpse of the crazy people who frequented the shops.

     I left plenty of time for my excursion, so I could take in these weird sights at my leisure. And weird they were. One had only to look in the window of the Victoria’s Secret store. Wow! Two sixty-something women pranced around in negligees, engaged in a show I’m sure they were not aware could be seen from the street. I wanted to applaud and scream, "Hooray," but didn’t have the guts to do so. And then . . .

     “Uh oh, what the hell’s going on?” I muttered, as I wandered into a huge crowd gathered on the street. I pushed my way through the onlookers to get a glimpse of what was happening.

     A police officer yelled at the mob, ”Please, get back. For your own safety, please.”

     Get back from what? I thought. And then I saw it. “My God, a police barricade. Oh my, the SWAT team’s been called in. What do I do now?” I grumbled.

     A man, pushing back through the crowd, hollered, “It’s an armed robbery in progress. The police think it’s a hostage situation.”

     “Well, I can’t stay here. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment,” I moaned. Then, I remembered I’d seen an alley a block back. Maybe I can get through the horde that way. I turned and scrambled up the street. Yes, there it is—the alley. It’s clear. I hustled through it. To my good luck, it emptied onto South Madison, around the corner from my doctor’s office. “I’m going to be on time,” I sighed.

     I entered the building and took the elevator to the third floor. I walked down the hall to the fourth door on the right, opened it, and went in. My shrink shared the office complex with five other couch docs, so it was filled with patients.

     After checking in at the front desk, I found a vacant seat in the rear of the waiting room and collapsed into it. The events of my day and a sleepless night had taken its toll on me. My mind began to wander and I drifted into a state of oblivion.

     A male voice penetrated my silent escape. “They’re going get you,” he grumbled.

     “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Who’s going to get me?”

     He gave me the weirdest look and turned away. I composed myself, leaned back in my seat, and didn’t say another word. Picking up a sports magazine, I leafed through the pages. I found an article on my Mets and immersed myself in it.

     Chancing to look up, I saw the man, standing about three feet away, staring at me again. I wondered why he found me so interesting. He seemed anxious, as he stroked his scraggly bearded chin. His eyes squinted. His head slanted to the left. His unkempt hair shot up like spears pointing to the sky. He wore a shabby green jacket; wrinkled black jeans; and dark brown, pockmarked boots. He looked a sight.

     “They’re going to get you,” he mumbled.

     I couldn’t make out the rest of what he said, as his words were jumbled. I tried hard to avoid his squinting eyes, but albeit, with little success. Although I didn’t want to get involved with him, he did pique my curiosity.

     “You have to listen to me, I’m not crazy,” he shrieked.

     My head began to spin. Who was this guy? And what’d he want from me?

     He blurted, “You’re in danger. You must protect yourself.” 

     Man, this freaked me out. He seemed to be nutty as a fruitcake, but his sincerity concerned me. I fidgeted with my hands. I began to sweat. My eyes began to burn. I knew I had to be blowing this all out of proportion. However, it seemed he had information I didn’t have, so I believed I should heed his warnings.

     I began to watch my back. Why not be careful? I thought.

     “They’re coming, they’re coming,” he screeched.

     My head pounded. My heart beat so fast, it felt like it would jump out of my chest.

     The next thing I knew, I was being shaken. My head tossed left and then right. Someone had control over me. I had to get free. I tried with all my might, but my legs shook in fear and my feet seemed cemented to the floor. Two hands grasped my arms. Then, a soft, pleasant voice spoke, “Mr. Wainer. Mr. Wainer, please come with me.”

     Looking up, I saw a pretty woman smiling at me. I tried to comply with her request, but had trouble standing on my shaky legs.

     “What happened? Who are you?” I sputtered.    

     “You appeared to be asleep. I woke you. I’m Dr. McCann’s assistant. You must’ve had a dream, or . . . maybe an hallucination.”

     “A what?” I stammered. “Where’s the stranger who warned me about the danger I was in?”

     “Stranger? What stranger?” she asked.

     “You didn’t see him?”

     “No, I didn’t. You have to come with me, Mr. Wainer. You need to see the doctor. And you need to see him, now.”
     "All right."

     She led me into his office. “Sit over there, on the couch. The doctor will be in shortly.”

     “Okay, but . . .” Before I could finish what I wanted to say, she turned and left the room. I sat there staring at the closed door.

     Then the door behind the doctor’s desk opened. A tall, bearded man entered the room. “Good afternoon, I’m Dr. McCann. And you are?”

     “Huh, you don’t know who I am?”

     “Why should I?”

     “I’ve been seeing you for six months.”

     “I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered that.”

