It was a good bonfire
Leaving the autumn pasture

Covered in light smoke
Like some medieval campsite

Knives sheathed; leaning on our
Newly whittled staffs

We spoke of fathers; how some
Keep on living long after their souls

Leave their bodies
Leaving their wives with less laughter

And life than they deserve
If we ever become bitter old men, he

Said, directly to my eyes,
We have to... we have to cut

Our women loose, before we pull
Them down with us

The wind changed, blowing smoke
And ashes through the trees

Point it out if it happens, I replied
We shook on it

I scroll down your pages,
Each line making me hungry for
The next.

Father Eagle, wings spanning
Across multiple decades
Of strong life lived.

How many poetlings have you
Hatched from the cold, solid
Shells of their insecurity?

How many hearts have you
Guided from the darker corners
Of creativity, and

Into the light of a broader sprecrum
Of impression and expression?
How many lives

May just have been saved by the
Firm foundations of the attitudes you
Gift us with?

Keep challenging us, uncle Joe.
Keep soaring above the landscapes
Of ink and paper, of fingers

Painting themselves through keyboards,  
On nights where sleep has to yield
To the force of inspiration,

And remember...
You will live forever in the hearts
You have touched.

Long after your work is done in  
This world you made more beautiful and
Meaningful to so many;  

Once you become one with the trees,
Flowers, fields and woods that you
Love; even making those

Landscapes with which we all must
Merge more wonderful with your
Own perpetual grace,

You will be thought of. Spoken of,
Written of, reminisced about.
You tremendous man,

Friend, inspirator, teacher, creator.
May you live forever. A king cloathed
In ashes; humble.

A god, wearing Man, loving every
Strand of grass he graces with
His footprint.

You hold a thousand pens. You conduct
Legions of observers and transmitters.
You are the leaf you asked us to

Write about; at its most beautiful in
Autumn. Yellow. Dry enough to leave
Its tree and flutter through

It all. Unattached.
Unconcerned with
Winter.

That old man working the fields outside
His old, windworn house.

His granddaughter in her light blue dress
On the swing in the garden,

Cotton flowing behind her like some tail
Tracing a comet of innocence.

Her dog, only twice the size of the
Two squirrels climbing the trunk

Of the tree her swing swings from,
Yapping at her, either for attention

Or in appreciation of the love she
Must, must feel for it.

Two seconds, and they're gone.
Driving on.

My girl inflating her yoga ball
On the living room floor, throwing

Her hair back and smiling, dizzy from
Oxygen spent.

She passes it to me, you do the rest,
But I'm too busy writing about her.

She laughs with her whole self.
Stares back at me when she catches

Me staring first. What? she'll giggle, and
As she stands up and moves towards me,

Still
Staring,

I see that this poem is ending. Two
Seconds.

She's still
Here.

She jumps up when my key turns,
Leaving her sofa;
Greeting me like a puppy would
Its owner after

Twenty one dog-days.
I drop my bag and guitar,
Swimming in the scent of
Woman straight

From shower. All is home with
This girl. No palace of gold, no
City in the clouds,
No exotic boat ride on

Green waters, no top of any
Mountain, no bar, casino or
Cabin in the world where I'd
Rather be than here.

After we've sat -nearly on top
Of each other- for a while, she
Asks what I'd like to do now.
Anything that includes my

Girlfriend, I reply, and she hugs
Me for the seventeenth time in
As many minutes.
Can't stop touching each other.  

Her hair is a unicorn's mane
Against my hands, skin like a baby's
Tummy, hands like those of a young
Mother's upon anything she

Loves; all with the honest affection  
Of one.
I am home, I sigh to myself, and
She looks at me as if thinking

He is home, leaving me so
Happy for us both that I just
Want to lean down over our relationship
And pat it lovingly behind its ear.