Now the first leaves, golden,
Falling, fluttering tranquilly.
Breeze becomes wind,
A slight chill present.

Summer ending,
Fall in the air,
You can smell it, see it,
Touch it, even taste it.

Saturday, Freeway fills with cars,
Flags flying, team colors displaying,
Car Horns honking, people waving.

Mighty Ducks are beating their wings,
Getting ready, who could have known?
That Ducks having no teeth,
Could be so very ferocious,
Tenacious, combative, thrilling.

Tailgating celebrating,
Throngs of laughing people, moving
Pennants showing, blowing in the wind,
Through the gates into the huge arena.
Filling the stands, waiting spectacle’s beginning.
Band blares spirited tunes, people and
Students cheering, Ear splitting, the grandstands
Vibrating, spines a tingling, tension mounting.

Among great fan fare, the Gladiators emerge,
Regaled in colorful Costumes for combat,
Helmets gleaming in the sun,
Muscles bulging young men strut and pose,
In spirited pent up raw anticipation,
Soldier-players moving now as one,
As a well practiced oiled machine,
Each part supporting the other.  
Each knowing its own function,
Resulting in precise synchronization.
A time and place where boys become men.

Beautiful young women, under dressed,
Bosoms bouncing, pompoms waving
Add to the Circus flavor of spectacle rising.

Only a game? None in the bowl knows that.
No one cares to think so, it is more than that,
It is war, it is life, it‘s aggression without death,
It is pride without regret; it is a melding of hearts,
And expectations, of loyalties to a common goal,
It is a Saturday in the sun and fall air, a chance to
Yell and cheer for youth in flower, to feel and fear
An inevitable outcome not yet predetermined.
To ebb and flow all human emotions,
To hopefully all, end the day a winner,
Or perhaps display compassion for the looser.  
To feel alive, to participate in life’s cycle of living.

Football, just a game? Don’t you believe it.

He sat hunched in the chair,
A slightly shrunken version
Of the robust man I had known,
The Coach, the Teacher, the Mentor
Of my youth.
The man I came to Revere nearly as
much as my own father.

That hero of the war with the Axes Powers,
That mostly soft spoken man of tolerance
And patients that could command respect
And obedience with but a single look.
That leader I would have battered down
Walls with only my head if he had asked me to.
That man that gave me a sense of self-respect,
Taught me strong Life Lessons that I still
carry to this day. That I have passed on to my
own Son and Grandsons. This man that taught me
That I could do anything I sat my mind to do,
if only I persevered, if only I did not give up.
That just to try is to win.
That a Team is always stronger that a man alone.
That fellowship lights the darkness,
That pride is more than just a word.
That the axiom of “It’s not if you win or lose,
It’s how you play the game.” Is not merely
Some bit of rhetoric thought up to console
Losers, rather a phrase that is meant to convey
A message of a morally correct perception and
Human understanding of life itself.

He sat there frail, looking a little confused,
Yet the man, the Coach was still there in his eyes.
He weakly, yet firmly took my hand, not in just a
Greeting “Shake” but rather in an embrace of
Old Comrades and I told him in a few choked up
words what he had given me, of my affection for
him and we both fought back tears of the emotion
that comes from a knowledge older men understand
will be the last contact they will ever share.
I forced myself to be brief rather than fall apart,
To perhaps embarrass us both.
I wanted to embrace him, but did not, fearing,
No, knowing that I would certainly fall apart.

I shook his Grandsons hand and told that fine young
Man that he had a great man sitting next to him there,
But then I’m sure he already knew that.

My life is but one of thousands of young men
And women’s lives that were  touched and inspired
By the “Coach”. That was his profession, his
“Calling” and he did it splendidly.
What I owe that man, I can never repay.

Thank you Don Brown, my dear friend just thank you.

The years had not been particularly kind to her.
Too much sun, smoking and hard living I suppose.
Something else too, a vagueness in those once
Lively young eyes, a detachment, almost as if
She did not know me, had never known me.

