Thomas W. Plummer

1 week ago | thomasplummer.medium.com | Thomas W. Plummer

You say a prayer for your sanity, a father who must fatherThe old fathers lament, tip their politically correct beers,sit at the bar wearing hand shaped ball caps, scraggilygray chin pieces jutting from fat jowls, remembering howthey always wanted it to be, not as it ever was. They raised their kids by slaps and spanks, cry abouta world they no longer understand, scare each otherwith points of the fingers, I fear they whine, I fearfor our grandchildren growing up in this world.

1 week ago | thomasplummer.medium.com | Thomas W. Plummer

The Winter of My LifeYou reach a certain age winter is no longer winter, just a harsh reminder of your life and its inevitable fading into the flow of what is next. Winter speaks to me, the end of something, the beginning of something new pushing away the last of the old.

2 weeks ago | thomasplummer.medium.com | Thomas W. Plummer

Even a father couldn’t love it in the light of dayPoor poem, born dead, it never had a chance. Conceived in such hope, although I must say it’s conception was an accident, the result of a third, might I say large, glass of wine and the lustful whispers of Melody Gardot echoing through my house so late at night. Soft music, sips of red passion, and just me, and my long time love, my worn, so smooth, so supple, leather notebook.

2 weeks ago | thomasplummer.medium.com | Thomas W. Plummer

Member-only storyCrowded in my head with me, and me, and meThomas Plummer·Follow2 min read·--By Juanmonino on iStock (image licensed by author)There are too many mes in me, and none of us agree the me that is I is the one in charge, so we all do our own thing all together, meaning none of us gets anywhere doing anything. The me I have known since I was a child is still a child.

1 month ago | thomasplummer.medium.com | Thomas W. Plummer

Happiness in the smallest moments of lifeThomas Plummer·Follow3 min read·--By Radist on iStock (image licensed by author)Delayed, oversold, screaming customers rejected at the gate. Five hours stranded in Satan’s waiting room, better known as the Atlanta airport. People so close I smell their stress, their faces the look of those entering the fourth ring of hell. Get me on the plane, give me a drink, let me sleep all the way to San Francisco I pray.