When my Grandfather passed away in April,
I was down there with him,
Making dinner for the two of us,
We'd watch jeopardy and the news,
While eating a Drumstick ice cream.
Whilst driving him to the doctors or shuffleboard league,
He'd tell me tales of when he was in the military,
And all the various hijinks him and his lifelong friend P.E. would get into.
He also had some last minute advice when he elected to be moved into hospice.

It was just a little over two years since my Grandmother passed,
When Grandpa decided to go to the next great adventure

He had some words that he was very sure couldn't wait.
I talked with him for hours that night,
Until he finally nodded off.
My sister and mother arrived the next morning,
And I left on a flight back to Ohio by noon.
We talked that morning,
For what he knew would be the last time.
He thought it would be best for me to head back up to Ohio.
He didn't want me to see him get any weaker.
He told me to live my life with as few regrets as possible, and that he loved me.

That was always a big thing for him.
He always said he couldn't ever remember his father ever telling him he loved him,
And that he tried to tell his kids and grandkids how much he loved them.
He would always be aware of what sports season was currently happening for his grandchildren,
And what their placing was.

He would get into these fits of laughter when he was trying to explain to something finny,
Where he couldn't even get any words out,
He'd be giggling too hard.

He was one of those people that when he was born,
God went and broke the mould.

Of the things I inherited, one of them was a typewriter.
Oddly enough,
It was about as technically advanced as he got,
Besides using the computer to play solitaire.
I remember when we'd go and visit in the summers,
On weeklong trips,
And I'd spend as much time as I could on that typewriter.
I'd start out with elaborate visions of a great novel or screenplay,
But by week's end they'd be short stories that were of ok quality for whatever age I'd be at the time.
What I never thought about is what happened to them when my family would  go back to Ohio,
I never thought my Grandpa would ever read them,
Let alone keep them.
So imagine my surprise when I come across a box labeled stories.

I miss you Grandpa

When the young man arrived into town,
his throat was very dry,
So he wandered into the closest bar.

It was dark and dingy,
But at the same time vibrant and alive, For a band played in the back.

Just a few younger individuals,
Vibrant and lively,
Rocking as if playing for sold out Stadium,
Instead of a bar of six.

It was then that the young man had his idea,
Notes rushing to him like cascade,
And the realization that music was where he was happiest,
It's what fill the hole in his heart.

He left the bar, knowing what he had to do,
His passion was reignited,
The flames fanned.

A goal now set,
Young man went to the bus station and continued West.

The Södenberg sisters sing to me tonight,
Their words sending me far from this slightly cold balcony,
To a realm of asphalt and dusty wind.

For my first 10 years there were no roads,
But a plethora of paths,
Criss crossing,
Winding to and fro,
Foot beaten little things in a great forest,
Filled with trees, creeks, waterfalls, and animals,
Birds singing beautiful songs as they sail through the trees,
Squirrels chattering from their perches amongst the great branches,
Whitetails observing my progress of the child .

As a young boy I'd sprint down these paths,
Unheeding of the odd roots that were placed along the paths,
So happy to just be moving forward,
To see what played around the next bend.

The next 10 years were simple things,
A two lane town road,
Buildings of my hometown on lined either side,
Their facades as they were,
Before the place of my forefathers got too big too fast,
Where all it's citizens knew my parents,
And by extention, me,
The birds and squirrels still there,
Although their number greatly diminished.

My pace was greatly diminished,
No longer some great sprint,
But a gentle jog,
Taking in the familiar sites,
But excited to leave this place,
Impatient for a change of scenery and anticipating some great adventure.

The next 3 were a treacherous yet exciting road,
A winding mountain pass,
Steep sloaped and lined with switchbacks,
Giving beautiful mountain vista views,
But with this new road also came the realization,
That the road could be a dangerous thing,
One slip could give way to a great fall,
The once gentle jog gave way to a cautious walk,
Wary of foot placement and step,
No birds here,
No squirrels,
But instead of the rumble of far off thunder,
And the howling of distant wolves.

Then came the next four,
The thunder no longer far off,
The wolf howls no longer distant,
The asphalt cracked and split,
Closed in on both sides by a thick and menacing wood,
And through the darkness of the nearly moonless night the darting shapes of beasts could be seen.

Rain slashing down,
Galing winds battering me,
My body worn down,
My walk but a limp,
Taking my broken self forward,
One dragging step after another,
A constant struggle to find the energy to make it one step further,
To find reason to keep going.

But like some great magic trick the wooding cleared,
The rain stopped,
And the wolves pulled back.

It was here that I found you next to me.

This new road is a bit cracked,
A bit disused,
The desert beautiful with Mesas to either side,
My pace quickened,
No longer a slogging trudging thing,
But also not a run,
A relaxing stride that feels good and steady,
Churning onward to the mountains in the distance.