I had come there seeking her above all the other
Old friends, I had wanted to share a final farewell,
A chance to tell her how much she had once
Meant to me. How long ago I had once loved her.
How still in the foggy half light of slumber I did yet,
From time to time dream of her, reliving the images
Of us as the kids we once were. Of the still stuck in
Time, romantic visions of her played out in my over
Active mind and memories of days long in the past.
Of our flower of innocents shared for the first time,
Of our naked bodies Entwined.  
Of an all consuming young passion,
Never surpassed or repeated in over a hundred
Relationships and two short term marriages.
So much to say and yet,

After but a few confusing words exchanged,
Consisting of words, that I can’t now even recall,
She turned away as if our meeting meant nothing,
Or had not even taken place at all,
Like two strangers passing on the street,
Exchanging but an abrupt meaningless greeting.

She turned and was swallowed up, lost,
Within the large Ball Room,
A room filled with many of our former class mates.

For a moment I felt empty and then overwhelmed
With sorrow, not for myself or my foolish expectations,
But for the lost child, that full of life young girl,
That 1960s Gidget, that Cute as a button,
Girl of such promise.

She that I had once loved.  What had happened to her?
Where had that girl gone? More than merely age,
We had all aged, something much more insidious,
What illness or demon had taken up residence within her?
What tragedies, what pain had she endured?
Even her best girlfriends reported similar encounters.
What was the cause? I’m sure I will never know.

Back in the day, living our collective coming of age
Shared life at school, it was easy to imagine that we
Were all the same, children of the hour, brothers
And sisters together, all alike, all the same.
But of course that was not the case, different homes,
Unique sets of parents, different private lives.
Divergent directions and paths taken,
Many years lived in between to make it or break it.
Some of us being more fortunate than others.

Never too old for a Lesson taught and learned,
Some memories will no doubt remain,
Now with no regret.
What once was can never be diminished.
I wish her well. I wish her peace.
Memories remain in the past for a reason.
Chapter closed, at long last no second guessing,
Time now to move on. . . Free to dream that dream no more.

By Stephen E. Yocum

In 1974, from out of Kabul,
The bouncing open back of
An old flat bed truck,
Eating dust and Diesel fumes,
Two alone we journeyed.

A round the world exploration
Of adventure and discovery.
Of lands and cultures,
people never before encountered.
Naive Ecotourists, before there
Was such a thing, called by a silly name.

The land there about, dry and dusty,
Sparse vegetations, Inhospitable to all,
Featureless and drab beyond comprehension.
Harsh lands breed harsh unforgiving people,
Matching their dire extreme surroundings.
This being one of those places.

I was on an adventure,
More so than she with me,
A rocky marriage at best,
Stressed further by months of travel.
I seeking the raw, the real,
She wanting first class comforts,
Like the “Good Life as seen on TV”.
A rough open flatbed truck, eating dust,
Not even close to fitting that description.

We were going to a small distant town,
Where I might see a game as old,
As that culture, of those Afghan plains,
A game, no truly more of a passion,
A long held national obsession,
Not so much played,
As combated, a war on horseback,
Brutal, ****** and thrilling.

Under noonday sun, yet chill of weather,
An hour out, four mounted horsemen
Appeared over a low hillock horizon,
Their horses in gallop, snorting, prancing,
High stepping, bounding, on a mission,
Kicking up a cloud of yellow/red dust,
The riders making straight for us.

These were the days before the AK-47,
Before the Russian invasion of ‘97.
The tribal Afghan men back then toted old,
Long Barreled, flint lock looking weapons
Often adorned with ribbon or paint,
Looking at first glance merely ornamental,
Not quite dismissing their lethal intent.

I had seen a sheep shot by one of
These old rifles, the entry spot was
The size of an American Half Dollar,
The exit hole the size of a tennis ball exploded.

