I believe I have reached a point
of creative decline. Been on HP
since 2013. Close to 350 poems.
I may have thought and said
about all I have to offer.

Hard to come up with any real
original worthy material, the
old well might have run dry.
Or maybe my brain is growing
addled. That happens in our 80s.

In idle times I will still look in
on you all. I have enjoyed my
time here and made some fine
and talented writer and poet
friends. Thank you.

Adieu good and gentle people.

What is time? Who invented it?
This made-up thing having some need to
emphasize a visual and audible record of
each passing second, minute and hour of
every' single day and night? Inspiring the
human creation of automated mechanical
clocks of every shape and size, ornate or
plain all in a synchronized pace that matches
with the precise rhythmic beat of our own
human hearts.

Devises that dictate and define our days
and nights, tell us when to eat, sleep, pray
or be somewhere. These invented Machines
that created human stress and anxiety, and
control our lives, while all the other living
creatures of wing and paw on this orb Earth
live well, mostly unfettered lives in balance
with the simple rising and setting of the sun,
having no compulsion or need to count or
record the seconds, minutes or hours and
or be somewhere. Just living in the moment.

We come into this world swaddled
in clean, soft Diapers and parental
love, and some decades later, go out
of it wearing soiled Pampers and
mostly on our own, or all alone.

The coastal winds set all our
orchard tree leaves dancing,
vibrating like music in the air.
That same clean breeze on my
face generates a smile, while
offering the slight scent of the
oceans salty splendor.

In my mind in color, behind closed
eyes I can clearly see my beach, the
waves, sand, rocks, all the winged
creatures soaring and wind floating
on the westerly air currents. I could
even hear their calls to each other,
and the muted laughter of human
children at play. The sight of people's
dogs free running the beach and
cavorting in the shallow surf.

An hour and a half drive each way,
taken many times over most of my
lifetime, seeking that view and being
rewarded by it. Familiar as the faces
of my beloved now grown children
and nearly as comforting to gaze upon.

Yes, I could make the drive, but even
that gets harder these days, as most
everything does. But why drive it,
when all I need do is close my eyes,
point my nose up into the breeze and
embrace that beach in my still vivid
mind's eye, while these technicolor
memories last, before they all fade
to black.

Where were these feelings of peace when
I was younger. Back when I overthought
everything and strove too hard for more
than merely enough.

I was strolling the sidewalks of my small
nearest to me town, a farm and vineyard
village, an unhurried and laid-back place
home to perhaps 15,000 souls. Tree lined
streets with singing birds aplenty, spring
sun shining, not a cloud in the azure sky,
another good day to be alive.

I was whistling some made up tune,
a thing I, almost never do, but feeling
so good just compelled me to expel.

My old legs signaled a needed rest stop
and an inviting bench lay dead ahead.
I took a seat and caught my breath.

Had not noticed the other old guy
sitting upon the end of the long bench.
I waived an index finger in passive greeting
which he acknowledged with a friendly
grin and slight nodding of his chin, a
weathered Fedora jauntily resting upon his
head. He wore old jeans with red suspenders,
green plaid shirt and well-worn work boots.
An old farmer come to town, not so different
than me.

We set in silence for a few minutes, just
relaxing and taking in the scene around us.
Caught up in that pleasant moment I began
to hum a 1960s or 70s tune, after a time my
bench mate began to hum the same tune,
in perfect unison and pitch, better than mine.
We turned to one another and both smiled.

We finished our shared melody and silence
returned, all but for the singing of birds in
the trees. I stood up from the bench and as
I passed the still seated friendly gent we
performed a convivial fist bump of shared
fellowship, and never a word was needed
or spoken between us.