A light cold rain began to fall, I could see my
breath like smoke in the air, our brief Fall had
become our early Winter, I chill quivered in
response, and zipped up my jacket. Also, my
aging legs required a brief respite, I had not
intended to walk so far.

Taking shelter under a river birch tree, I huddled
and shivered beneath the hood of my rain parka.
The creek less than five feet away flowed briskly
past, swollen with three days of rain, all around
me falling like confetti, golden Birch leaves slowly
fluttered down upon the surface of the creek,
glimmering on the dark water like so many tiny
glowing Japanese lanterns, quickly swept away
downstream.

Within minutes, those leaves that made it that far
would float, or flow into the Willamette River,
and by nightfall some would find their way into
the mighty Columbia River, forty miles distant.
Just maybe, perhaps by tomorrow a few might
actually, find their way West to reach and mix
into the salty Pacific Sea.

What a nearly wonderous journey to behold and
contemplate, one tiny footnote in the many chapters
and story within the pages of nature's earthly playbook.
All things in balance, all with a purpose.

I have stepped in about everything, one time or another,
Bubble gum, Cow and pig waste, dead critters remains
in the woods, the putrid upchuck of someone's late night
over celebrating. Mostly you name it I have trod in it.
Today on a shoping spree, in the outdoor alcove entrance
of an upscale store in the city center, it was a pile, or two
of ill smelling human excrement, an experience that is
guaranteed to take the wind right out of your sails.

The warning should have been a line of small camping
tents out on the sidewalk belonging to the "dispossessed"
"Un Housed" as they are being referred to lately. The sad
shadowy street people, the dropouts and drug addicted
given up on life, as most of us know it. Living in filthy
unsanitary conditions we pretend not to see, dwelling in
a miserable existence we would not allow our loved dogs
or cats to endure. The lost, throw away human beings all
around us unwashed, ignored and overlooked.

Where has our collective humanity gone, where are we as a
nation headed? Is the world we thought we knew falling apart?
This is a basic humanitarian issue that all of us should step into.

When I was young the days seemed longer,
the weeks and months, even a year an eternity,
then the ensuing speeding decades seemed to
melt away like winter snows. Reminding me
that life is a brief and fleeting thing not to be
taken for granted or wasted.

Winter chills have come a little early,
the Cascade mountains to the east
covered with fresh snow, a warming
blaze in my fireplace, the first of the
season, I sit content with a hot mug
of tea, life is good and now returned
to mostly normal.

I do so enthusiastically enjoy normal.

Two painful events led to a hospital
and a team of cardiologists, lots
of tests ensued, a plugged artery
in my heart they informed, a stent
procedure in a few days will hopefully
solve the problem and I can get back to
normal living, normalcy you see is a very
good thing. Not to be taken for granted.

As the crow flies, my farm is less than two
miles from the Willamette River that flows
deep and brown through the fertile valley
of the same name, in Northwest Oregon.
From my porch upon a hill, I have views
out over that valley looking east and north
and as fall comes around, early morning
light and dampness transfers hints of rich
river scents, this added moisture paired
with the absents of wind pervades and
manifests an enveloping shroud of silence,
with low moving banks of slow white
ghostly ground fog that renders striking
visual contrasts to the landscape, with its
stands of emerald evergreen trees, and
autumn dressed orange and yellow leaved
varieties of deciduous ones, along with
sculpted brown newly plowed fields.
Another of Nature's own fleeting ever
changing painted canvases that never
disappoints.

One must rise early at first light on these
chilly morning to witness this seasonal
panoramic scene, but it is always worth
the effort. And what the heck, I'm retired,
I can snap some photos and always crawl
back into my nice warm bed to sleep, or
merely cogitate on what I've been witness to.

No scholarships came, two years of
college and football down the drain,
lack luster grades did me in, so
floundering a bit, almost 20 years old,
what next? Some change of scene and
a little adventure sounded good.

