A neighbors' barn caught fire
last night, full of newly bailed
hay, lit up the sky with yellow
glow and black smoke,
Many of us came running but
could do little but watch, it was
not a blaze controlled by a well
and a garden hose.

With a twenty minute response
time by our rural volunteer fire
department, having not enough
water in their two pumper trucks
to do much good, it burned for
hours and was a total loss.

In the morning after most everyone
had gone my stoic friend, a man
of 60 years and few words wept,
he had lost his tractor and his beloved
border collie herding dog in the flames,
Molly obviously not able or willing to
abandon her seven newly born pups.

He said, the barn, hay, even the tractor he
could replace, but "never my wonderful
sweet Molly girl."

We've a feral male cat on our
farm, with actions and attitudes
more like a small Lion on the
prowl, He slinks and preys on
rodents and birds, I've seen him
leap four feet high, take out a
small bird in mid flight.

Like any wild creature, he is
completely indifferent to us.
He does not wait outside my
door seeking human provided
food or passive affection like
our other cats, he would rather
hunt for his earned sustenance.

He sits or lays watching, on
elevated ground or high places
as Lions on African savannas do.
He radiates an independent
regal aloofness I can only
admire and aspire to.

He is the only cat on the place
without a given name, it seemed
superfluous to his dignified and
feral nature to call him by any
silly made up human name.

Some creatures are just born
wild and should never change.
This no name feline is one of them.

If we dwell on this mountain of
on going, scary daily breaking
news events we will be herded
like animals over an emotional
cliff, plunging down an abyss of
fear and extraneously induced
confusion into a dire collective
chasm of moral and physical
depression, perhaps as damaging
as the world wide plague itself.

Becoming a global population
infected with PTSD, wounded
casualties in the war of COVID-19.

Some, you Meet?
Some you meet are hollow,
Some have hides of steel,
Some are craven, witless dogs
While some know how you feel.
Most ambulate with caution, friend,
Tread the middle path
And then once, in a lifetime,
You’ll find that man with heart!
He’ll stand there like a solid rock
Deflect abuse and shame,
He’ll fight for trust with passion
He’s proud to bear his name.
He’ll shake your hand in kinship
And support you to the end….
That rarity in human kind,
That finding is your FRIEND!

M.
2 July 2020
Taranaki NZ
Dedicated with warmth to my very, very few, real friends.... but in particular to my old comrade in arms, Stephen E. Yocum
Written by
Marshal Gebbie  75/M/"Foxglove", Taranaki, NZ

      
Stephen E Yocum  comment/reply,
I am not the weepy sort,
but not too proud to shed
a tear when the emotions
of my spirit are moved by
family or friends, I have
known thousands of people
in my 75 years of life but very
few that I call my "Brother",
friends in a category all their
own, friends elevated to the
status of a loved family member.
That we two share this bond
of many years grants me leave
for thankful tears.

Your poem is a special gift,
thank you brother Marsh.

Midnight, bright moon,
breeze slightly soothing
the heat of day.
Scent of fresh blossoms
perfume strong in the
garden air.

Crickets in fine tune,
as are the frogs,
performing their endless
concert of night music.

Reluctant to let it go,
the day is ended now,
nearly indistinguishable
from the days before,
or the one tomorrow.
Retired with too much
time on my hands, days
bleed one into another.

What did I accomplish
today? Not much by some
peoples measure, not even
my own. . . But for one,

Spent time with my youngest
grandson, we talked in earnest
of things that mattered to
him, concerns and fears,
12 year old little boy things.
I listened, cajoled, advised,
shared some mistakes and
stories of my own youth. We
laughed, oh how we laughed.

He hugged me upon leaving
with tears of happiness and
relief in his eyes, told
me he loved me, twice.

Just a small encounter,
yet I believe he will
remember, perhaps
even be a little inspired.

For me brief sweet moments
invested, filled with precious
renderings of this wonderfully
special wholly worthwhile day,
not at all wasted, or the same.

As sleep pervades my thoughts
I will recall and cherish his laughter.
Perhaps tomorrow we will do it again.

Spring sun and breeze,
porch sitting at ease reflecting,
hip deep in tranquility, smiling
living well one breath at a time.
Possessing way more than enough.

Oh, what I miss most
is the closeness and
touch of a human hand.
A simple thing, one we
normally take for granted,
like my grandchildren's arms
around my neck. Handshakes
or hugs in greetings or farewells
with friends, all taken for granted
for years, lost to us for now,
but will eventually return.