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Stephen E Yocum Sep 2016
It was my birthday,
Sixty Five years turned to grey hair.
My love and I, and two old school
friends on a breezy Fall day.

Over Tea and a lovely frosted
three layer cake, we cajoled
and joked about our age,
all turned senior citizens that year.
And yet in truth, we all agreed,
none of us had ever been as happy as then.

The cake was sliced onto china plates,
Each piece served flat on it's cut side.
I noticed something then as we all
took our first bites.

Our forks all started at the thinnest corner,
on the bottom layer's side, gradually
excavating the two lower levels of fluffy
cake, saving the best for last, the top layer
where all the sweet frosting remained.

It occurred to me then that indeed life
is like a three layer cake, the last top layer
can indeed contain the sweetest bites.
That rather than gobbling life hurriedly whole
it should be savored more like patiently eating
and enjoying a three layer cake.
It is not my birthday today but thanks
to those of you nice people for the good
BD wishes. It relates to everyone's aging.
More of a metaphorical assessment of
a universal theme. Actually, I'm a Taurus.
(If you know your signs, perhaps that explains
a lot about me.) :-) And sadly I'm well past
being 65.
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2016
Brief moments of painful heartaches occur to
remind us how wonderful life is the rest of the time.
One far outweighs the other.
(A personal thought of encouragement written
for a friend in need.)
Stephen E Yocum Aug 2016
I know within my eyes you see my hurt, but
do you know my pain when you exclude me?
Throw me but scraps from this table of life.
Chain up my freedom, for you convenience.
With force, enforce your many rules, most
of which I am not aware of until you yell or hit.
I try so hard to please you in every way and yet
you treat me more like a possession than a friend.
Do you even know I would die to save you or this
family from harm, that is how I'm made.

Know this, my Master, for all the thoughtless things
you do, like leaving me in an overheated parked car
at the store yesterday, I, your ever faithful canine friend,
forgive you and always will, 'cause that is how I'm made.

Now can we talk about that new flea collar thing?
I hate to complain, but I do so itch!
Little ditty just for giggles. Yet ringed in truth.
If your's could talk what might they say to you?
Stephen E Yocum Aug 2016
His name was Bing,
one eye grey the other blue
an Australian Cattle Dog
the best I ever knew.
Cows or Sheep he was the man.
Nipping at their heels, heading
them where you bid them go.
Smart as a whip, quick as a bullet,
Work all day for a pat on the head.

One early day no Bing appeared,
Strange 'cause he was always the first
into the truck bed, first in the pasture,
first to work, the last to quit.

We called out his name many times,
began a search, buildings to barns, silo
to shed. In the center of a cut hay field,
I saw him, hunkered down not moving.
The boss and me approached and called
to him, yet still, he did not seem to hear.

At twenty feet he stood up quick,
turned to face us with a ****,
his eyes burned with hell's fire,
his muzzle and jowls were awash in foam,
his deep-throated growl a caution warned.

Not much doubt he'd been skunk bit,
was beyond redemption touched in rabies fit.
I was sent on the run to fetch
the long gun from the truck.

We approached him careful like,
I was still panting from my run.
The boss cocked the lever,
chambering a round into the gun.

Bing's eyes looked to be pleading,
as if to ask that we end his pain.
In his crazed anguished state,
he could have reached us in a flash
spread the contagion to our flesh,
yet through instinct or love
old Bing held his ground,
awaiting his inevitable fate.

I tried to swallow but had no spit,
and then the rifle thundered
and stung my ears,
One shot through the head
took old Bing's pain away.

The Boss, a hard-edged man of fifty
began to silently weep like a child of five,
the loss of his dog too much to abide.
I must admit my tears weren't far behind.

We bore him from the field
like an honored fallen warrior.
Buried him in the yard by the house,
He deserved that respect and more.
Over fifty years later and I still think fondly
of old Bing. His actual name was Bingo, but
we all called him Bing, either way, he did not
seem to have a preference, even a shrill whistle
of summoning pitch, would do to bring him near.
Unlike most dogs, he did not crave human attention,
he lived for his work, that was about all he needed.
Stephen E Yocum Jul 2016
Alone, the old man sits staring out the ***** window,
seeing only what was, looking back not ahead.
The clock is ticking, it is his eleventh hour.
In his last days, this was a man I held dear.
His plight in time, I and you shall too endure.
But, oh what memories sustained his breath,
his heart filled to overflowing. He died leaving
much behind and not at all alone, loved by many.
In his time, on this Earth, he did good works.
Stephen E Yocum Jul 2016
Within the unfolding creation of this Earth,
with its majestic mountains and valleys,
its rocks and trees, its life-giving streams and seas,
Surely man was but a minor afterthought
no more important than birds, or snakes.
Only we see ourselves as exalted above all other
living things. Our opinion is highly overrated
and wholly underserved.
Keeping some perspective, we destroy more than
we contribute to the planet, we feed our excessive
hedonism rather than our humanity. We take more
than we need and we bring other life forms to extinction.
It could be said mankind is the destroyer, not the creator.
Our goals and importance should be seriously reevaluated.  
We already live in and on Heaven, stop planning on
some mystical afterlife, a heaven in the sky, we have it
all right here, most of us just do not know it.
Perspective is everything.
Stephen E Yocum Jul 2016
Creation in a dew drop, seed to grass, sapling to tree,
***** to egg, to progeny. All is life, a pattern seen,
Continually repeated, yet never just the same.

The cycles of life do churn,
while time passes undisturbed.
All living things diminishing in turn,
until reaching our fragile, predictable ends.

Blue Orb Earth continues to spin and
creation persists, seemingly forever undeterred.
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