Like some dream or nightmare, in the
dark at 2 AM, I found myself standing
at rigid attention atop yellow painted
footprints, upon the very threshold of
manhood, in front of a building wearing
a large red and yellow sign that proclaimed
"Receiving Barracks", as two very indignant
faced formidable looking men in smoky
bear hats moved rapidly in and around
us harshly issuing selected colorful insult
profanities, to confuse and befuddle, issuing
our stunned stupefied group the riot act, at
the very top of their intimidating loud voices,
while ejecting bits of too close up spittle into
the faces of our band of mostly scared kids,
many of whom were no doubt starting to
regret their rash decisions in having joined
up for this. I however was kind of enjoying
the pulse pounding moment in an odd sort
of way.

And so those 90 hectic exhausting days
of boot camp had abruptly commenced.

That old clock is ticking away,
the days bleed on one into another,
mostly all the same, nothing much
new to report here. I do what I can,
what my aged body will allow.
A limited return on my investment
I guess, but still finding little joys
that sustain me, mostly given up
on big dreams and illusions, anyway
being rich and famous was never on
my wish list agenda, all in all it's been
a very good run, with strong family
love given and received, our linage
prospers and continues, that is after
all the only real reason any of us, man
bird or beast were put on this earth.

To believe otherwise is but a
human delusion that in the end
matters not in the least.

I walked the woods today,
strolled under the quite shade of
towering old growth evergreens,
their scent upon me conveyed
simple peaceful solitude, there were
birds and squirrels unconcerned
with me, busy with their own pursuits.
A young Deer browsing raised his
antlered head for a quick peek, then went
right back to eating. For a moment I felt as
if I was the only human in the world and
that thought did not disturb me in the least.

There is electricity in the air,
I feel it on the back of my neck.
The morning sun from the east
is fading, ominous blue black
clouds are massing to the west,
announced by the sounds of the
distant percussions like kettle
drums, beating and rolling.

It's getting closer now, the thudding
of drumbeats have become the earth
shaking booms of bursting cannon
roars, streaks and flashes of lightning
flare and detonate, their reverberations
felt for miles around, our chickens
flee into their coops, cows disclaim
their pasture for the shelter of the
barn, the yard cats run full tilt back
to their sheltered beds on the porch.
The birds have gone to ground,
vanishing to hide away in the trees.

Visibility east into the valley is fast
disappearing socked in by clouds
and mist, becoming rain pouring.
The exploding thunder shakes the
windows and rattles the doors.

When the thunder momentarily
subsides, an ominous still quite
pervades the land, as all of we
helpless creatures remain holding
our collective breaths. Suddenly a
steady hard rain loudly pelts the
roof and pings the skylights of my
living room.

Mother Nature now rules the day,
and we all remain at her benevolent
Mercey.

Humans are born into this world encumbered
with ignorance and spend a lifetime endeavoring
to overcome its grip. Sadly, most of us never do.

The evening shades have descended
and a peaceful darkness is upon the land.
Clear star filled skies and a new moon on
the rise.

The frogs and crickets are in fine fiddle,
their night music in tune, romancing the
air with their hypnotic rhythmic tempo.
The garden fountain is playing along, water
sounds join the musical chorus as does the
light fresh westerly breeze rustling the leaves
of my two garden birch trees. Truly a musical
symphony to my old man ears. Another
tranquil night interlude heard and enjoyed.
Add a purring cat on my lap, I am content.

How fine it is to see
these waves roll
upon my beach,
To watch the sun dance
and play its light on
the water, like a vast
array of precious gems.

What a joy to feel the cool
power of the tide curling
around my legs.

These same waves perhaps
have embraced a thousand
other beaches, and have
belonged to strangers unknown,

But today these waves, this beach,
this moment belongs to me alone.

Today is not as dark as two days ago,
there is light at the end of the tunnel.
Joe is a good man, and he knows when
to stay and when to go, for the good of
the nation and the world.