     “Are you kidding me?”

     “No. Absolutely not.”

     “Then I shouldn’t be here.”

     “But you are. And I will take care of you.”

     The next morning I awoke in a strange room. I couldn’t move. My legs and arms were tied to the bed.

     Standing at the foot of the bed was the scraggly bearded man I’d seen in the doctor’s waiting room. He peered at me and mumbled, “I warned you they’d get you.”

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Sometimes it’s hard to find our way in life. We seek the answers that open the doors to our future.

Yet these, at times, may elude us. And we are left puzzled, with many unanswered . . .

Questions

Today, all parts of our world are interconnected through commerce and   

     technology.

Little of what we own and use has been made in America.

Has only in America become a concept of the past?

Society’s view of marriage and family has changed, and many families  

     struggle to survive.

Violence in our communities monopolizes our print and electronic media.

Can we count on happy endings or do they just exist in dreams, fictional  

     works, and fantasies?

Ads on television and the Internet push legal drugs and sell products that will 

     change our lives, with no proof of these doing so.

Scandals have been exposed in police and fire departments, schools,   

     government, and religious organizations.

These occurrences, often strange but true, cause us to ask, “How can we 

     return to a better time and more tranquil world?”

Everything in life has not become tainted, for beauty exists in the smile of a 

     child, the pride of a graduate, a blushing bride, and a down and out street  

     dweller extended a helping hand.

Such moments warm our hearts and are the reasons in our lives to awake 

     each morning with a passion to face the day.

So put society’s shortcomings aside and focus on the question, “What really 

     should be unforgettable?”

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Wishing all good health and peace during these difficult times. Being under house arrest can be trying.

We try to keep busy and, when possible, help others to cope during the virus pandemic. However, at times, our efforts can lead to unexpected outcomes, as you will see in . . .

But She’s Our “Daughter”

     We’d been cooped up in our house in Lincoln, in Placer County, California, for over two weeks, because of the virus. However, it seemed like two years. It was Saturday, April 3, 2020, a day that usually meant doing something with our neighbors. But the fear of spreading the dreadful disease kept us confined. We were climbing the walls.

     “What’re your plans for today, Alan?” Barbara asked.

     “Plans? Guess I’ll walk the dogs.”

     “Well, remember to stay six feet away from people.”

     “That’s why the dogs are on six-foot leashes. They can greet the people I meet and still keep me safe.”
     “Sounds good,” she replied. “And what are you going to do the rest of the day?”

     “Work on getting the word out about the 2020 Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest. It starts in April. If I didn’t have that to do, I’d probably go crazy. And what are you going to do?”

     “Well, first I’ll pick up the poop in the backyard. Then, I’ve got an idea.”

     “Idea? Want to share it with me?”

     “Yeah. I’m going to make masks for a number of our friends who don’t have them.”

     “That sounds great. You going to make me one?”

     “I don’t think you’ll like the material I have—a bit too feminine for you.”

     “How do you know?”

     “Come, I’ll show you.”

     I followed her into the laundry room, where the sewing machine was. She pulled the material out from the top drawer and held it up. I looked at it and cringed. “It won’t go with my gray sweats. Don’t you have anything else?”

     “Let me check. Okay, I have black cloth. How does this look?”

     She placed it over her nose and mouth. I grimaced and gulped, “You look like you’re going to rob a bank.”

     “Guess this won’t work for you, either. However, I do have some solid beige masks my doctor gave me a while back, before we even knew there’d be a virus pandemic.” She reached into the bottom drawer. “Wear this one, so you’ll be protected.”

     “Okay. I’m going to hook up the kids and take them for their walk. See you when we return.”

     Both dogs were anxious to go. Abby, our fourteen-year-old schnoodle pushed her nose against my leg. And then, Miss Jealous, Izzy, our six-month-old mini goldendoodle, but twice Abby’s size, jumped over her head, so she could be hooked up first.

     Our youngest daughter was extremely loveable, but she also ruled the roost. She wanted to be in control, and she usually was. After putting the dogs’ leashes on, I left the garage and began our journey. Izzy loved to walk and Abby seemed inspired, as well. We went up one block and down the other, each dog smelling all that was good in nature and “reading” the many messages left by friends and possible future acquaintances.

     When we returned from the walk and entered the house through the garage, Barbara was working on the sewing machine. She stopped and looked up. “Have a nice walk?”

     “Yeah, great. Izzy took the lead and Abby and I followed. How is your project going?”

     “Very good.”

     She held up a flowered red and white mask. “Looks great,” I stated.

     “Try it on,” she urged.

     “I’ll pass. If you need me, I’ll be in my office working on the contest.”