As they approached, at my direction,
She withdrew further back towards the
Cab of the truck, beside a wooden crate.
I still sat, legs dangling over the tailgate,
One hand holding onto the wood slatted
Vertical, side rail of the bed.
The other hand on the hilt of my 8 inch Buck Knife.
That given the impending situation, would have
Done me as much good as my ******* into the face,
Of a very strong hurricane wind,
Doing me and us more harm than good.
All the while, still watching the horsemen,
As they rapidly approached ever closer.

Ignoring our dust, they reined in less than
Fifteen feet from our rear bumper,
(If there had indeed been a bumper.)
Horses wild eyes rolling, saliva snorting
From their mouths and nostrils,
Lather of sweat coating sleek bodies.
Looking more akin to fierce Dragons than Equines.

Their dusty riders looked like mounted warriors,
Escaped from out of a Hollywood movie,
Full bearded, hard men, with Scars on their faces,
Their serious dust laden red eyes burning like fire.
Jaws firm set, faces otherwise devoid of expression.
Dressed in traditional head to toe garb,
A style unchanged in hundreds of years,
Large curved Knives in wide leather belts,
Two, sporting hefty British holstered revolvers.
All four with long rifles in one hand,
Horse reins in the other.

Just like that, there we all were face to face,
I could not avoid their eyes, locking mine on
The bigger man near the center,
Hiding as best I could, my concern, no my fear,
With a neutral expression, neither smile nor sneer,
That might give me away. Yet the hair on the back
Of my neck did tingle, throat too dry and constricted
To speak should it even be required.  

The bigger man into whose eyes I stared,
As if I had issued some challenged invitation,
With but a single practiced move of his,
Right arm and hand,
(Horse reins held in the other),
Quickly shouldered his menacing weapon,
And sighted down its long barrel, right at my head.

Perhaps it was only a few seconds,
Yet it seemed an eternity,
That gun’s bore looked immense,
Like the gapping open mouth,
Of some great ballistic cannon.
For a moment I ceased breathing.
It felt as if my heart stopped beating.
I could not but sit there waiting,
There was no escaping.

That throw back to a fiftieth century man,
Held the power, of Life or sudden death,
In his hand, my life on the tip of his trigger finger,
He and I both instantly understood this.

It was clear in that one moment,
That to him, this was nothing new,
Or even of the slightest importance.
A thing to which he was plainly indifferent.

Down that bore, was a place in which lurked,
A lethal bullet with my name written upon it,
I felt trapped, like screaming, but remained silent,
Eyes open, and then why I will never know,
Still looking at him I narrowed my eyes and smiled.

As perhaps a reply on the man’s harsh face,
There appeared an ever so slightest grin.
Then he hefted his weapon back down under,
His arm and silently smiled and laughed,
In my direction.

I could not help but notice that one of his
Upper front teeth was of bright gold, while the
One next to the gold, was completely missing.

He nodded just once his head, to me a message,
All said with no words actually spoken,
“Today traveler,
I could have killed you,
Taken your woman.
Out here no one would know,
No one would have cared,
Not even the truck driver.
You are in my homeland,
I control it and you,
Today I choose not to **** you,
Tomorrow I might feel different.”

Then he and his unsmiling companions,
****** their straining unyielding horses,
to their left, galloping away in an obscuring
cloud, of yellow and reddish dust billowing.

While adrenaline turned my arms and
Legs to jelly, and shortly thereafter,
My stomach to sudden fits of
Wrenching regurgitation.

When in a few years I first heard,
That the Russians had invaded
That harsh unforgiving land,
I told a friend,
“Those fool Russians,
Have grabbed a fearsome,
Tiger by the tail, and that beast
Might just devourer them,
And not the other way around.”
It came to pass, I was not far off,
In my knowledgeable easy prediction.

The lesson I learned that day?
No matter who you think you are,
Or where you might come from,
What Nations impressive seal,
That your Passport reveals,
When you travel far and wide,
Trespass in another man’s back yard,
You best beware, of all the possibilities.

