It seems we spend our whole lives
always waiting for something.

Babies for their mother's breast.
Children and adults, waiting for
the approval and admiration of
other people.
Smiles from anywhere that reassure.
Food, always food.
More Shinny Stuff to amuse and thrill.
Meaningful love from somewhere
that might actually endure.
Annoying Long lines for one thing
or the other and eventually everything.
More Love, always fleeting, forever love.
Awaiting knowledge and wisdom long
sought that may never come.

In midlife awaiting, our own
needed, highly anticipated
self-respect.
The arrival of every Spring.
The tranquility of Nature.
Every inspiring sunrise.
A walk in the orchard with
our best friend.
Some elusive understanding and
meaning of Love and Life itself.

In advanced age, we wait mostly
for the end, one that lurks like a
thief right around the bend of this
our all too short life's journey.

We mere mortals too often forget who is actually
in charge on this spinning spaceship, we call Earth.
We are but passengers, ungrateful ones at that, we
use up, litter and destroy, we foul the very air we
breathe, our excrement and discarded waste clogs
and pollutes the oceans, creeks and rivers.
We callously **** other living creatures for sport
mounting their heads as trophies on our walls.
Not because we are hungry.

We are the only creatures on earth that make war
on and **** our own kind. Flawed, evil or just stupid?
Perhaps all these labels apply.

For our wasteful transgressions Nature will one day
purge us from the planet and we will deserve that
retribution. A dire and stark reality, but one need
only look around to see the direction things are going.
There are no lifeboats on this ship and no deity above
to save us.

And in the end the streams will again run clear, and the
air will be fit to breath. The green things will flourish,
and the small creatures of wing and four legs will once
again, rule the days. Humankind will be purged from
the earth, leaving nothing of any merit behind to mark
our passing. As if we never existed.

Oh, little grey cat,
come sit on my lap.
and snuggle like
my old departed
feline used to do.

Too independent
as cats tend to be,
maybe in time you
will perch on my lap
and purr contentedly.

Truth be told, I fully
understand your
affection shown is
way more about your
needs than mine.
The rest of the time
you could not care less.
Cats are the ultimate
animal hedonist.

We have become almost as one,
he reads my moods, knows when
I am not feeling well and shows
his concern.

Even in rest he keeps an eye on me.
As a shadow, he follows me.
From room to room, on outdoor
walks, by my side, content, alert.

When I return home, he is always
there standing sentry by the door,
greeting me excitedly not unlike a
human child on Christmas morn.  

He lives his life only to be close
to me. Sleeps peacefully all night
on his bed, right next to mine.
Loyal is inadequate to explain his
devotion.

Going on ten years of nearly 24/7
days a week companionship, he
understands most of what I say
to him, even my subtle hand gestures
of beckoning or command bring
his eager compliance.

Like me he has grown grey of muzzle
and brow, we are limping and aging
together now. He still has his moments
of Puppy like behavior, brief flashes of
his once inexhaustible abundant youth,
tempered now just as mine has too.

He loves me with his expressive brown
eyes and I see it plain as a sunrise of a
new day. His pace and behavior tell me
that our time together is growing short.
This reality does so pain my heart

Alone, depressed, in a hospital room bed,
when out in the hall appeared a little
well-dressed elderly woman pushing a
two wheeled cart, upon which set a large,
beautiful orchestral harp, it's burnished wood
gleaming and strings reflecting a golden light.

My door was open, and she paused in the
hall and sat on a stool and began to play.
A haunting classical piece I did not know.
When she was finished, I lightly clapped
my hands together, smiled in appreciation,
She asked, "Another perhaps?"
"Yes, Clair De Luane if you please"

She wheeled her harp a little into
my room. Settled herself and began to
play. After only a few cords the lovely
melody refrain reached deep into me,
and I began to unashamedly weep.

The frustrations of confinement, operation
pain and infection, along with the depressions
of aging and loss of my youthful capabilities
came pouring out.

That little lady, her magical harp and that tune
reached deep into my soul.  I was uplifted
and renewed.

I implore you not to judge
me by my failings of youth,
but by my humble good
deeds and achievements
acquired through the
wisdoms of maturity
gained.

Maturation is a process.
We are born into ignorance
and can but strive eventually
to overcome it.

In the cold dreary, wet,
months of each year the
predominant irritating
"Craw-craw" raucous
calls of crows are nearly
the only bird voices to be
heard. The instigators,
Provocateurs of disruption.

The logical, less hardy
and beautiful birds all
gone south for the winter,
taking their inoffensive
lovely and melodic song
voices with them.
I eagerly await their return.