I look to you and you smile,
You smile back,
And it is here that I see hawks up above,
A fox to the far right,
Observing these travelers passing through it's lands.

No longer an unlined face,
Bearded and festooned with a smattering of scars,
Earned through foolish fights and terrible tumbles,
But gladly won and worn all the same,
Sun kissed skin taking in the pleasant warm arid air.

I know not where this road leads,
But the excitement returns once more,
And that I no longer need to travel it alone,
That traveling is never meant to be done all on one's own,
That it's the company that makes the trip worth it.

With that the duo's song ends,
And I am transported back to this balcony,
The air still clung to with the slipping grasp of winter's last vestiges,
And it's begrudging release so close at hand,
Bring forward new beginnings,
And new roads to be traversed.

What if you found out you've been thinking about someone in the completely wrong light?
That with a simple change of perspective,
A person who you may have known for years,
Is someone you found out you didn't know very well at all.

What about yourself,
Dear reader,
You ever have a realization that you are not the good guy of the story,
But the villain?

At what point would you consider a relationship with a person unsalvageable?

Ever thought about what people say about you when your gone?

They traveled together,
The passionate group of three,
They stop at a bar to catch their breath.

The Bassist was quiet quiet and aloof,
His lack of words offset by the weight of each one,
On the rare occasion when he'd throw in his two cents,
His sound was emotional and true,
He spoke without speaking,
With tired eyes,
And a half crooked smile.
He drank a Guinness from a clean pint glass.


Next was the Drummer,
Bobbing his head to a tempo only he could hear,
His sound and energy was like a locomotive engine when he gained momentum,
He would play through a ten minute intermission if let to his own devices.
His eyes were as sharp as a hawk,
Darting to and fro,
His expression of a not-quite-there-frown,
More of a look of constant boredom.
He drank some pale beer that was probably half watered down to start with from a dingy glass.

And at last we have the Man,
Who was now the Frontman,
With a well-worn guitar,
He was dedicated, but haunted by the fear of failure,
But fear can still be used to fuel a sound,
Adding an edge of importance to his words,
His eyes are closed, however, to better concentrate on the sound coming from the old and battered jukebox,
A blank face is his,
Indecipherable to even those who knew him best,
He drank a bottle of something local,
From a bottle,
With just a pinch of salt.

When asked what ruck marches are like,
And I'm talking about those legendary light infantry ruck marches,
This is how I explain it:

Take your bedroom,
And try to shove it all into a military issue ruck sack,
Feeling impossible yet?
If so, you are on the right track.
If not, keep adding things to said rucksack until it does feel impossible.

You take a certain kind of baby powder and apply it to your neck, feet, groin, basically anywhere that's going to chafe (i.e. your entire body by the end)
Wrap your heels up, but not too much, because it's going to have to come off anyway,
after your heels start to bleed.

Put on your 2nd best pair of socks on,
Your best pair is for when you need a morale boost.

Put on your body armor,
But for the love of God don't use your inner elastic stap,
You won't be able to breath.

MAKE SURE YOU HYDRATE!!!
nuff said

Ensure you have all your kit and put it on the scale

...

98 pounds.
So add in body armor and your weapon, as well as ammunition and a carton of smokes,
You're looking at a cool 130 lbs (59 Kg),
More so if your a machine gunner, ammo bearer, or anti-armor specialists,
Which I usually was,
So I'd say add an extra 20 pounds (9 Kg)  to be safe.

Now you're all strapped up,
Your kit isn't slipping,
And nothing is pinching,
Take that unwieldy, difficult to disengage from silhouette,
And go on a 20 mile foot movement,
With expectation that you are going to get ambushed.

That's what a ruck is like.

There was a time in which I was bed-ridden for months,
Stuck in a limbo between weightless peace and excrutiating agony,
And all he while I saw snow bury the earth in a mighty wave of white,
It's winds lashing at anything exposed like the spray of the sea.

But all the while I lay bed-ridden.

As the snow began to melt,
So did the last dregs of lethargy from my shoulders,
It was time to charge on.

Busted half my stitches in my first try,
But it wouldn't be my last,
Getting stronger was the goal,
Here I stand,
Running when they said I'd need a cane for 3 years more.

Run Free

What strange creatures are we,
Humans,
Capable of finding something that is by all means ordinary suddenly beautiful and new.

One-sided feeling,
Perpetual curiosity,
Argumentative to a fault,
Falsehoods for no good reason.

Waking up at peace with the world,
And suddenly become flooded with the awful rememberence that someone you loved was forever gone.

What odd creatures are we.

