The older we grow
the faster life goes,
priorities change
quality of living
and loving takes
precedent, over
self-indulgence
and material things.
Nothing as important
as family and friends.

It is racing now,
these fleeting days
and years, reflected
most in my grandsons
growing too soon from
children to young men.

Along with Steller parents
our little farm provides
a learning ground for the
kids, teaching life lessons
that inspire character and
self discipline, with Cows
and pigs to show at fairs,
pride earned with accomplishments
and Blue Ribbons to share.

I am so lucky having a ringside
seat, watching yet another
family generation ascend.
Football and basket ball
games to attend, Christmas
morns of excited children
clamoring down the stairs,  
many birthday celebrations
with ever more candles aglow.
Memories all, retained and shared.

Perhaps the best part is,
these grandsons of mine,
still are up for hugs and
good night kisses, genuine
affection received and given.

Families are a true blessing
and a privilege, the only
real reason we are here.

All these things, remain the
sweet frosting on my aging
Grandfather's cake of life.
I sometimes wonder where
I would be without them.
A steady cadence  
pulsing in a heart beat
like rhythm, voices
and strummed instruments
all in harmonized concert,
An orchestral multitude,
of frogs and crickets,
never tiring or ceasing,

How many must there be,
to render such a cacophony?
Sustained and loud enough
to keep a city person awake.

Nature's Music of the night,
should you but choose to listen.
How do they do that, all night
with absolutely no intermission?

A crescendo finale triggered
only by the coming dawn's
first light, and the boastful
crowing calls of our cocky
persistent red rooster chicken.

Where they go in daylight
is anybody's guess. To sleep
I suspect and well deserved
resting up for yet another
night of music.
Another value added feature
of living out in the country. Night
voices lulling me to sleep outside
my open window/screen.
He was my first idol,
Being too young to
pronounce Brother,
I called him “Baba “
Then later “Bobby”
Neither his name
of course.

Tried to follow
him everywhere,
his nuisance shadow,
pain in the neck.
He seemed everything
I wanted to be,
First taller, bigger,
Later smarter, cooler
swab and debonair.

Grown he seemed a
reluctant father,
yet became a stellar,
tender loving parent,
a teacher, a life scholar,
A tinkerer of things,
A deep thinker.
A mentor to others,
Lusting always for
Answers and knowledge.
For a time, between us
some distance did follow.

The older we’ve grown,
that sibling playing field
has finally leveled.
The closer we grow,
The deeper our mutual
Respect and love shown.

Blood is always
Thicker than water.
Cherishing forever
"Phillip Colby Yocum",
my forever big brother.
With Love for him,
At year of birth #76
July 31 2018
An older neighbor of mine
did recently confide;

"Reckon I'm gettin' ready to die,
my mind ain't working so smooth
anymore, open my skull and what
might 'ya see, would resemble some
surreal Salvador Dali painted scene.
All melted watches and disjointed shit.

My legs are unreliable at best,
my back continually aches,
blasted headaches refuse to abate.

I shuffle along like some broke
down thing, balance sketchy at best.
My recall comes and goes like a
random weak spray from a garden hose.
Spurts, leaks running here and there,
No continuous steady stream going
anywhere, not unlike when I try to pee.

They took my drivers license,
said I was incapable today and
would be more so tomorrow.

I used to dream of things I'd do,
beautiful girls I'd like to screw.
Now any dreams I can recall
revolve around food and that's
pretty much all.

I wake at 6 AM each day
my body racked with pain,
eat some mush and sit in my chair,
fall asleep and wake 'bout noon.
Repeat some food, return to my chair,
turn on the tube, 20 minutes in feeling
like the world is a hopeless damn mess.
Even todays music ain't fit to hear.
Taking me yet another nap in my chair.

I used to care 'bout lots of things,
now I can't remember why or where.
If these here are my golden years,
I'd rather be young, broke and naked
in the back seat of my '48 Chevy,
lovin' my Cheerleader girlfriend Amy,
now those were the Golden Years."
He has no living family, lives alone,
his dog died last year. He took down
all the clocks in his house, gave away
his granddads pocket watch. He leased
out his farm, got rid of his animals. Sold
off his John Deere tractors to a neighbor.
Uses only two rooms in a big old house
with ten . He is alone as alone gets.
He's 86 uses a cane to steady his steps.
We would need to walk in his shoes
to know his pain, in a few years perhaps
we too will know what he means.
Could this be why young people
avoid old people, I bet it is. They can't
stand looking in their Futures mirror.
A morning orchard walk,
myself, two dogs and
two following barn cats.
Repeated often, a shared
companionable reverie
of mutual tranquility.
An odd family of sorts,
devotion comes is many forms.
Spring is the awaited child,
seeds to plant, plans to explore,
conjuring promise and renewal,
That awakens our soul.

Summer inspires with long
sunny days basking in the
embrace of green crops growing,
relief from heat under leafy trees,
leisurely nights of clean skies,
bright stars on high to infinity.

Fall comes as a warning beacon,
days of long shadows,
cool nights with chill breeze,
bedecked trees
in reds and yellow.
The report of hunters guns
from the depths of the forest.

Winter's a prelude to gloom,
short days, low sun when it
appears, wind-chills that burn.
Snow to shovel, ice to befuddle.
Conjuring envy and impatience
for the Spring to return.

So the seasons flow
one into another,
while every year lived
the cycles grow shorter,
with no guarantees
how many more will follow.
My life is sometimes only that green
that everybody see's during the day,
and at night when you awake
with your window open wide
and perceive the fresh scent
of a brand new beginning,
with the joy it transfers to us all,
conveyed within the air we breath,
that comes only in nature we see.
Today composed by my 11 year
old grandson Cooper. A Poet in
the making. All his thoughts and words.
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