I am smiling at your thought that the Apple Picker
has nearly died from standing on that ladder,
From hearing rumbling apples falling into the bins...

I have worked that hard as well, and I didn't die.

When a person works all day, standing on a ladder,
Or holding a paint brush, or swinging a hammer,
Or driving a tractor or truck, or shoveling manure....

You get the picture....

Yes, we grow blisters. Yes, we are exhausted.
Yes, we would rather be lounging on a beach
Almost anywhere else in the world...,

But the truth is this: After a long day's hard work,
Food fills most excellently,
The shower? The shower is the best shower ever,
And the sleep? The sleep is the sleep of the dead,
Dreamless, full of rest....

You make total sense, Student.
Now, a personal question:
Why do you not speak in class?
You have a strong intellect;
You think and write well.
It's time to open your mouth.
It's time to share your thoughts
With the rest of us....

Japanese fighter planes coming in
Three men at the gun, ready to fire;
How does one know it's time to go?

He knew the General Order, had never disobeyed:
"To quit my post only when properly relieved,"
Death leaning in or no. But what if it's time to go?

The Pacific teamed with ships; enemy planes sighted;
"Somebody's going to take a hit this time."
A sense that grew inside: "It's time to go."

He stood in the cramped gun house, "Good-bye, boys."
"Good-bye, Paul," one said, with no derision.
In his decision the certainty that it was time to go.

Swinging the steel door and stepping out,
His vision grayed from detonation,
Time stopped, or at least grew slow.

He'd left his post, nearly died in doing so,
Covered with gore from his friends
Who hadn't heard the call, "It's time to go."

Bob and Kathy lived next door
They picked up our leaves and
swept our driveway and porch floor
Neighbors. Yes, but so much more.

For thirty five Glorious. years
We Watched both our families grow
Love and respect Is was all we know

Bob’s passion ,was restoring old cars
That’s what they lived for, who they are.
Car shows , The annual Vetran’s parade
Bob was celebrated for his choices made
To showClassic 1920 Henry Ford model T
Custom detail a delight for all to see

The United States pays obeisance to
The military on Veterans Day
Bob an Army soldier, Green Beret
He was a bad ***,  that’s what he would say

In the blink of an eye, Happy Time passed
We realize why, Good things never last
Full of laughter, love and Many tears
Inevitable realization of their fears

As they age, Life turned the page
Health became their Clock, their gage
Out of the blue ,One fateful day, Bob fell ill
Cancer slows the body to a still

Bob would say “I’m not ready to die today”
We all knew Death was waiting at Bay
The Next phase ,The long goodbye they say
Bob wouldn’t have it any other way

Cancer in remission
Life was a condition
Weakening body in transition
Stealing lives without permission

Bob fought the good fight
Holding on with all his might
After each procedure ,Bouncing back
It was tough to keep Life, love on track

Family came over to watch him die
Only to see him fight and try
Bob put on a brave face,
which was a lie
His wife Kathy Sneaks off to cry
Cancer you cannot deny

Finally Death came to call
Eventually it will ,for us all

The children live in town,
Now, they are never around
The house sits dark and bare
Nobody is ever there

Kathy lives in the house alone
Their house is no longer at home

"Read The Road," a recommendation
From a friend, fellow scholar, gentleman,
And so I struck out on the road, following
a man and his son pushing a shopping cart
Laden with food and blankets, and not much more.

Nuclear winter with cannibals seems to be the setting,
No green visible of any kind, and even snow is gray,
(Or, for McCarthy, grey). The road is long, littered, broken,
As is the man, as is the boy. No evident salvation, ever,
The man thinks, "There is no God. We are his prophets."

Still, beside the sea, gray, wild, cold, with the man coughing
His last ****** breaths in the dirt, tells his son he must
Move on, a dying man in a filthy blanket clinging to hope
For his son, crying under a dead winter sky, kneeling by him, poisoned soil beneath them, and down to a few cans of beans.

The old man next door loves birds,
Spends hours by his window every day
Watching his feeders without words,
Smiling as the winged ones come his way.

He lugs home sacks of feed and cob dry corn
Though his wife frets his spending.
He finds that kindness leaves him less forlorn,
Brings his old heart and mind some mending.

So out he goes to scrape rain-soaked seeds,
Clears the troughs, replaces suet in the cages,
Before retreating to his favorite chair to read,
Looking up to smile while turning pages.

Farm folk - Ranch folk,
Cattle and horses and wheat,
A world of sky and wind,
A land of temporary green,
Permanent brown,
Twenty-five miles from town.
A world of work,
Dirt in the air and in the lungs
Heat waves shimmering
A land of blowing cold,
Or heated mirage,
Day after day after day,
Until books and learning
Called me away.