Never allowing us to truly rest on our laurels when we lose someone
Smiling upon those times with them where everything was good,
A sad smile of times lone gone,
Gone with the autumn leaves.

Oh, carry me on the winds of a sleepless dream,
Where there's fields aplenty upon the fiddler's green,
Where the woman is kind and the man is fit and clean,
Borne there upon St. Albans' wing.

Drift me off upon a fiddlers tune,
To a place where the sky is such a brilliant blue,
Where hope is abounding like those dog-days in June,
Where magnolias sprout forth like passion renewed.

****** me forth upon the lover's blade,
A more precarious place no other man can claim,
Where hope and love balance upon a precarious edge,
So easy to tumble off into that dark and void-filled death.

To be in such a state,
forsaking sleep,
Carries me to this strangest of dream,
For without such abstention,
And lack of means,
My creativity floweth out into an endless stream.

The day has been long,
And the day has been hot and still,
I sit here sweating in this dining room,
The sliding glass door open to the cooler night air,
Jim Croce is recollecting a story from his time in the National Guard.

That's what it was like with some fellas,
They'd get bad news while out on an exercise or during training,
It feels like a hammer blow to the gut,
You get numb,
And most guys,
They just continue with training,
Falling back on what they know,
Their muscle memory kicking in whilst the mind reels,
I had 3 death notifications like that,
And it never gets any easier,
Just harder,
For you learn to see the signs that someone is about to get a death notice,

The Chaplain shows up to your unit's location any day other than Sunday.
You're pulled off the line unexpectedly,
Other such things.
And all the time you're wondering who's it for,
Who gets the proverbial short end of the stick called fate this time,
And if it's a buddy,
You find time to have a beer with them when you get home.
Hell, if you don't know them all that well,
You find time to have a beer with them when you get home,
Because that's what you do,
Your unit is like family in the Infantry.
I've been present for births of my friends children, watch them grow up from a newborn into a child,
I've babysat them,
Been present for birthdays,
They've launched themselves at top speed  in flying tackles,
Crying out "Uncle Alex!"
Knowing I'd have some home baked treat I'd whipped up for them.
Ive helped their fathers bury family pets,
I've been there through divorces.

I try to visit when I can now, which isn't as often as I'd like.

Thousands upon thousands,
Twinkling lights thrown up upon the sky,
Little islands of white out in the distance,
Oceans of black separating them.

Each so far,
And yet so close,
Reach out and never touch them still,
The Galaxy arm spanning the gap,
Marking our tiny place on this big ol' map,
A tiny island all our own

You share with me your memories,
Of places I've never been,
Sharing experiences I've never had,
With people I'll never meet.

I am so grateful that you share them,
They put a pep in my step,
Make me tap my foot,
And make me turn inward,
To the man I wish to be.

Carry me away on gentle guitar pluckin,
And take me to your world,
To where I wouldn't have to be me,
To where I can be the man I wish to be.

Jimmy Page and Towns Van Zant sit here,
Strumming out tunes in my living room,
Zant with his unique brand of country,
Page with his acoustic style that's so unique and blue.

Sounds drilling gently into the skulls of the unsuspecting,
Driving deep into the mind,
Defences cast aside at the overwhelming force of the medicine's effect,
Sending one into a journey of the mind,
Unknown depths and introspections dredged up in an unexpected discovery.

Gaining momentum,
Greater and greater,
Only to realize that this shall reach greater heights,
Heights that you will never have enough time to reach it, even if you had an extra 10,000 days.

Silence,
Cold, angry, suffocating,
It's all I get from you now,
When all I try to do is right by you.

Silent glares with silent words,
Silent in your judgmental world,
Blaming me for all your sins,
Expecting me to go along with it.

I'm the hald that feeds,
And all you do it bite, bite, bite,
Leaving me alone in my cold, dark nights,
Stabbing me with your angry gaze,
Expecting miracles when all the while you sing no praise.

You hold on long enough to give me hope,
Then rip out of my hands that metaphorical rope,
Leave me to fall into an endless abyss,
Silence,
Is all that hits.

Soaring high above the tops of the clouds,
Towards a destination few dates to go,
A return if sorts to a life that would be both old and new.

The moon reflects across the ice crystals below,
Giving it an etherial glow,
Their tops shorn flat by the wind,
Giving the appearance of a calm lake in the summer,
Like glass from another realm.

A decision was made,
A war still raging inside the heart,
As new obstacles are thrown up.

Willingly leaving family behind to throw one's self into danger,
To put service before self once again.

That great apex has been reached,
And one can feel the descent,
To skip upon that lake top,
Gradually sinking through like the proverbial stone,
To arrive at the next leg of the trip.

