Do you ever wonder if the past loves of your life,
remember you as clearly and fondly as you
remember them. Or even recall you at all?
Is my memory that much better than theirs?
Or do I just think too **** much in general.

People meet, quickly attract,
fall in lust, or even love,
for a moment, or two,
entwine their lives,
their naked bodies,
perhaps their hearts and souls,
confess deep secrets,
then soon they part,
going their separate ways,

Like Ships that pass,
and briefly collide in the night,
then merely, casually sail away.
A perhaps damaged hull , more than
chipped paint, left blowing in the wind,
Corrosive sea water seeps in, rust begins,
we look for someone to do a repair,
Some body work, a little new paint,
and off we sail again.

And yet no collision is without illusions
of it's "what might have beens",
indelible inevitable, later recollection,
Second guessing fermenting distraction.

So back to the question,
Do any of our past loves remember us
as fondly as we remember them?
Or indeed remember us at all?

In the prevailing final analysis,
it's all long gone and done,
Why should we even care?
Too much thought can be,
a nagging unwanted distraction.
What is over and done,
can never be again.

So give it no more thought,
than one of last years
fine summer days,
While you are basking,
in the warm soothing,
sunshine of this day, today.

I discovered once again today,
yet another child savant poet.
A mere kid of 21 with a brain
and old soul, the size of Texas.
I say another 'cause there appears
to be so far over a dozen.

Who are these Wiz Kids and just
what Planet are they springing from?
What race of superior beings produced them?

It is not for me to reason why,
but to just keep on reading.
Makes this old horse want to
throw away his pen. But instead
I think I will try to learn from them.

Let the children lead, all we must do
is follow.

When still a teen, I rented my first Motel room.
Moving for the first time from the back seat
explorations of adolescent desires, in my '58 Chevy.

Privacy found, never known before, acquired for
only twelve dollars, dank, smelling of stale
tobacco stink, mold on the window shades,
on the bedding and on the stained carpet floor.

Glasses wrapped in paper, water spotted,
Little tiny bars of miniature Lifeboy soap,
sticky sit on the chipped old porcelain sink.
White towels, more yellow than white.
A plastic shower curtain, missing several
metal rings, sagging in the middle. The tub
stained from the residue of aged rusty pipes.
With a drain that later refused to drain the
shower water we took together (Our first ever)
The old bed sagged in the center, put a quarter
in a small box on the bed side table and the
whole bed would vibrate, or so the sign promised.
There was a Bible also there on the table, I quickly
hide it away in a drawer, was about to find a quarter,
when a soft knocking came at the door.

Funny how when she entered that dingy room,
how none of it's squalor mattered, within moments
it became a Palace, a womb of warn safe contentment,
a  Shangri-La for us together.  

For a while it was a blur of frantic kissing and
tugging at clothing, wet kisses deep and wanting,
our bodies and brains aflame with passion.

Again and again we loved one another that night,
seemingly inexhaustible, as we sweated on those
already worn thin sheet, ending each frantic coupling
in childish laughter thrilled by the new almost existential  
feelings, of all that real love is and what it can ever be.
Wishing in our naïve way the night would never end.
Knowing full well that she must be home by Eleven.

We then and there confessed our mutual love,
as deep and real as any love ever, or anyone's love can be.
We talked of continuance, hopes of a life together, forever.

"You are nothing but children!" Both our families agreed.
"You know nothing of love or what it means."

They were so wrong, how could they possibly know,
what we knew, how we felt.
That age alone can not determine when love is real,
or when it is not. Love does not "Card" you at the door.

"You have your whole life ahead, College, a football scholarship,
and lots of growing up to do." Mine said.
"That's it, you two are done, it's over." Hers directed.
"You are not to see each other again outside of school."
They both assured us.

We did as told, but not for trying,
caught once or twice, and then overnight,
She was gone, shipped off to some
Aunt down in Texas,  
And a Catholic girls School.
And that was truly the end.

But now its been 50 years, a near life time and
yet I have not forgotten, once in a while it all
comes back in a night dream, Her and the scent
and feel of that squalid and yet wonderful Motel
Room, and the love we shared there as children.