Now, with the VP, put Pete Buttigieg on
the ticket and Trump will be out of all our
lives and maybe in jail where he certainly
belongs.

I know a woman of color and a gay man may
sound implausible to many but I think the
country is ready. A near brush with a crazy
want to be Fascist dictator is a very sobering
wake up call, it changes opinions and scares
people to open their minds up to new and better
possibilities. Perhaps it will expel the crazy Maga
Trump *** kissers from congress so our nation
can heel its wounds and divisions and we can
rise from beneath the evil specter of Trump and
all his misguided minions.

Kamala and Pete are both very smart and super
capable people. Born leaders. It's time the voters
thought with their heads and not their lame skewed
and bias petty prejudices.

Are we addled sheep or thinking human beings?
We have 105 days to get our collective **** together.
I think we can do it. I just pledged $200 to support
the Dem Presidential Campaign, the first time in
my life ever donating to any politician's election.
If not now, when? I have a feeling I will not be alone
in this regard and desire for change.

I do not seek the darkness,
the low road, the negative
thoughts and deeds, the
follies of my fellow human
beings have no place with me.
What is truth and what is not,
opinionated talking heads
spewing and spreading doom
and gloom like peanut butter
on fresh white bread.
I prefer some strawberry jam
on my PBJs and feel-good
smiles afterwards. Not heart
burn and an upset stomach.

For a time, this morning my
inner yard and porch looked
like a festive circus of delight.
Three outside cats joined for
a time by my inside feline put
on quite a show. Running and
jumping into the air, chasing
anything that flew in the ether
or quickstepped through the
lawn or dirt. Insects on the wing,
Shrews scooting through the grass.
Lightning fast furballs even chasing
one another around bushes, plants,
up trees and down again and around
the water fountain, like a pod of excited
children happily at play in a city park,
unbridled morning exuberance in the
most delightful way!

Perhaps, maybe, just for my enjoyment
or so I would like to think. But in reality
it was merely happy cat behavior on display
just for their own hedonistic amusement.

How many wonderful canine companions
have come through my life, I hesitate to count,
each one a dear friend that brightened my
daily existence, taught me lessons no human
could, faithfully loved me with committed
devotion and asked for so very little in return.
Yes, it is true, dogs are man's best friend.

As wee kittens she and her brother
were gifted to us from a neighboring
farm up the hill, a pair from a litter of
feral felines, welcomed on our place
as mousers and ratters.

Mostly they lived around the barn,
strolled and policed the property as
their domain. The male was always
by his disposition aloof, had no need
of close human contact, content to be
independent and on his own.

His sister was more inclined to draw
nearer, curious and at times amenable
to a pat on the head, or a small dish of
cat food. And the bearer of gifts in the
form of parts of the remains of her kills
deposited on my porch door threshold.
Proof I suppose of her doing her job,
or in gratitude for my feeding her.

One day her brother was predator taken,
though she stayed on her job, she became
a more frequent visitor to my porch, with
her litter mate gone perhaps she had become
lonely and needed companionship.

It has been a few years since the loss of
her brother and now she comes everyday
morning and evening, or whenever I call
her in. Running full speed to eagerly rub
against my legs, or flop down atop my feet,
wanting a belly rub, purring and ever so
glad to see me. For all her given affection,
she is not a fan of being picked up and held.
It offends, maybe threatens her half wild nature.

No where to be seen, yet when I go out to the
road to get the mail, to the barn or orchard
before I walk 30 feet, there she is running close
behind me, as if she had been waiting just for
that very occasion.

She is over ten now getting old like me,
she is around my inner yard or the porch
most of the time, I even let her inside the
house from time to time, she and my inside
cat, get along fine. Drink from the same
water bowl, eat side by side. They enjoy
playing together, I think he is smitten by
her as only a neutered male cat can be.

But always at some point, as if she hears
a distant calling, she goes to the door and
let's me know she is ready to return to her
life outside. Instincts are difficult to ignore.

