6:30 AM dew on the plants,
à chill in the air, feeling the
season changing, fall is upon
us. A clear Sunrise glowing
day.

Hanging my robe on a wall
hook, naked I shiver a little.
Swing my good leg over the
edge into the warm water set
at 102. The other leg follows,
I slide in.

Hot water is a kind of heaven,
it envelops and embrases us.
A return to the womb perhaps.

The pumps engage and 50 jets
commence, I recline and murmur
"Yes, yes, oh **** yes!" several
times out loud to no one in
particular, as I am completely
alone. I think I say this every
time I slide in, such is my
unbridled fervor.

The full pulsing body massage
begins to overtake my aches
and pains that permit me no
more than 6 hours sleep at night.

Joyfully soothing, rejuvenating,
à rebirth of sorts, an everyday new
beginning.

I no longer aspire to climb
lofty mountains in summer,
or ski down snowy slopes
in winter, nor ride the back
of rank horses, or motorcycles
at over 100 miles per hour.

I still have an eye for an enchanting
woman from a safe distance,
experience has taught me that
looking is better than having,
avoiding those complications.

Mostly I choose being alone,
but I am never lonely. I have
explored the many mysteries
of life, traveled around the world
satisfying most of my curiosities.

I have fathered children, loved
and been loved, committed no
moral or legal transgressions
and possess a clear conscience
and very few regrets.

I have been successful in most of
my business endeavors, planned
well and possess security and
tranquility.

I revel now in the one day at a time
moments of living, with nature, the sky,
music, books, my fellow creatures of
wing and paw, a cool breeze on a hot
day, the sight and scent of flowers in
my garden, and most of all the joyful
times spent with my children.

Strolling the lanes in my orchard are
much more pleasant and satisfying
than revisiting and walking the streets
of the world's biggest overcrowded cities.

Happiness is finding our place in the
world, realizing its value while ignoring
all the other distractions of which there
are many. Knowing the difference between
Want vs. Need.

Written for my grandsons, who only
know me as an old man, one who
does not go off to work every day
like their dad, or seem not to have
many friends, leading them to assume
and worry that I am "lonely".

Hard to explain all this to a young man
who is just beginning life, when I am on
the tail end of mine, that our interests and
desires change and evolve over time.
No need to fret my boys, Poppy is just fine.

I lost my best friend today,
more like my child than
merely a friend.

My 24/7 companion for 9
all too short years.

He could read me, my moods
my health, even my intentions.
We were both fully habituated
to one another that way.

Laugh, oh my how every day  
he could make me laugh.
A born and breed clown that
never lost his puppy inclinations,
his love and joy for life always
on display, even on the last day
of his earthly existence.

In the end though his eyes reflected
his pain, still his love for me remained,
with no words ever required.

Weeping does no good,
the loss and anguish must
be endured. Tucker my Boxer
dog with a wonderful soul,
will be remembered evermore.

His beloved chew and fetch
toys litter the floors, along
with his now forever empty bed.
What shall I do with all these
bittersweet artifacts of his life?
That now have become sad daily
reminders of his demise.

I will have to think about that
for à while.

We don't control our own lives,
we pretend we do, but that is
merely a wishful self-deception.
Even human life happens not
unlike our riding a rollercoaster.
we are merely up and down
passengers with no control, on
board for the duration, at the
Whims of Fate, and recent
good maintenance of all the
equipment.

It was coming on darkness,
It was a Monday, the place was
closed, no lights, but 'say for a
neon Blue and Red Budweiser
sign flashing in the front window.
My father had built this place
over 72 years ago, his dream,
a Fried Chicken Restaurant in
a one trafic light, logging and
two mills town of 2800 souls.

Dad's "Chick-Inn" thrived for a time,
everyone loved his friend chicken,
this long before anyone out West
ever heard of the Southern Colonel.
Dad cooked and Mom ran the front.

