With more life behind us than ahead,
as we age, though our futures dim,
our memories brighten each day
that remains.

The day crept by; we all held
our breaths. Tip Toeing on
egg shells, doing our collective
best. Attempting only forced
politeness and meaningless
small chat.

While avoiding the family elephant in
the room, our father's painful history
of attacking his kid's perceived many
faults and failings, with his long history
of nasty aggressive verbal abuse.

The tree was lighted, the room gaily
decorated with all the colorful Christmas
props of our childhood. Mom cooked her
best guess of each of our, once adolescent
favorite foods. My two sisters, my older
and younger brother and me too.

While Dad bit his tongue and tried to stay
hushed, as Mom had pleaded for days that
he should do.

Halfway through dinner and a few Hot
Buttered Rums, the small talk turned serious,
and just like that, we were all truly back
home again.

Grown adults quickly reduced to sniveling
petty children sitting at their curl and
domineering Father's dinner table.

Old wounds opened and bleed upon Mom's
best-treasured tablecloth. Food grew cold
for lack of interest, eyes flared and oaths of
profanity mingled with cheery Holiday Music
on the stereo.  Belligerence ensued and the old
man raged as one by one he verbally listed his
disappointments, at each of our many collective
faults. A string of loud insults and accusation
were exchanged and flung liberally about in
all directions.

Judy's new husband took a swing at Jason for
reasons unknown, and the women protesting
their loutish behavior, separated them.

Earl and his small clan fled out the door and
drove straight back to Emeryville with not one
word of goodbye having been uttered, leaving
his kids Presents, behind unopened.

In tears, Sandy ran back up to her old room as she
had always done to escape, only to discover, that
it had been turned into a "Home Office/Sewing Den."
All her things gone to the Goodwill or garbage bin.

Dad went to the cupboard and got his bottle of
Scotch and the rest of us all quickly adjourned.

Mom started to cry and never quit.

The Dog Days of Christmas had recommenced,
and all the Kings horses and all the Kings men
could never put our broken Castle together again.

I donned my helmet, swung a leg over my Hog
and headed for the mountains, leaving Christmas
and all of them in my rear-view mirrors.  

Just maybe, next year we will all try this again.

Jutted out square jaw,
horse gruff voice,
Smoky Bear Campaign
Hat pulled low almost
covering his intense
glaring eyes. Hat Brim
slung rakishly low,
three regulation fingers
above the bridge of his nose.

Criticizing profanities
hurled from his mouth
like exploding grenades,
tongue lashing orders
and corrections his
stock and trade.

Everything about
him is tight and
fully squared away.

Gets in your face
so close you can
smell what he had
for lunch, barking
spraying projectile
spittle that standing
at rigid attention you
cannot wipe away.

Hard earned lessons
taught and learned
that last for a life time.

Tormentor, teacher
mentor, hated at first,
respected and loved
by the end.

Old Dogs live a basic straight forward
life, they sleep, wake, ***, eat, defecate,
sit or lay in the sun, sleep some more
and repeat. One day much the same as
the next. Once in a while they chase a
cat, bark at a passing car, but not often,
or for long. Never breaking a sweat.

I can not help but notice that my old
human guy life has become not so very
different than that of my old canine buddy.
Everything reduced to the simplest
of basic animal equations.

That first night sky in the high desert
was fully unexpected, with no moon yet
the lighted canopy of brilliant heavenly
sparkling bodies appeared so dense and
near that at first view I felt perhaps I must
duck down so as to not bump my head
into a star or two.

City and town skies are muted by city lights,
only a few stars visible even on a clear night.
High Desert skies are so densely packed it
takes your breath away, you can sit for hours
with your mouth agape in contemplative
wonderment, mesmerized by the sheer vast
splendor of the heavens dense blanket of
shimmering lights out into infinity and beyond.
No telescope required.

I was head down at my desk,
it came wafting, on a whispering
breeze through my open window
like a belated bouquet of spring
flowers, the refreshing long awaited
essence of life on our planet, gentle
new autumn rain upon thirsty earth,
plants and yellowing summer grass.

No other ethereal scent is like it.
The enticing fragrance of rebirth
and replenishment.

And what a fine, long needed
gift of nature this is.

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 it's trailer bin.

Fifty acres by Noon they're told,
"Get it done, or get gone!"
"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,
Shields from the sun, now
the 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 harshly reminded.

I watch and read a book upon my shady porch,
My promenade to the world.
Morning coffee giving way,
To afternoon's ice cold Lemonade.
I observe from my distant knoll,
like a unfettered bird in the sky,
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.
Worked in three piece suits, fresh 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,  
Doing  work that only slaves would do,
Back in yesterday.
To put food on our tables,
Grease the wheels of our industries.
Put meager food in their mouths,
and fuel their own life's 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 show some empathy

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 fields,
Chasing that same dammed tractor,
Walking miles, going no place at all.

While I've done other things,
Leisure, cardio stationary bike,
(No need to take a hike.)
Intellectual stimulation enjoyed,
Eaten twice and rested well.
But not so those people across the way,
They now merely indistinct bent shapes,
Upon, an ever darkening landscape,
Smudges of smoldering black forms,
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 hoped for passports, to "Possibility",
and for staying in the game.