There is no finer fresh breeze
to be had then those mingled
tropical scents of open seas,
coconut palms, flowering plants,
clean white sands and fresh caught
fish frying over an open fire, while
reclined upon a near deserted
pristine island beach with new
convivial friends recently met.

What is this mania of over the top
self-absorption that appears to be
running amok, this social dementia
annoying egotism, where it seems
everyone is constantly posing and
publicly auditioning for attention.

Cellphones and Social media two
of the abetting culprits, deluding
the populace that constant selfies
a star does make. Get a blog, be a
celebrity, go on TV? Self-promotion
and crass Exhibitionism has become
a vexing preoccupation. Striving for
LIKES and Followers sending and
Trending, seeking the adulations of
strangers out in the cloud that they
will never actually meet.

What happened to modesty, or
self-restraint? Have we all lost
our minds? When did being an
average normal well-adjusted
human become not enough.
When did humility become
undesirably passe? Are we all
truly that insecure?

From youth, not unlike the love
I received from my family, I surmised,
that extended love might be everywhere.
With artless, open arms and heart,
I embraced this simple notion.
In time, sadly this childish wish
was honed to a hard truth by maturation.

Friends and loves come
and go, fleeting in heart,
and committed soul.
Unreliably, flowing in and ebbing out,
like deep undulations of an ocean,
all too often with sneaker waves
that pull us under. Breakers pushing
our ship onto the rocks, in a sea
of shallow unfulfilled expectations.
Encounters becoming disappointment,
with too many frogs kissed.

My educated suspicion is,
beyond our family of blood kin,
Faithful canine love is the only
other "truly committed devotion"
we are likely to get.

In the end, that may well be enough.
Perspective wisdom can be a bitter lesson.

He came from money, had
several Ivy League University
Degrees, lived a long life,
traveled, had three ex-wives,
no kids, no dog, big empty
house, Cadillac car with low
miles seldom used by him.

Bragged he was always well
informed, he knew it all and
would pontificate as much at
the drop of a hat. He never
donated to any good cause.

He liked to boast that
he never voted in an
election. Waste of time
or so he maintained.
Though he did gift large
sums of money to certain
political candidates, that
in return would do him
certain business favors.
And he never paid much in
personal or business Taxes.

He died alone in his recliner
chair with the TV remote in
his hand, watching Fox News.
In the end that was his only
friend and social connection.
It was avarice and ignorance
that did him in. A wasting
terminal disease of his soul
that neutered his humanity.

I worship the stars, the moon,
the sun, this earth I stand upon.
Nature and all the peaceful
living breathing creatures that
share this space, the rivers that
course, the oceans that ebb and
flow. The rains that keep us green
the fields that keep us fed.
The ancient tribal people knew
this and put their faith in nature
and the celestial universe and they
thrived for thousands of years.
Some of my modern fellow humans
don't seem to understand, that all
this we already have is truly our
Heaven on Earth.

My almost grown grandsons
see only a stooped withered
old man when they look at me,
no clue of the young man I used
to be. Or where I have been, the
things I've done. They've only
known me like this. Even 20
years ago, when they were born
I was already a senior citizen.

In my mirror I also see what they
see and can barely recall that
once upon a time younger me.

Time and the elements move
on leaving erosion behind upon
mountains and people too.

In the end we are the sum
total of the efforts we invested,
or conversely our failed deficiency
in that regard. With no one to
appreciate or blame, but ourselves.

A conversation and all
human communications
require more than just
one single person talking.
It's a two party exchange
of giving and receiving.
If one party is obsessed
with only incessant "I or
Me" topics and hardly ever
pauses to take an occasional
breath, it becomes a discourse
of self-absorbed hedonistic
over glorification, and the
other person (s) might just
tune out, elect to walk away,
or hang up the phone.

These sybaritic talkers may
merely find their dog, or
house cat and bore them
with their narcissistic prattle.