Carry through the light of the pines,
Where the fog drifts gently,
Where the birds pleasantly sing.
Where the strangers are kind,
Dress strangely,
So different from these car-choked streets,
And nobody knows anybody else's names,
Where the waitresses don't know your usual,
And the coffee tastes like burnt beans.

Where the Friday night football is a family event,
Even if the rugrats aren't in high school yet,
Where the number of trucks outnumber the cars,
And the rust spots adorn the bodies like badges on a decorated soldier,
And the mud is still spattered on the sides.

Inhaling deep,
The crackling of burning tobacco and paper,
The drying sensation in my mouth as smoke is brought in,
A slight stink in the back of my throat as hot ash slightly sears in passing,
A small amount of vertigo as oxygen is deprived from the brain and the endorphins flood in.

Taking a deep breath just after,
Delivering cool oxygen to my lungs.

Wait

Wait

Wait

Exhale,
As another rush of endorphins hits,
Releasing a stream of grey smoke,
Contributing to the haze already collecting near the ceiling.

Flick
Flick,
And ash falls from the end and collects in the faux marble ash tray,
A small mound having already formed.

Elbow on the table,
And watching the stream of smoke lazily drift up in unique patterns,
Each one different as various small winds changes each a little bit each time,
Mesmerizing really.

Take a pause and do it all over again,
Rinse and repeat.

I sit beside you upon a rock.

Sometimes you are old and tired,
Sometimes young and confused,
Sometimes wrinkled and eroded by time,
Sometimes unblemished and new.

You are always in the same place though,
Although what you look out at is almost never the same,
A desert vista,
A wooded mountain,
A busy city,
The ocean as it crashes with great spray.

I sit beside you as you look out upon the scene,
And gaze upon your face,
The expression sometimes fearful and clenched in anguish,
Sometimes with joy and lack of pain.

I sit with you there,
Looking out at the world,
Sometimes you tell me your tale,
Of battles won,
Of lovers lost,
Of incredible adventures and times relived once again.

Other times you scream at the unfairness,
You blame me,
Shouting obscenities and things profane.

Other times it is but a quiet prayer,
A litany of holy scripture and proverbs that you repeat every day.

But in the end you always quiet down,
And look upon my face,
With tired eyes,
With heavy bones,
And listen to what I have to say.

I never say the same thing twice to you,
As we sit,
Upon this umbral plain,
And once complete,
We look out upon the world,
As the distance starts to haze.

Sometimes you ask if it will hurt,
Sometimes you ask what comes next,
I just shrug my shoulders and give a little smile,
For the next event was never meant for my gaze.

You close your eyes,
As you leave this place,
Finding peace in an eternal embrace.

I know each of your faces,
I come to know each of your stories,
And to each one I shall weep.

For you will never be alone,
I shall be waiting,
Upon that rock,
Waiting quietly to speak.

Dust kicked up by boots in the auburn dusk,
Fire alight with June's angry ire,
A lover scorned,
Willing to burn with her most righteous of anger,
Plucking out angry chords upon a silver and brass lyre.

Clothing hugging tight,
Leaving nothing yet everything to the imagination,
Sweet temptress of addiction and spite,
Eyes blazing green like a copper-fueled flame.

Cheekbones so sharp that it slices the air as she passes,
With those ****** features only second in their cutting potential when compared to her razor words.

Legs like stilts,
Going all the way to the moon,
With heels that could have punctured the hands of Christ,
That could just as easily be used to keep one's casket securely closed.

Those eyes seem angry,
We should probably start running

Sometimes, I just get blown away by how beautiful you are,
with a smile that clears away the clouds on an overcast day,
And a laugh that sounds me like church bells,
That I hope will ring in the near future.

I went a looking for a ring,
And I was blown away by the prices of a rock and a bit of gold,
But you are so worth it,
I'd be happy to pay for 10 times more.

I know I planned to propose to you in Scotland,
but with our little unexpected addition to our family,
I hope the mountains of Kentucky will just be as magical to you.

Our time together gets me through the bad days at work,
where nothing goes right,
And getting to sleep next to you makes me wish I never have to leave bed.

Our banter makes Abbot and Costello jealous,
and gets us laughing so hard I tear up,
and you nearly ***.

You are the one for me,
And everyone I know can see,
I can't wait to get down on one knee,
And ask you to marry me.

My heart flutters thinking about you in a white dress,
and my stomach drops thinking about seeing you walk down the aisle to me.

I can't wait, my May Queen,
It's something I can't wait to see.

