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Stephen E Yocum Feb 2014
On Knees, was taught to prey.
The concept of religion,
Learned as a small child,
Later replaced with actual knowledge.
Discovering then that,
The “Soul” of Bible Talk,
Does indeed exist,
Within all we humans.
Neurons, tangled nerves of
Electric arc, impulses sent
And received, thoughts formulated,
Visions seen, recalled all in an instant.
Memories cataloged and stored.
The original Grey Matter Computer,
Our Humanity the result of all this,
Wondrous, remarkable activity.
Love, Thought, Empathy, Kindness,
Knowing Right from wrong,
Rational Reasoning, Humor,
Ingenuity, Creativity, Forgiveness
When needed.  Pride exceeded.

Yes, we have a soul, it lives within
Our Human Intelligence,
And all the abilities it affords us.
Without this Brain, this our Soul *****,
The body, our very existence is nothing.
Stephen E Yocum Jan 2014
I knew you then,
Yes by sight, little more,
Strangers on a common ground.
Children in the same town.
Exchanging appraising glances,
Given and quickly shed,
Reduced to but a few,
Written words in our Year Books,
No time for more.

An all too brief encounter on a train,
Sweet kisses given and accepted.
Then total disappearance,
For fifty long years.

Separate lives lived,
Marriages come and gone,
Beloved children, Grand children born.
Some bumpy roads traveled,
Individual journeys taken,
Knowledge and maturity hard earned.

After all that time and distance,
Fate returned us to each other.
Happenstance some might say,
Something much more, my answer.
In a room filled with many people,
We two magnetically drawn together.

Second chances almost never come,
Yet it seems we have found one.
Laughter like I've never known,
It almost seems incredible,
All this profound happiness,
You have brought me,
When perhaps we both thought,
Those days and emotions dead.
Now I feel so young, all over again,
As if 50 years had never been.
Paul McCartney wrote of
"Silly Little Love Songs".
Well this is my Silly Little Love Poem
#2 and no, we are never too old to write
or sing either.

Mister McCartney wrote and sang;
"You'd think people would have had
enough of silly love songs,
I look around and see it isn't so . . . .
What's wrong with that,
I need to know,
'Cause here I go, again . . . "
Stephen E Yocum Jan 2014
What is it that causes me to smile
for no apparent reason?
To feel my heart occasionally skip a beat?
To be so much happier than I used to be?
To sing when there is no music?
To regard tomorrow with such promise?
To feel so **** young again?
Like a kid still in High School.

Outwardly to those that know me,
There is no visible reason for all of this,
They might even begin to question my sanity,
Just a little bit.

Only you and I know the reasons,
That Love is in the air,
This rarefied air we are both breathing and sharing.
Thoughts rushing from my mind, pouring from my fingers.
For she, my Honey Girl.
Stephen E Yocum Jan 2014
Scant moments after sun rise they appear,
Shadows in a distant field,
Moving like ghosts upon a sea,
Of shimmering dewy green.
They toil, bent onto their work,
No music, no joyful banter,
Only their laboring breaths,
Visible in the morning air.

An aged tractor crawls along,
Out in front of them,
They stoop and toss yellow squash,
Into a trailer bin.

Fifty acres by Noon they're told,
"Get it done, or get gone by Ten!"
"No Medical Insurance here,
No Retirement Plan,
No promises or guaranties,
It's work for the moment,
Only if WE please."
Yells out the Overseer!

Noon brings the heat,
Another fifty acres of zucchini.
Nothing changes,
Not even the scenery.
Hats and hoods,
Long sleeves and scarves,
Shield from the sun,
Yet the new heat they must endure.

Still they stoop and toss,
With ****** hands and painful spines.
"Get it done today or no work for you tomorrow.
Don't get hurt there ain't no Workman's Comp."
They are often reminded.

I watch and read a book upon my shady porch,
My promenade to the world.
Morning coffee giving way,
To the afternoon's ice cold Lemonade.
I observe from my distant knoll,
Like a unfettered bird in the sky,
Being detached and alone.
As if I and the people in the field,
Reside on different worlds.

I sit there in my orb with soft hands and body,
The products of a privileged life being a Native Son.
I worked in three piece suits, shirt and ties,
An education, crafty sales ability, my convenient alibis.

They come from the South,
From poverty and dead ends,
A border or two away,  
Do the work that only slaves would do,
Back in yesterday.
To put food on our tables,
Grease the wheels of our industries.
Put some meager food in their mouths,
and fuel their fantasy's.
Most do not speak our language,
Yet still our life they crave.
We do not welcome them as we should,
They must sneak in like thieves in the night,
Just to be our willing serfs.

What real difference them to me?
Geographic locations of birth, little more.
That's not really hard to see,
If only we stop and care to look.

A ****** to their hardship,
I watch humbled and inspired,
This display of their commitment,
Their indomitable human spirit.

The hours pass and still they follow,
Up and back crossing the field,
Chasing that same tractor,
Walking miles, going no place at all.

While I've done other things this day,
Leisure, cardio stationary bike,
(No need to take a hike.)
Intellectual stimulation enjoyed,
Eaten twice and rested well.
But not those men and women across the way,
They now merely indistinct bent shapes,
Upon, an ever darkening landscape,
Smudges of smoldering black,
In a vast field of breeze tossed olive drab.

Dawn to dusk being their fate,
Their tomorrows all the same.
Hard work and a willingness to do it,
Their passports, to "Possibility",
and for staying in the game.
Stephen E Yocum Jan 2014
To Salinas we had come,
Over a hundred miles from home,
The smell of turned earth and crops in the fields.
To the wedding of my cousin two days hence,
She was a lovely girl and I was very fond of her.
She was Mom’s oldest brothers’ only daughter.
All Mom’s family had come to attend the event.