If their critters wish to eat
they are obliged to at least
appear to be listening.
The rest of us have no such
obligation.

There it is again, flecks of fresh
brown earth flying up from out of
my lawn, several new dirt mounds
signaling their return, our battle
for this turf will now recommence.
We have ten acres, why must they
pick my garden to make their
subterranean homes?
I rub them out and more ****
gophers replace the departed
ones. They tweak my nose and
toy with me as if I were the
mouse and they the cat. But
they are grievously mistaken.
If it is war they want, it is war
they will get. Let the battle
commence.

Reaching this bend in the road and
looking back, it's hard to see where
I've been or going. With no hesitation
felt, continuing on is all that matters
and all that remains.

Our journeys never really end, even
death is but another bend in the road.

The gulls sweep in, squawking
sky spiraling upon clear sun bright
morning air, perhaps disputing
my unintended trespass into
their natural domain.

The comical Puffins have returned,
doing their Charlie Chaplin waddle
across the surf rippled sand, eating
whatever comes to beak or hand.

The ocean's salty wet scents embrace
me like an old friend. Flipping off
my croc clogs I roll up my pant legs,
to feel the comforting sand and shallow
surf between my toes, to be one with
this wonderful day and our mother the
sea. Reverting to being a child again
for an hour or two, mostly alone on
this beach, say for the birds, waves
and sun upon my face.

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 our exaggerated imagined illness and or
personal fears.

I thought we ran all of them out of town,
suitably tarred and feathered, riding on
a splintered hitching post rail.

"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 heel what ails you and 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, and your money to get
me there."

For the weak of mind and of poor judgement
his bombastic lies and falsehoods are irresistible
even dangerous, yet still they reach deep into
their pockets to buy what he is selling.

Now where did we put that rail?
Decency and intelligence should
rule the day, not stupidity and
meanness of heart. Run that orange
charlatan out of town, or better yet
lock him up and throw away the key.

Our beauty outside is a fleeting thing,
is but a mask we all wear. And in time
something we must all surrender, when
the mask we see in our mirror is no
longer pleasing. But it's the beauty
within us that truly matters, and once
discovered and acknowledged never
really disappears.

Outer beauty can be seen with
a glance. Inner beauty must be
discovered. By ourselves firstly
and then recognized by others
who care enough to dig a little
deeper.

The small family of four
were mixed into a crowd
of tired nearly exhausted
and disheveled long distant
travelers. Most having walked
overland for many weeks from
their homelands in Central or
South America driven by the
desire to escape physical danger
and abject poverty, all seeking a
new beginning. Men and women
many with babies or children in
their arms or upon their backs.
Willing to risk everything to reach
the Promised land.

Nearing their objective their paths
are blocked by a tall fence of steel
and barbwire, behind which stand men
with guns and snarling barking dogs.

And upon that barrier wall are posted
many signs some written others implied
in several languages that read.
"Stop!" "No Trespassing! "
"No Vacancies! Full up!"
"No Vagrants need Apply!"
"No work Here!"
"Not accepting any new applicants!"
"Move along no loitering allowed!"
"Go Back Where You Came From!"
"THIS BORDER CLOSED!"
"Violators are subject to having your
children taking from you, and or
you arrested or being shot!"

The disheartening collective message
being, you are not welcome here.
We got ours and you can't have any!

Much of my life has been invested in
nurturing my children to embrace kindness.
To practice and project decency in their
lives and thus reap the rewards that good
behavior does inspire. To revere and embrace
love given and received.

They will be bequeathed some material riches
when I am gone, but these moral principles
and lessons passed down to me from my folks
are my most enduring and valuable legacy.

My lifelong desire is that my offspring pass on
these values to their future progenies, as there
is no greater human gift to bestow or receive.