Upon our return trip the next day,
We took a bus of public conveyance,
Imagining perhaps there would be,
More safety in a convergence of numbers.

Footnote:

Over the centuries many invaders
Have attempted to subdue the wild
Land of the Afghans’ and nearly all failed.
A land and a people offering absolutely,
No forgiveness, not even to themselves.

Rudyard Kipling wrote of the British Empires brief
Excursions into that land, offering some sage advice;
“When you’re wounded and left on the Afghanistan’s
Plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to
Your God like a soldier.”

All present and would be conquers take note,
This remains Wise advice.  No one truly conquers there,
They just visit and bleed and then eventually go away,
Tails tucked between their knees. If indeed they still
Have one.

I have loved this time spent and shared
with you, said some things that meant
something to me, and read some beautiful
thoughts and words said by others.

Frankly this thing, this site can become
down right addictive, and before we know it
a whole day is shot, we might even give up
needed sleep to pursue it.

Like any addiction it needs to be controlled,
taken if at all, in small doses and that then
is my intention.

For new and old friends, I treasure your
warm embrace and no doubt I shall return.
There are other things I must and wish to do,
and as in all matters, I peruse everything in moderation.
Hugs of friendship to all, keep writing, be happy.
Thanks for the tutorial on Poetry communication.
I very much enjoyed it.

Will the day ever come,
when I run out of fun?
If that happens it will
be time to bury me.

For now I breath,
I reach to grasp
all of the life I can,

Because my friend,
sooner than you know,
everything flashes by
and all too **** fast.
And then, I know this
comes as a shock,
We all eventually die.

Now as to this sad end,
if there was some cure,
I'm sure somebody,
would have already found it.

And besides, living forever,
might not be all that good,
If these aches and pains of
aging are any indication of,
what could happen if indeed,
I lived to one hundred and seven,
Or three hundred and eleven.
By then I'd be nothing but,
a small bag of hurt and brittle
old bones a rubbing together.

And considering all that,
after serious contemplation,
Living that long,
does not sound that pleasant.

Then I guess, the answer here is,
Live BIG while you can,
Make the most of what you have,
Don't waste that precious time,
feeling sad or unhappy.
Treat others well, show respect,
Love your family and have no regrets.

Because this right here,
This one life,
This gift we're given,
It's all there is, no do overs
can or should be expected.

I reached the summit in time to see,
the grey of dawn just leaving,
The new sunrise begin to ascend.
The breeze, reborn, fresh as the day.

An Eagle soaring high over head,
spiraling on updrafts, master of the sky,
not hunting, just testing his wings,
apparently enjoying a little joy ride.
Oh what freedom that must be,
to fly like that as you please,
so completely released from gravity.
I watched him play, 'till out of sight.

Below me, on a ***** stood a
sure footed Male Mountain Goat,
Warming himself in morning sun.
Head held high, proud and alert,
eyes searching for opportunity.

Mountain Jays squawk and play
among the sparse trees below
my lofty perch, as if they too frolic,
in new day celebration.

A day ago I saw the sun rise from
the fourteenth floor window,
of my office building.  
That same sun, I now see,
from the top, of this mountain peek.
But it was very different.

Rather than fresh air laced,
with the scent of Fir and Pine,
It was the stale stink,
of cigarettes and dust,
Air pushed through a vent,
Resuscitated, recirculated
and processed, dead air resurrected.

My view East slightly obscured, by ***** glass.
A picture window that can not even be opened.
The Cascades majestically blue on the horizon,
The new days sun, resting on Mount Hood's shoulder.
A bright light inviting, Big and yellow, calling.

And but a day later,
here I stand, on Three Finger Jack,
Looking further East,
Breathing in this new clean day,
Taking memory pictures with my eyes,
Alone, but never completely.

Next time I will not wait so long.
Oh, if I could only live right here forever.

On further thought, after I'm dead,
haul my ashes up here, and leave 'em,
Sunrises and sunsets for all eternity.