Tearing up I-75 like bats outta Hell
The radio jacked up to MAX
to be heard to the roaring of the wind,
Seeing as the top is off of the jeep

Zeppelin and The Who
Van Fleet and The White Stipes
Generations of rock
Shared by the elder and the young
Different problems faced
Yet shared circumstances

The pace is rapidly set
Like invaders they ride
Or gunslinger of the old west
Buying into the legends of their own immortality
Like a final ride  before closing that part of the past for good

Even some of that Seattle sound trickles in
A much younger and angrier Pearl Jam
Sometimes even the garage rock get a turn in the spotlight
Their pace exponentionally increases like a runaway train
It's end destined to be in a glorious and terrible wreck

The road trip is on
These rockers of all ages are on the warpath to a good time

God help us all

They sit in their little metal box,
A shell made for just the 4 of them,
Protected from the traditional claws and teeth of war,
But a deadly ***** in it's armor,
Easily exploited they can be.

Their little metal box is hot,
They're all slim,
The hatches are small,
The seats cramped,
You'll never see a fat tanker.

Close they are,
Close enough to operate like the intricate machine they pilot,
Words barely needed,
Maybe a grunt or a hand gesture will suffice.

Mandolin plinking from a tiny speaker,
McKnight doing his damndest to make my knee bounce,
Bringing tunes that remind me of Appalachian summers,
Transporting me to those mountains and hills.

Summer barbeques with Carolina gold slopped into mashed taters,
Sweet corn smothered in butter,
Gentle breezes and acoustic guitars,
Grilling meat and beer in ice-filled coolers,
Giggling young'uns and laughter of their parents,
Such vivid memories of the oldest generations,
Telling of the time their homesteads received electricity.

These wise elders regaled us with oddities and anecdotes,
Nuggets of delivered knowledge wrapped in allegory and stories,
Their amusement evident in their not-as-bright eyes,
As they watch us trying to suss out true blue kernels of wisdom from the tall tales.

Family friends that are loved just as strongly as my own parents,
Friends they grew up with,
From WAY back in the day,
Telling each other the same tale for the millionth time,
And yet laughing uproariously like it was the first time.

These are days that have been in the past,
And snapshots of days in the future,
When supper in summer Appalachia happens once again,
Great nostalgia and anticipation wrapped up in a great ball of joy,
South of the Ohio Border.

Take a breath,
A deep, lung filling breath,
Exhale,
And realize that you are one breath closer to the end of your time here on this planet.
To some there is a life after this,
At least I hope so,
And to others we are just an ember dying in the air,
Just a second or two of existence in the grand scheme of it all,
And all we have left to mark our time is by the deeds we've committed,
Our mark on history.

I had a dream,
Where I was on top of a mountain,
Staring at the sunset, and its effect on the shadows in the valley,
An older man was there,
We hadn't needed words,
For we already knew what the other had to say.

Think of the *****,
The hobo,
The Great American Travlin' Man,
Seeing the sights,
The great spans of this weird and wonderful county,
Taking in places that will never be seen by you or me.

We look down upon them,
Or with indifference,
Content with our homes, cars, and jobs,
But consider this you,
With these things would we really be considered free?

Chained by loans,
By the banks,
By a mortgage or three?
Who's more at liberty,
Us or the ***** travlin' the street?

Across the smoky air the wave's travel,
Ihor is singing again,
Rocking out on a ****** out tune.

My lungs are burning,
Trying to contain hot ash and air,
Starving for oxygen as the chemicals seep deep.

The factory behind the house still clanging from after-hours operations,
A rhythmic heartbeat of production coinciding with that of the sleeping earth,
A tempo unheard and unfelt,
But ever present,
For how is one there if not but by the grace of the other?

Dance on the edge,
Between great success and ruin,
Flip the coin and see which way it lands.

Curry favor with the despot king,
A loaded ace to keep in your sleeve,
And smile a wicked grin.

Do you see the Saint Elmo's fire?
Gathering on the masts of the ships of our lives?
The potential energy for greatness at the very tops?

Tear on down the street,
Tear on down the lane,
Tear on down to the great avenue that is this human experience of ours.

The Agent stood on the corner,
Smelling faintly of bourbon and stale cigarettes,
Loss and despair.

He was a rising star when he had started,
A keen eye for talent and shrewd in business.
But those times had long past,
For all he had now was the bittersweet yearn of nostalgia and just enough in royalties for a dumpy apartment.

A light rain started,
It's cold droplets stinging lightly on the Agent's reddened nose,
Irking him,
Beyond not just having a drink.

The Agent spots his shelter,
A bar just down the street.

As he walks in,
He shakes loose the rain that hadn't clung yet,
And shuffles over to the bar with hands shoved deep in pockets,
He goes and orders a drink.

It is then that he looks over to see a band getting ready in the corner,
It is then that the Frontman belted out the count in.

And the agent dropped his drink.

Spiraling mindsets,
Shattered perceptions,
Twisted and mangled plans for the future lie all around.

Dying dreams scattered in the churned-up mud,
As a light but steady rainfall of dread cascades upon the carnage.