He comes as if on a mission, first around my feet,
rubbing against my legs as if asking permission,
then ever so carefully he jumps up onto my desk,
sits on the edge for a moment looking at me. Then
he turns his back allowing his large tail to hang off
the corner edge of the desk and like a fisherman, the
tail his line and bait, he slowly sways it back and forth
as an intentional invitation for me to play the "Tail Game"
with him. Left and right, back and forth, slowly, enticingly.

It swings to the left and my waiting fingers gently grasp it,
give it a light brief shake and let go and it swings back
onto the desktop, then back and forth for as long as I care
to participate. Cunning little attention gaining feline fellow
that he is.

Eventually I will tire of the game and require two hands
on the keyboard, thus ending the event, he will then turn
around and lay down right in front of me on the desktop
purring his pleasure song, and blinking his big seductive
contented "I got ya' again" cat eyes.

An addendum to 2013 HP poem
"The Road to One Chicken"
with 37,000 "Public" reads.

She was there again, a vision.
Slow walking with assured purpose
and grace not seen in most women
of any age, barefoot or in sandals.
Mainland restrictive shoes unknown,
and not required by her. A free spirit
exhibiting nary a hint of artifice,
a natural unaffected beauty.

Wind fluttering her long dark hair
like a flag atop the mast of a sleet
schooner upon a gentle rolling sea.
A Tahitian girl barely 20 walking
beside me, on a dirt road, by the
vibrant blue Ocean, holding my
hand and smiling.

Not having a common language
our eyes, some pidgin talk and
gestures conveyed all that was
needed. We loved one another
for a few days and nights, and
then too soon I departed as crew
on a sloop bound for Bora Bora,
while she remained happily
behind on her beautiful island.

Both this girl and her island
tenderly vividly remembered,
for over 50 years.

Some impressions last forever.
Unlike myself, she remains young
and vibrant evermore, a benevolent
ghost memory dream only appearing
at night and always assuredly welcome.

It seems of late, that I exist on
merely two bowls of Raisin Bran
Crunch (with cut up peaches or
banna on alternating days) wetted
down and softened with Lactose
free 2% milk, so it does not upset
my stomach or hurt my gums.
What the heck, I used to like to
cook and the gods know I sure
have the time, but have lost the
desire and the fire I surmise.

I have trekked scorching deserts,
leaving only temporary footprints,
upon trackless sands. Shallow etched
impressions soon erased by the wind.

Sailed upon deep ocean seas, swam
and surfed cobalt blue saline waves
skimming over colorful coral reefs.
Leaving nothing to mark my passage.

Hiked high mountain wilderness trails,
camped and slept under bright star lit
skies, decamping with not a single trace
of my transitory visit, or earthly presence.

In travel I learned meaningful values and
life lessons from people that lived in thatched
huts and never attended college or read a book.

My great grandchildren will not know me
except for some old photos and a few handed
down stories, I will not hold them, kiss their
tiny faces, or pass on anything I have learned,
that becomes my children's role. And that
will be my only lasting footprint on this earth.

This knowledge should be our goal in all
we do in our short lives. Like all living
creatures, we are but brief guest on this
earth. Destined to procreate and fade away.
While we are passing through, we should
endeavor to do as little harm as possible.

Endings are often sad, we had one yesterday.
He was a proud stocky three-year-old Angus
steer, the last of our small herd, filled out and
contented on augmented buckets of grain to
fatten him up over the last few months and
lessen his lonely estrangement from his
departed or sold off family herd.

All alone in the pasture he would often bellow
mournfully, which he would also do twice a
day to remind us he wanted his grain.

When the box truck pulled in, he trotted to the gate,
curious I suspect. The two men in not so white overalls
stepped down and approached their side of the fence.
One man held something at his side.  The steer raised
his head and ears, stepped back a little, perhaps he
sensed danger, the man raised his rifle from ten feet
away and a shot rang out.

Dead in a heartbeat, the big steer collapsed in the dust.
Deceased before he hit the ground. Yet in his throws of
death his legs thrashed violently in sad reflex. The
accomplice killer opened the gate and cut the beefs
throat to bleed him out and the thrashing soon ceased.

