I thought Snake Oil Salesmen were
a relic of the past, standing up on a stage dispensing
blatant lies and bogus even dangerous cures for
exaggerated imagined illness and or personal fears.

I thought we ran all of them out of town,
suitably tarred and feathered,
Riding on a hitching post rail.
Perhaps some things never change.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry.
Step right up folks!
In this little bottle, I hold in my hand,
is a magic elixir of my own imagination and invention,
That is absolutely-unconditionally guaranteed
To Make America great again,
All I ask for this be all, cure all, is one small vote
cast for me, crowning me King of all there is."

Now where did we put that rail?

It was my first Cathedral,
Cavernous and nearly silent.
Dark enough that I closed,
My eyes giving them time
To adjust to the depths,
Of it's shadowed blackness.

Languid slanting rays
Of penetrating sunshine,
Alive with moving mists,
Of floating, rotating dust,
The only source of light.

The bittersweet scents,
Of venerable age mixed,
With fodder and animal waste,
Not at all unpleasant to sniff.

Leather tack hung on walls,
Awaiting the call to work.
Long delayed, and overlooked,
Replaced by mechanical steeds,
Wheels and blades of steel.

Neatly festooned wall hooks
Displaying wooden handled
Hard-worn steel hand tools,
Flecked with rust, chipped by use.

The choir was in the rafters,
Pigeons’ and Doves
Cooing Heavenly Hymns.
Occasionally the murmur of,
Feathers flapping on high,
Like the sounds,
Of Angels wings.

I climbed the ladder,
Into the Loft up high,
Followed by a friendly,
Old one eyed Barn Cat,
I recall his name was Cy.

Old Cy who knew,
All the good places,
To explore and secretly hide.
And too, where tasty rodents
Were found in heavenly,
bountiful supply.

That lofty perch,
Among the penetrating
slanting rays of sunlight
Inspired a fathomless hush
of contemplation and inner bliss,
I'd never known before, or since.

We sat silent for many minutes,
In a state of transfixed repose,
Old Cy and I, speaking not a word.  

We crawled among stacked bales,
Of fragrant fresh cut hay,
Like a lofty Fortress built for us,
Playing and imagining,
Endless flights of fantasy,
Long into the eve of day.

Yes, my Grandfather’s
Old wooden Barn,
Was indeed a magical,
Reverent and sacred place,  
As any formal denominational
house, of any faith can be.

If ever, I truly felt,
The presence of Holy Grace
Surely it was within,
That impressionable
all inspiring place.

Even fleeing memories
of a long ago small boy,
Have not diminished,
That big Cathedral's
Prevailing, exalted space.
Spiritually overseen by,
An old, feline, one-eyed
clergyman named Cy.

My breath like smoke
upon autumn's morn.

Into my boot chill water seeps,
the stream runs icy clear and deep.

He comes up swiftly, turns,
sees my fly and does reverse,
takes a pass and eyes the prize,
quickly I ****** back my line.

He is big and brown,
speckled and Steelhead sleek.
  
I cast again,
briefly let it float,
where he was
only a moment ago.

The silvers of his belly flash,
he rolls and rises
takes another look,
ever so sly and cautious,
or so he thinks.

Does this beauty not know,
I'm strictly Catch and Release?

I hastily entered the elevator,
my mind focused on my meeting
atop the 24th floor.  

Walked to the rear and turned,
putting my back against the wall.
The car mostly full.

She stood next to me, slightly in front
close enough that I could smell the sweet
bouquet of her body and hair.

More riders boarded the car nearly full,
She pushed up against me a little,
turned just her head and smiled,
apologizing softly.

Her freshly washed hair was piled up upon
her head, swept back on the sides,  up off
her neck, held in place by a pair of tortoise
shell combs, with but one brownish blond
stray lock hanging loose, resting upon
the collar of her yellow summer dress.  

A small single pearl earring adorned each
of her lobs. Her profile was enchanting, the
curves of her slender neck enticing, and inches
from my face. I closed my eyes and breathed
deeply her essence, just as the doors on the 14th
floor intruded.

Half the riders exited the car and though there
was more room, neither of us moved from where
we stood. I could feel the warmth of her body
on my right thigh, my hip, my chest.

The 20th floor was hers, the doors opened,
She took one step, half turned and smiled
at me, her eyes were of the deepest blue as
if lit from within. And then she was gone.

On two other occasions, I explored that 20th
floor, seeking by chance, to find her, without
success. It has been many years since that day,
and still, like a photograph, her image, even
her scent; earthy sweet like lavender in bloom
are etched forever into my memory.

And yet, I never saw her again.

Way back in my youth,
I looked at "Time" as my friend,
Now, I'm not so sure.

"Tiss that time of year,
the field rodents run,
the big machines hum,
the snakes slither,
gofers go deeper,
all to avoid the whirling blades,
dust clouds rise and damper the sun,
scavenger birds look for eatable pieces.
Harvest time busy the crops to gather.

Gravel crunches beneath my feet,
the meadowlark sings it's song,  
Low morning sun breaking upon the dawn.

Across the valley the back lit blue Cascades
majestically fence off the Eastern sky,
as if to hold back the light.
Mount Hood wears the emerging sun,
like a lighted crown upon her regal peak.

Out in the valley harvested golden wheat
fields stand side lighted and resplendent,
stalks shimmering with nighttime dew.  

Ground hovering Fog off the river,
to the eyes delight, rising with the sun.
Crisp clean air as Fall descends,
blowing chill breath around my ears.
Oh how sweet to be right here,
and look upon this sight.