The accusations are steaming from where the rain hits it,
Both sides fired shots at each other so rapidly the barrels warped beyond recognition.

Rusted fields of barbed comments lie between,
Where even a knick could spell infection and disaster.

New dreams arrive to replace the old,
But are torn asunder just as quickly,
Hard truths rake their lines as they cross,
Torn asunder by those terrible things.

This place was once nice,
Full of hope,
A place of peace and happiness,
But now is lost,
To fire and steel,
As the guns finally fall silent.

Sanibel's white sands
Tideline shown by seashells
Refreshing gulf breeze

It's that time again,
The voice crooning softly belongs to Josh Kiszka,
With a voice eerily reminiscent to Plant,
Perhaps a comment on the music one is raised on?

Taking a drag while thinking back,
To when times were simpler,
To when the innocence of childhood shielded one from all the nasty things of life,
To a place that was better,
The before.

Before bills,
Before taxes,
Before jobs, responsibility, and chores.

The before.

Ripped back into the now,
I exhale,
Tapping ash into an overflow tray,
Older and wiser,
But worn and a bit frayed,
Wishing for the before.

Before check ins,
Before people felt the need to lock their doors at night,
To when it was better,
A pinnacle of its own.

Drawing in again as one of the other brother rips into a solo that seems like it's straight from the Bron-Yr-Aur sessions,
To the before.

The Before can be reached again

Being pulled into crossroads,
Like chains wrapped around arms,
Pulling in opposite directions.

Looking to their left one can see a return to the past,
A past that one would miss and love so,
They can see themselves strong and fast,
But dancing on a knife edge,
In which the slightest tumble would bring misery and woe.

But with such dangers come great rewards,
And one of these gives quite possibly the greatest gift of all,
The opportunity to live to the absolute extreme,
Something that is hard to come by these days.

Looking to the right one would see an exploration of the new,
Something that's stirs in them,
Like how it was to discover that love for a spouse all over again,
One could see the transformation into something different and better,
But this would require wrestling with disaster,
Risking everything going up in flames.

But facing off against this threat would guarantee the future,
A chance a peace of sorts,
The feeling of completion they didn't know they even yearned for.

The strain begins to grow,
A decision needs to be made,
What is one to do?
Either way opens them up the possibility of real and absolute destruction,
But giving at the same time unprecedented gifts that some never even get the chance to see.

Either way it goes,
They shall forever be freed.

My mind roams up and out,
As my body heads east,
Bearing witness to both great and terrible accounts,
Riding on the banks of a river of fog,
Greying out of the physical world near complete.

Islands of treetops,
I pass by,
As tales of grandeur are told,
Great adventures and terrible fates whispered in my ear,
As fear begins to take hold.

As sullen worlds of lone clouds are surpassed,
Moving ever closer to the goal,
Satellites of radio towers hover below,
Broadcasting radiowaves to those who travel the ether,
Guiding them through the fog and the sorrow.

Pardon me stranger,
Could I have a moment of your time?
Are you available to give to me,
A smidge of your mind?

I can see the ashes in your eye,
Grey and flaking out as you blink,
Falling like gentle snow,
Small puffs as they hit the ground,
Leaving a gentle trail in your wake.

The gentle sounds of a crackling fire following you,
Each and every step,
Much akin to the crinkling of a pop can,
A bittersweet reminder of the things you've had to take.

The scent that wafts from you,
The smell of charred oak,
That oh-so unique sensation,
Of destruction, or something that was used to create?

That warmth that seems to emanate from your very soul.
Seeping into everyone that you pass,
The dying gasps of a forest fire?
Or of a carefully tended campfire,
To fend off a winter's cold embrace?

So if you can,
Kind stranger,
A piece is all I ask,
So that I may see,
So that I may partake.

Look at your pool of friends,
And tell me,
If you were to label your friends with a personality that fit them best,
Which one would you end up labeling "The Fool"?

Now I never said *****,
Do not misconstrue me,
Ma'am or Sir,
For my words are only said with the purest possible intention.

So this individual,
This "Fool",
Would you say they are content with life?
Not just happy,
But utterly content with their station in life?
Want for nothing,
These luck individuals be,
For without such individuals we as a species would have faded away into the final darkness.

Stevie Nicks is telling me about her emotions after an argument with an old lover,
Her hearts still probably beating fast,
She's pouring them out like a faucet,
It's lone electric guitar underlining the loneliness of the song
But it is also one about hope

The lakes waves softly lap on the beaches pebbly bank.
The crickets out in force.
All is quiet on the lake front,
A vacation well deserved

Didn't have any schooling after turning 17,
Yet by the time he retired he was living in a home that he had designed.

