Good Times of Weekend Tales

 In a quaint tale of two weekends so fun,

With the James family and Daddy-O, a divine time,

Soccer games and victories, coach James' team soaring high,

Undefeated they stood, reaching for the sky.

On the field, young Seneca played with zest,

Her knee took a tumble, a little scuffed and stressed,

But she rose again, brave and strong,

Determined to play, where she belongs.

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A stop at Vista point, such a scenic site,

Lunch at Milton's Deli, oh what a delight,

Then off to FreeFlight bird Sanctuary we'd go,

Dad enjoyed it and made a generous donation.

A leisurely drive along the PCH,

The beach town's pass bye, a calming display.

Games of Uno and a movie to share,

Bonding with family, beyond compare.

Sunday arrived, a birthday soon to come,

Grandpa Mike and Senny, new tools what fun,

Skillful hands, a budding toolkit's start,

Fixing things together, a work of heart.

Home again, reflections in the night,

Grateful for moments, oh so bright,

In the heart's memories, these weekends shall stay,

Cherished forever, in life's grand array.

As the weekend concluded, back to the norm,

Thoughts of escrow, emotions in swarm,

Halfway through the journey, anticipation so rife,

Bring on Monday, embracing life.

In Paloma's World

 

In Paloma's World

In Paloma's world, where moments ebb and flow,

She captures life in rhythms, soft and slow,

With camera poised, she seeks the simple things,

Yet yearns for tales that grander vision brings.

In frames of daily life, she finds her muse,

Recording scenes where most would just refuse,

For though they seem mundane to other eyes,

She sees the beauty truth often belies.

A second, even third look she'll take,

To find the details that the world forsakes,

In overlooked minutiae, there's a grace,

A world concealed, a secret hiding place.

In capturing the missed, her heart takes flight,

For in these moments, she finds pure delight,

To Paloma, every speck and grain,

Is like a note in life's intricate refrain.

But hidden deep within her lens's gaze,

There lies a well of grief, an endless maze,

For she has lost a part of her own soul,

Her sister gone, a gaping, haunting hole.

The camera is her solace, a retreat,

A way to manage loss, bittersweet,

With each recorded memory, she finds,

A balm to soothe her heart and troubled mind.

In random shots of life's unspoken prose,

In corners of her world where no one goes,

She stitches fragments of her fractured heart,

A mosaic of her sister, torn apart.

Paloma, in your rhythm, in your rhyme,

You find a way to heal, to mark the time,

Though life may not provide a grand display,

You capture love and loss in your own way.