     I headed into the office, collapsed into my chair in front of my computer, and began writing emails to poetry groups, libraries, and other organizations that might help publicize the contest. Then, engrossed in my task, my peaceful world was shaken by a loud scream coming from the laundry room.

     Jumping out of my chair, I ran in there to see what had happened. Barbara stared at me in pain and held up her index finger. What I saw blew me away. The sewing machine needle went in one side of the finger and out the other. She yelled, “I can’t get this out. Help me!”

     I tried as best I could, but I couldn’t remove it. The needle wouldn’t budge. “We need to go to Urgent Care,” I said, emphasizing urgent. We wrapped a tissue around the finger to absorb the blood and she got up to go to the car. “How did this happen?”

     “I shut off the sewing machine, so I could reposition the material to make the mask. My hand was under the needle. Izzy came into the room, ran

under my legs, and stepped on the pedal, starting the machine. The needle went right through my finger.”

     “You’re the one who wanted a puppy,” I said.

     “But she didn’t do it on purpose.”

     “I know. She’s our daughter and we love her. But we better get going.”

     We headed to the Urgent Care in the Safeway Shopping Center, about two miles away. Fortunately, they took Barbara immediately, removed the needle, and gave her a tetanus shot. We were in and out in under a half hour, and Barbara had more pain from the shot than from the penetration of the needle.

     After dinner, we watched a Lifetime Channel movie and played Gin Rummy. Barbara looked over at Izzy and asked me, “What is she chewing on?”

     “I don’t have any idea.”

     “Oh, my god! It’s my dental partial,” she screamed. She got up off the couch and managed to pull it from Izzy’s mouth. Looking at it, she said, “Oh, boy! It’s chewed up and one of the teeth is missing.”

     “How did she get it?” I asked.

     “I took it out when we were eating and put it on my cloth napkin on the table. She must’ve pulled on the napkin and it fell onto the floor.”

     “Well, first she caused a medical emergency and now a dental calamity.”

     “Yeah, but she’s our daughter, and we love her. Don’t we?” Barbara asked.

     “Yes, we do.”

     You might have thought this is where the story ends. But you’re wrong.

Izzy is extremely bright. So, to make amends for what she had done, she agreed to take an online sewing class this spring and to enroll in the dental assisting program at the local community college for the fall semester. She believed this would make us proud.

     Since things are said to happen in threes, Izzy had one more healthcare episode to engage in. Five days ago, on April 9, she was spayed. But she’s still our daughter, and we love her.

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Some artists use brushes; others use words. Both create images that stimulate the senses.

They touch our soul, lift our spirits, and open our eyes to the world around us. The magic of creation is . . .

A Poet's Gift

Putting pen to paper, a poet’s words come alive through the flow of ink.

A painter of pictures through written words, readers and listeners are           

     challenged to think.

Employing expression, both beautiful and lyrical, a flow of energy dances    

     across the page.

Using special powers of imagination, audiences are taken on magical          

     journeys—fascinating places to visit, interesting people to engage.

A poet’s work may be serious, addressing concerns such as politics,           

     religion, and how the economy keeps pace.

Poems also may be humorous, causing laughter and joy and leaving a        

     smile upon one’s face.

A poet may portray the mystical and indulge in fantasies and dreams.

Through a world of make-believe, a poet creates an image of life that is      

     more than it seems.

At times, in poetry, mystery trumps fantasy, pushing the reader to the edge.

A play on words may uncover deeply hidden secrets, one might allege.

Poems are an art form, a gift to share, and one in which poets delight.

Words are brought to life in wonderful ways, entertaining people and           

     motivating them to think, grow, and gain insight.

Copyright © 2010 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

April is National Poetry Month. It is the time to read and listen to the wonderful poetry written by poets around the world.

But how do poets write poems that can put a smile on your face, bring tears to your eyes, and encourage you to think and dream? It is through their dedication and passion that gives birth to their . . .

Creativity, The Essence Of Poetry

Creativity is the product of inspiration.

Inspiration leads to the fulfillment of dreams.

Creativity unleashes a desire for discovery.

It is the essence of poetry.

Poetry excites the spirit.

It ignites passion within the soul.

So dream, create, and grow.

Walk in the clouds.

Dance with the stars.

Play in a magical arena of fascination.

Become the master of your own destiny,

the sculptor of words. 

Treasure the freedom that allows you to create,

what has never been created before. 

Provide the dreamscape that enriches the minds of others,

and touches their hearts.

Welcome them with your words.

Let them share your experiences and aspirations.

Delight them with the creations of your imagination.

Challenge them with the wealth of your dreams.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.