He would run out in the middle of making lunch to chase squirrels from the bird feeder,
But you could give him a picture of one and could give you any info you wanted on it,
From scientific name to dietary needs.

Had an extensive liquor collection to make any aficionado green with envy,
And hadn't touched a drop since his first grandchild had been born.

And perhaps most shocking,
He owned and regularly operated a boat for 57 years,
And never learned how to swim.

He was the living contradiction,
And he is a contradiction to this day,
For even if he departed us some time ago,
He is still teaching me things.

I've been traveling,
Trying to return to my roots,
So return I did,
Returned to the woods,
That carpet the mountains of the Appalachian.

Up the mountains I climbed,
An old rifle slung across my back,
Boonie cap keeping eyes free from the harsh glare of the sun as it filters through the canopy above
Trying to find on the mountain that I've been lacking in the North..

Wildlife is active all around,
A breeze is flowing up the mountain,
Whisking the settling heat up and past the peak,
My footfalls soft and sure.
I come across old trails I haven't seen in years,
Mostly washed away and rendered impassible.
On the eastern face I find the remnants of a forest fire.
The field that once held nothing but cinders littered with healthy saplings,
Already taller than I,
New deer trails and bedding areas,
The old ones I discover to be abandoned and the new roost of varmint.

It finally strikes me,
As I descend off of the old mountain,
The truth of what it was I lacked,
I fell into the trap that ensnare many a men down in the South.

The trap that the Mountains lay,
From the Adirondacks to the Allegheny,
Of being a timeless place,
Where you are unplugged from the rest of the world,
And everything is simpler,
It's a trap that had not chains to wrap around arms and legs,
But to encase around the mind.

It is easier to leave than last time,
For I know I shall return,
To this little retreat,
In the Daniel Boone National Forest.

Marching forward,
The Old Gunney marched to the golden throne,
Halting and coming to the position of attention,
Ready for his final Inspection.

He tried to live as a good man,
Dispute some burrs in the corners,
He was kind to his family,
Full of humility and humor.

Without a doubt his inspection would be up to *****

As the Old King stared out upon his lands,
As the crops burn,
The village set ablaze,
His keep being ransacked,
His line  being ended.

The Old King reflects on it,
On his decisions as the invaders closed in.
Was it because he got too greedy?
Or perhaps he'd been too harsh,
Too violent in his actions,
To haste to lay down the law when there had been an alternative.

The Invaders they gotten into the room,
The rasp of a dagger as it's drawn.
Not too long now.

The Old King reflected on his family, Surely slaughtered by now.
Did they cry out for him to protect them,
As the sword blades and axe heads descended upon their heads?
He had failed them.

The Old King,
Who once stood tall,
Towering over anyone who would try to cow him,
Now stood with shoulders stooped,
An old sword,
Predating time immemorial,
Was held loosely in his grip.
The Assassins stepped closer.

One last glance,
As if to burn the sight of his dying Kingdom into his brain.
He was ready.

The Old King stood tall once more,
Taking the last chance he would ever get to do so.
His grip tightened,
The ancient leather creaking in his grip.
The Old King turned,
Sword held high,
Rushing to meet his executioner

Where is the line drawn?
Between hope and naivety?
Where the swelling of one's heart is nothing more than a fool's boon?
Instead of being a warming energy that radiates to the limbs?

Is it experience,
Hard won through heartbreak and loss?
Is it wisdom,
Some innate talent that some just have?

Forewarned is forearmed,
To keep the danger at bay,
But at what point does that wariness become a cage?
From what distance is everything far enough away,
To keep out the terrors of the world,
But close enough to live your life?

I'll tell you,
Bear witness to my words,
A question is your answer in this paradox,
How much are you willing to risk?

How much are you willing to lose,
How far of a fall are you willing to take,
For the sake of living your life,
For when you open yourself up to the wilds of the world,
Is when you truly start to live.

I sit here,
Nearly at the end of my wit's,
Don McLean is chattering on about how the quartet practiced in the park,
The sauce is 35 minutes from being complete,
A journey that started 5 hours and 25 minutes ago.
All because I wanted to try a recipe,
But I'd be lying if my taste buds didn't enjoy it.
Cooking is exhausting

Lapping of water upon the shore,
Footprints left in the sand erode and fade,
Giving its mark back to the beach,
Temporary and forgotten.

Roaring of the waves a crescendo of sound,
The distant bellow of the great beast that is the sea,
An eternal cry of Neptune's beast,
A warning and challenge to the brave of heart.

The struggle of water and earth,
Gaining and losing ground,
Fighting for dominance since time immemorial,
Destined to battle forever more.

Sitting with my father,
And a man I grew up regarding as an uncle,
Catching up and reminiscing of earlier days,
When they did something that made my heart break.