This was mobile butchery, done on the spot, the skilled
butchers knew their grisly tasks and bent to their work.
In about 30 minutes the steer, (we stopped naming our
cattle, all but the mothers, when my grandsons grew old
enough to understand that these animals were meat on
the hoof, not pets and names made the partings harder).
Useful Farm Boy emotional armor I suppose.

In half an hour the two halves of our animal were bleed
out, gutted, skinned, washed, dismembered tagged with
a number and hung up on hooks in the truck, alongside
eight other steers of the day, all on the way to the shop
for further cutting up and packaging. Then placed into
flash freezers. Ready for our family to bring home or to
sell to friends.

Raised without injections or hormones this is healthy
beef, tasty too, but which I reframed from eating some
years ago. Having watched our cattle born and growing,
I became too soft hearted to eat them. Preferring to buy
nameless, faceless meat with no personal history, from
grocery stores in neat little clear plastic wrappings. To
at least avoid some of my old man hypocritical guilt.

After several days of rain, blue sky was the theme,
fostering a sunshiny afternoon, I was on my way
to the mailbox when their flight songs pleasingly
reached my ears. Sounds that have captivated me
since childhood, the encouraging yet plaintive
heavenly honking incantations of Canada Geese in
their massive vee formations, and at once I began to
smile like a kid on Christmas morn.

When I cleared the large evergreen trees along
the drive that first clear sight took my breath away,
there were hundreds of them, three huge flocks in
tight formations calling to one another headed in an
Easterly direction, at an altitude of perhaps 1000 feet,
probably going to the recently harvested hay and
wheat fields in the valley to set down for rest and
nourishment on their long winter migration South.

I watched until they became but tiny blackish
dots in an azure sky. Then louder honking and
another huge flock crossed right above me, lower,
closer, their nearness and songs turned my smile
to spontaneous unabashed childlike laughter. . .
If I could still jump up and down, I might have.

Once again, I was that seven-year-old boy laying
in my bed listening to the migratory highflyers
passing over my home. Wishing I too had such
freedom gained from the flight of powerful wings.

I have always believed in the suggestion
and sound advice of "Carpe diem" (to seize
the day).

However now I am more inclined to sneak
carefully up behind it and gently pick its pocket.
My seizing days are pretty much over.

To the cadence of drums and bugles they
enter the field, helmets gleaming in the light,
all clad in colorful matching battle dress.
A cadre of warriors crossing the impending
battleground. Prancing like cavalry steeds,
chomping at the bit, ready and eager to join
the fray.

Visceral electric energy fills the air, as in
one collective voice they begin their warrior
battle chant.

Across the field their adversary's approach,
clad in helmets and armor, fit and ready.
Both sides determined to defeat the other.
Fridy Night under the lights. The contest
about to begin.

Next to my computer desk, a battery
driven wall clock audibly ticks away each
expired second, "Tick Tock, Tick Tock,"
In the silence of the room, it's every measure
clicking like muffled somber drumbeats.
Sitting today the clock a foot from my ear,
I placed my fingers on my neck and found
a perfectly matching heart pulse beating
"Thump-Thump, Thump-Thump repeated.
Clock and Heart together paired in perfect
synchronization, an inescapable reminder
of the fleeting precious time that remains.

Each second, minute, hour and day a
cherished gift.

After ten years we recommence,
old friends together again,
Picking right up where last we
left off. Laughing and endlessly
talking, swapping animated stories,
remembering and emotionally
embracing.

Few friendships endure for
decades, this one formed by
two men, one from America,
the other from Down Under,
men more alike than not,
comrades at nearly first site
50 years ago, now grown
old and grey in these twilight
years.

Visit over, parting now with
mixed emotions of happiness
and sincere sorrow, even a tear
or two, sensing the inescapable
reality that we may never meet
again. That life is truly a fleeting
thing.

Adieu and thanks for coming
old friend! My love to you and
your sweet wife Janet. It was
great having you both here.