In two weeks I will see her for the first time, a Reunion.
She now a long time mother and four time grandmother,
I married and failed twice, but got two sons in the bargain.
Now I too, a loving Grandparent. She has a husband she still
loves, she says in an email. I lied a little when I told her I was
happy for her, wished her well.
Two short emails in 50 years.

So many years come and gone,
Both of us now grey of hair,
and much rounder at the middle.
Like a kid, on Christmas morning,
I'm excited to see her.
Will we even recognize each other?

I wonder if she will be able to look in my eyes,
and tell that I still dream about her and that room,
That I still love her.

Just how does one define friendship?
Oh, I already know what the Dictionary says.
It's far more than merely one word, or two.
You could apply many verbs to describe it.
Few, on their own will justice due.
It is more about one's emotional perception,
than a mere sentence of words, though descriptive.

For sure it's a feeling, a strong visceral response
evoked by respect, even love of a thing above all other's.
Friends come in many shapes, sizes and colors.
They can be inanimate or living breathing.

All inspire in us a near electrical resonance of reassurance,
a sense of peace, surely comfort. Maybe it starts with
the rhythmic beating of our own mothers heart,
the sound and vibration of our first true friendship.
A little later her breast and the nourishment it gave,
became our first outer world dearest best companion.
Mother's milk, served warm, sweet and tenderly,
Love's personification.

Yes of course Friendship can be an extension of a
strong lasting bond with other people, yet even more.
Our family's are our closest best friends, if we are lucky.
But what of the others?

I have been  befriended by books, movies, dogs and
many other non human living friends, I even have
a old film camera I packed completely around the world,
that I count among my closest companions.
A soft warm favorite wool blanket acquired down in
New Zealand, also fits nicely that same description.
An old bamboo fly rod that belonged to my Father,
Is a friend I would not part with for any amount of dollars.

And less I forget (No pun intended) our memories too are
right there, with the best and oldest of our dearest, lasting friends,
Conjured up at a minutes notice.

And perhaps last of all, (you may have more on your list),
I can not leave out the most important friendship of all,
It's the friendship we have with our selves, to which I'm referring.
For if that very personal friendship is not strong and on going,
It's truly doubtful that we will have, or sustain for long, any others.

They come amongst
a cacophony of noise
and clutter, little voices,
uttering unintelligible sounds,
amid giggles and laughter.
Sometimes it's pushing
and shoving,
"Mom he's touching me!"

Leaving as they go a trail,
of ever changing strange things,
like dropped Legos, paper airplanes
rubber band and old bent nails.

Once I found, to my otter amazement
A freshly dead intact Grasshopper,
Neatly folded up in brightly colored
Special Occasion Wrapping paper.
A gift no doubt from one of them,
left right out, on my Dinning Room Table.

Other times they emerge slow and stealthy
a  pair of Ninjas, all in black and scary.
Or as merely Batman and Robin,
Maybe Spidy and the Incredible Hulkster,
All of their personas assuredly entertaining.

As they barge through my door,
they tend to sing loud a lot,
True, squeaky, off key, yet sweetly.
Most are songs I've never heard,
Or just made up for the moment.

If I'm a little down, feeling kind of blue
five minutes with them is a sure cure
Funk gone in a flash, replaced by nothing
but happy.

Consummate story tellers they can be,
The nine year old should be the "Town Crier".
No news fit to print, ever went untold
from his lips, always relayed with such gusto.
Ask him a simple "How was your day?"
and he will recite 15 minutes of vivid detail,
all for my very delighted amused approval.

The six year old is sweet enough to eat,
Always bright blue eyes a flashing,
Not to be outdone, he will try his best,
to **** right in and share his days happenings.
Little brothers need always to try harder.

We all three laugh and joke,
and sometimes I break out,
the oh so dreaded "tickle fingers",
chase them all around 'till I catch one
and then for sure their screams of delight
and giggles do indeed fill up the room,
not to mention my old soft heart as well.
These little boys are pure magic.

Watching them thrive and grow, is my tonic.
A battery charger I can't get enough of.
Smart, charming, funny, sweet, cute and happy,
the loves of an old man's life. With them around,
who needs another.

They are a precious gifts from my kids, their
Mother and Father. Another chance to have
children close, be their loving guiding grandfather.