Sleeping at an Uncles house,
Loud angry voices awakened us.
At only age seven, still a sound sleeper,
The voices actually frightened me awake,
Like a nightmare dream gone wrong.

Cursed shouting and some pushing,
Adults in night dress, robes and slippers.
The brothers and Dad still fully dressed.
In the middle of all that turmoil was my father,
Surrounded by Mom’s three larger brothers.
Dad was not a drinker,
But the Uncles had taken him out,
And drinking was not something new to them.  
One of them was nearly a professional at it.
Some years later he even died of it's effects.
The brothers were not normally mean spirited,
Yet always very protective of their little sister.
Perhaps they thought that,
No man, not even my Father,
Was good enough for their only sister.
A mistaken belief, that lasted for years.

A silly dispute had ensued,
My father’s pride was hurt,
A punch or two was thrown,
Landing where I do not know.  
Now, at two in the morning,
My Dad was ready to go home,
Nothing would stop him doing so.
Had any one tried further,
Someone was bound to get hurt.

My Mother intervened,
The car was hastily loaded,
As Dad sat behind the wheel.

My older brother and I still in our PJs,
Huddled in the back seat of the car,
Our eyes big and scared appearing,
For these were not normal events in our lives,
Before that night or since.

Mom desiring to be calm,
Attempting to reason with her husband,
A man having had too much to drink and
Suffering a bad case of wounded manly pride.
They were not two people used to conflict,
With each other, or anyone else.

The car was going far too fast,
This back in the days before seatbelts,
The fences and power poles were,
Speeding by in a blur of indistinct shapes,
Acted to further the unreality of that night,
Deepening my childish fright.

Suddenly the car swerved to the left,
And Mother screamed something,
The left front wheel struck an immovable object,
Our Chevy bounced into the air,
And my head smacked the ceiling.
The Rear wheel then hit and mounted,
The same hard object and once again,
For a moment I and my brother were in the air.

Our car was brought to a sudden stop half on,
Half off a concrete Traffic Lane Divider,
With three of us in that car, all crying.

I shall never forget the look
On my Father’s face,
As he peered into the back seat,
A truly remarkable expression,
Fear mixed with utter disgrace,
He stared at us for a moment,
Then turned his head forward.

In the rear view mirror,
I could see his eyes,
I watched them, as they turned to liquid.

My mother checked her sons quickly,
And then slid over to my Dad,
She whispered something,
I could not hear.
They sat there silent for a while,
My Father’s head lowered,
My Mom’s arm around his shoulder.

After a few minutes,
Dad opened his door and got out.
Mom leaned over the seat and comforted us.
Then got behind the wheel,
She almost never drove,
But backed the car off the concrete island,
Drove the three of us back to her Brother’s home.
My Dad swallowed up by the blackness of the night.

A few day later we returned to our home,
My Father was there waiting for us.
For the second and only other time in his life,
I saw my Father weep,
As on his knees he held us all tight to him,
He pleaded remorse and for our forgiveness.

I never saw my Father intoxicated again.
And of course we all forgave him.
I had learned something new that day,
My Father was not truly made of steel.  
As no mortal man ever is.
Stephen E Yocum Jan 2014
What is this thing,
This change in me,
What is this feeling,
That is happening to me?
This possessing of my spirit.
This seemingly lack of control,
That was not always so.

That a concerto slow turn,
Played and heard,
Renders me weak in the knees,
A sweet moment of human joy,
Or actual real grief,
Even viewed on a movie screen
Can tug at my heart so.

So too, a child’s sweet song,
Though sung off key.
A blazing sunset,
Orange and red,
A thrilling thing to behold.
Nature always a motivator,
All of these and more,
Pluck cords of my emotions,
Like the strings of a harp,
So easily reduce me to tears.
Not body shaking sobs mind you,
Just a slow gentle stream,
Nothing my sleeve can't deal with.  

"Men don’t cry",
"Sensitivity is only for women",
Or so I have always been told.
Well it’s taken me a long time,
But I have concluded this bias,
Is a load of unadulterated *******!
‘Cause as it turns out,
I actually enjoy it.
And see no reason I shouldn't.

Not to mention,
It keeps my tear ducts open,
And free flowing.
In touch as I am with my feelings.
Strange the changes that occur in us, be they age induced or
a softening of the heart. Maybe they were always there and
we held them back.
Stephen E Yocum Jan 2014
Behold the King!
The Monarch, he comes.
Men of High birth to bow at the waist,
Head down, avoiding direct eye contact,
Less the King perceive from them a threat.
Women of the Court a deep curtsey,
Eyes lovingly appraising and focused on his Majesty,
That he may appraise them in return,
Maidens in hopes of finding his favors.

Common people, to sprawl prostrate on their Faces,
Eyes always down cast, to never look upon his Royal Presence,
Thus in turn, never to be noticed by the King.

Alas, though commoner I be, I peeked a look and beheld,
To my surprise, the mighty King was completely naked!
Shocked even more to see, His Majesty publicly exhibiting,
His oh so, insignificant manly short comings.
That indeed, this so called Princely man was in truth,
No more nobler than me!
How strange it is to exalt one man above all others.
If by birth or some fame acquired. Skill with ball or
beauty of face, deep pockets filled with gold,
to worship one man above all others surely a
shallow human tendency of mortal disgrace.
"The Emperors New Clothes" being the seed
germ for this write. That and perhaps too much
actual personal observation of my fellow man.
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