"I see you there, I would know you anywhere.
(Both smile and laugh)
You have changed very little. Care to Dance?
(She takes his hand, and they go arm and arm.
On the dance floor they closely embrace and
it seems familiar.)

"Your perfume or maybe that is just your
scent, brings back pleasant fond memories
of you and me parked out on the bluff
in my '58 Chevy, just two kids in love
kissing 'till our lips hurt. Though a little
time worn around the edges, we still move
well together". (They laugh.)

(Close to her ear he whispers)
"I hope your life has been good, that you're happy.
That you lived some of the dreams you had back
then. My own memories are flowing, I suppose that's
what reunions are about, this is my first one, a bit
remiss, I guess, plus living 700 miles distant.

We were good together back then, wow, 60 years
ago, father time is an elusive fleeting old thief,
steals our youth and gives us grey hair and
wrinkles in return, not even a fair trade."

(Entwined they slow dance to the oldies for
an hour, neither wanting to let go caught up
in the mood. He looks into her eyes and says)

"I must admit my feet hurt; can I buy you a cold
drink while we sit, perhaps you will catch me up
on your Life's adventures since 1963?"
(She smiles and nods her approval, kissing him
lightly on his cheek.)

The first time I saw the ocean
I was transfixed, caught like a
fish on a hook, or a newborn
baby first viewing its mother.
Enraptured and forever
emotionally captured.

For over 75 years the irresistible
pull and power of the sea does
still inspire and enchant me.
This is a purely one-sided affair,
as the vast oceans pays to me, or
any human no attention whatsoever.

Dads are people sons never
forget, for good or bad and
when the son is gone there
is no one to remember the
father. Say for some fading
black and white photos in a
scrap book: "That was your
great grandfather. He fought
in the war. People called him
Bud, but his real name was
Wyett with an E. He taught
me to cast a fly in a mountain
stream and tune the engine
in my first car, and not to lie."

My grandsons almost grown
are good and loving chaps, but
never ask me about their Great
Grandfather. Out of sight, out of
mind, I guess. Maybe I am the last
to remember or care. Our touchstones
to the past are frail at best.

When examined, and embraced
aloneness is not a punishment,
rather it is an earned pleasure
to foster and savor.

From the outside in daylight my
large front porch windows are
nearly as reflective as mirrors.
Birds often mistake them for
open space fly zones.

Today I watched in horror as a
stalwart resolute Towhee fell for
the visual illusion, flying full tilt
into the window, impacting,
bouncing recoiling, reversing
and then trying it yet again!

The second impact bounced him
out onto the lawn, where he laid
stunned, feet pointing to the sky
for perhaps a minute.

I watched helplessly as eventually
he struggled to rise, then into the air
he drunkenly took wing, away from
the porch, turned and flew directly
back onto his delusion of freedoms
space. The sound of the impact
sickened me.

One minute alive the next he lay
dead on the stone porch. A victim
of his instinctive inherit perseverance
for freedom.

We humans; perhaps all living creatures
are not so different than this little bird,
our innate instincts can and often do lead
us down the wrong paths, even to bad
endings. I buried the little downed flyer
beneath my favorite Birch tree in the
garden. To ensure that our Barn Cats
did not add the indignity of being eaten
to the little flyer's untimely demise.

How long has it been since
I had ***, I mean of course
with another person?
You know two consenting
warm bodies embracing,
deep wet kisses, real human
longing, affection rendered.
Forever it seems, relegated
now to indistinct night dreams
and long life ago memories
viewed as if projected like
pale untouchable shadows
on an indistinct grey wall.
There, but not there.

What is love and life but
lingering vague whispers
in a night of dwindling light.
Lasting only as long as our
conscious memories allow.

In my youth I strove to
ride all the WorldWinds,
until falling off, no longer
able to remount the beasts.

I miss the lofty views,
but not the extreme
exhausting turbulence.