They both looked at an empty chair,
As if waiting for it to chime in,
A chair where a third man used to sit.

My father's smile grew slack,
The twinkle that was there snuffed out,
My uncle took a quick draw,
From both his cigarette and his beer,
Both sucker-punched by the old sting of grief,
Remembering their 3rd.

A mix of these two men,
The third use to be,
A man with an uproarious personality,
The kind of friend every man finds that he needs.

He was a kind soul,
A man to emulate,
Kindred to his fellows,
A rare quality you never see.

A confidant,
A sounding board,
A getaway driver,
A unique kind of breed.

They come to,
The moment shattered,
And they continue to speak.

Years have passed,
Time an enemy that cannot be conquered,
Leaving heros to be quietly forgotten.

The Prince is older now then when he started this self imposed exile,
Golden hair grown out,
Lines showing signs of setting deep on a once youthful face,
Adorned in a cloak to better conceal himself from recognition.

The Queen,
Old now,
Sitting stooped upon the Cursed throne,
The only one left with claim over it,
Heedless of the consequences of her own pride and greed.

As the distance greatens,
The Prince sheds his cloak,
His slip into anonymity complete,
He stops to look behind him,
To gaze upon the watchers,
Their careful gaze taking in all.

Always silent before,
Never to judge,
Just to bear witness to the acts of all,
And now the watchers call out.

The Travelers heart aches,
Upon such a sorrowful sound,
A last gift given to the man in ancient tongue,
A key to success in the Travels future,
And then the traveler walks on.

The Old Queen receives word from the Traveler,
Sharing his knowledge imparted to him by the Watchers,
But only for him to not realize it is knowledge delivered too late,
The Curse would not be lifted in time

The Traveler pauses at the beginning of the Mountain path,
Seeing the beautiful range starting  just a mile off,
A welcomed change,
To give away the Watchers gift to others as well.

The days grow long,
But many sights are beholden to the Traveler,
So many things to see,
Beauty of the journey not lost on him as he still silently mourns his home

Ages pass,
Great deeds are accomplished,
Friends made,
Loves lost,
Wisdom gained,
Muscles lost,
Eyes dulled a bit,
As adventures slowed down,
And the travelers name is lost to time.

Roots are formed,
Set atop the tallest mountain,
Not far from a kingdom,
Set in the valley below,
Not too different from his home,
The one left behind too long ago.

The Hermit takes the Travelers place.

You honestly think you know don't you,
Deep in your heart of hearts,
You wish to know the truth,
When in the end,
And after the fact,
You'll wished the secrets had remained so.

My mouth tastes only of ash and tobacco,
My right thumb sporting a small burn from the lighter,
And my eyes are dry and scratchy,
And all I think about is how you're gone from this world,
Never to greet the sunrise with me again,
To laugh at my stupid jokes,
Or be my only ally when the world itself seems to be out to get me,
A wall to press my back to,
A rope to my drowning man,
The Governor's stay of execution to my riding of Ol' Sparky.

I sit here,
Thinking of you Dear,
Watching the sunrise on the lake.

Looking on the past year,
I couldn't change a thing,
Throughout all the fights and arguments I would call here,
It also brought forth joy like a warm note on a nylon guitar string.

I saw my sons birth,
Where he held my finger in that operating room,
Where the strength of this newborn titan laid me low,
Tears of joy springing unburden to my eye,
Carrying me to a great height I never knew before.

I got to see him take his first steps,
Hear his first word,
And see all the other firsts along the way.

Every one worth the trials of life,
Working to support us,
Put myself through college,
Waking at 4,
Coming home at 8,
And sleeping at 12,
Working for 15.30,
And slogging hard for 2.

You were mad at my doggedness,
Angry at ignoring myself,
I know I waylaid my own needs too much,
Put too much on my own shoulders,
And sometimes I still do.

I promised you the world,
And I can like to think I can at least give you the parts of it you want.

Only now do I realize that the parts in question are not as big as I once thought.

Running down that gravel road back home,
Spitting rock from my churning feet,
Arms pumping with a determination,
Lungs burning pleasantly like they only do when you're young,
Excitement in a way that is only felt by those under 23.

Lord oh Lord,
Where did the days go?
Carry me back to when I didn't have the knees of a 56-year-old,
Before my metabolism slowed down to a snail's pace,
And I needed to watch my blood pressure and my weight.

Head a-swimmin,
Stomach queasy,
Like asking out your first crush,
Or maybe a beer or 3 too many,
I think back to when I was a teen.

Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.

The wanderer's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.

The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.

A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a bog of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.

Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.

The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.

The rain is cold upon the face's of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.

The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegiance given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.

A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.

These things ringing out despite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warrior's words.

After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the battered soldier is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warrior's shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.