In them I see my son as a child, now a fine
grown man, In those boys I see the very
reason I was put on this Earth,
A life of human creation, come full circle.

She comes many times
completely unexpected,
On padded paws,
Silent and stealthy.

Not a hint she is near
'till she jumps in your lap
and meows her first greeting.
Though so softly, as to not,
wake even a sleeping baby.
She is sweet beyond belief,
wants only to be loved
and give love in return.

She never insists like some
women I have known,
Rather she waits until
you're completely done eating.

Soft Hypnotic gray eyes
intense in their gaze captures,
at once your full attention,
Then gently she places her
tiny head right in your hand,
Seeking your touch of affection.

Her motor purring starts,
growing ever loud and louder.
Then she begins rhythmically,
Kneading your chest or stomach
with her front paws as she would
have done her own mommy,
But it' s not milk she seeks,
it is love from her human,
physical, emotional contentment.

She would sit all night,
in my lap if I let her,
yet she can sense when
I have had enough,
Knows when to quickly,
quietly take her leave.

Truly not many,
females like her.

Returned flush with excitement,
From a ten mile bike ride,
On a day near perfect,
Out along the river,

Temp in mid seventy's
not a cloud in the sky.

Beside the river I ride,
the water summer calm flat,
Scents of wet mossy rocks,
and dogwood trees non relenting.
The perfume of the Valley,
the River damp, sweet and pure.

Ride as I did the trails,
some on paved surface.
most on wood chips and dirt.

Shifting gears to suit the,
changing terrain and the
resources within my aged knees.  

The wind from my speed,
blows refreshingly in my face,
Dark glasses slipping down my nose,
yet keeping sun glare from blinding.

I pass some people,
I smile and wave,
they reply in kind,
Maybe we even
exchange brief
verbal greetings,
Some lost in a blur
of movement.

Easy for us all to smile,
we are happy in our work.

Half way there,
I stop for a drink,
Ease my burning legs.
The spot I pick is under  
cover of a huge old walnut tree.
It's massive umbrella shade,
an embracing sanctuary.

Across the way, a little lake,
On the far bank there stands a
metal skeleton outline of three
buildings that once stood there.
This recreated site of the first
European settlement in Oregon,
Clear back in the year of 1837.

Methodist Missionaries they
were, came overland West,
from North East by wagon.
Bringing so they thought,
Needed "Civilization" to the
poor "heathens" here about.
Almost as always a very,
mistaken, arrogant notion.

There effort lasted only
four years, the locals
responding not so well to
their well intending invitation.

In historical retrospect,
one can not but applaud
their self scarifies, hardship
and strife, some of them even
died still trying.

However they did open
the door, to a new beginning,
Be it for good or ill.
Soon other settlers
made the long journey.
Becoming "Oregon Or Bust"
for many.  

As I reflect sitting beneath
this tree those early people
no doubt planted,
from seed or sapling,
brought so far to this
new land of beginning.
It stands here still,
176 years later,
a wonderful living,
still growing testament
to human efforts of trying.

The breeze livens,
stirs sweet pungent
scents of brackish water,
forest, and Valley,
hints of crocus,
ripe black berries and
summer flowers blooming,
All these scents mingle,
and grow ever stronger.

Off in the near distance,
a strengthening breeze whispers,
Approaching through forest trees
coming ever closer and nearer.
Reaching me in a refreshing
gust that lasts for only a minute.
The sweat upon my face
cooling at it's touch. As I smile,
in grateful acknowledgement.

I have seen this day,
two kinds of squirrels
one red, one grey colored.
Coveys' of doves taking flight,
from my approaching bike,
And birds of many description,
A Red Tailed Hawk on wing,
Harassed by two small pursuit birds
protecting their nests from him.
A huge Bald Eagle diving for fish.
And one of my very favorites,
a spindly legged Blue Heron.
Standing in mud, fishing.
Even a smart fox,
scurrying back to hide
in the foliage, too shy
and too fast to be viewed
for too long by a human.

Thankful as I am,
for this one more
glorious day of living,
In the ***** of nature
so inspiring, so splendid.
I embrace Life and in return,
it grants me, continuation.

I plan on returning soon,
maybe tomorrow if my legs
let me.