On Saturday nights when the hard top
races were on, it was standing room
only. Even the railroad crews stopped
on the tracks and walked crossed the
Interstate to get a bite, Highway big rig
Truckers parked all over town to get a
good home cooked chicken dinner, or
chicken fried beef steak, hot biscuits
and gravy, best coffee for miles around.

That place nearly killed my parents,
opened at 6AM all three meals served
'till around 7PM, one day off on Mondays.
I was around 6 years old, I did not know
or appreciate how hard they slaved.

They persevered for a few years, then
sold the place and we moved on to a
bigger town and they to jobs less stressful,
they even bought their first home ever.

I remember the good smells from that kitchen
and sitting in one of the booths getting pleasant
attention from all the town folks. For my brother
and I even in old age, those are pleasant memories.

The old place looks pretty good, some new paint
and remodeling, the horseshoe counter is gone,
the seating is all different, no booths just tables.
It's now boasting "Fine Mexican Food Served Here",
and now some other family, one of many over all
these years I suspect, toils, mired in their dream of
restaurant ownership. The little town has not changed
much, one Mill closed down; one remains. It has
three traffic lights now and a population of 8000.

The sign outside the Fair Grounds a block away,
advertises "Hard Top Races this Saturday Night
                           Come One Come All."

I dreamed that I died last night,
not just once but twice.
What the hell is that all about?

Weeds grow in poor soil,
among rocks, unattended
with no help from anyone.
It takes Herculean efforts to
hurt or destroy them.

Garden plants and flowers
require human unselfish
tender intervention to grow
and bloom. Miss a day or two
of care and water, they may
shrivel or even cease to exist.

Maybe we humans should
grow and live more like
weeds, tough and less
overly sensitive like needy
fragile ***** flowers.

We human animals
are born into this
world steeped in
ignorance and must
endeavor for a life
time to overcome
that inherited flaw.

Have you seen the newest
subdivisions they are building
these days? Tiny two story
******* box things all alike
standing cheek to jowl with
maybe three feet in between,
one might be ok standing alone,
but thirty in a row is shockingly
disturbing. With no yard front
or back to plant any flowers or
even let your dog take a crap.

I suppose they are affordable
for new first-time buyers in
this everything overpriced
world we seem to be living.

As for me, I would rather live
in a van down by the river.

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.

For most of my life
I yearned for the simple
independence of a feline
existence, a house cat
that spends more time
outside exploring and
roaming, then inside
snoring.

Preening and self-cleaning,
eating human food offerings
at will or not, everything on
my terms having my way with
the humans, they being such easy
creatures to bamboozle and train.

No matter how much I
ignore them, hiss or scratch
they treat me like some highly
revered object. A King perhaps?

Now that I am older and wiser
my feline ambitions have been
largely met. Being left mostly
alone with lots of cat naps, all
on my fully autonomous terms
and conditions. Roaming sparingly,
preferring the inside comforts of
home over the cold wet outside.

Please wake me if you have
any questions. But understand
I may not answer as I might be
napping. Or choose too merely
ignore you, as that is what cats
can and often do. And even at
times we humans may too.

Wisdom is knowing what you need
and what you don't need without
doubt or regret, with no requirement
to apologize to anyone for this hard
earned understanding with yourself.

You can lead a fool to reason,
but you cannot make him think.

Oh, The If's
If I were only half
the man I used to be,
I would be a whole
lot better off.

One of the few benefits of my  
mature age is the frequent once
upon a time conjured up shared
family memories, mused and
relived with my only brother.

Childish petty differences and
feelings of competition long ago
dead, replaced by the intimacy
of mutual respect and brotherhood.

Colorful recollections of our old
homestead, with all it's good hiding
places, the towering oak in the front
yard with its huge limbs for climbing,
the tire swing on a rope, and the time
I fell out of it and broke my ribs.

The tree house retreat we banged
together with scrap lumber, that
collapsed in the big storm of '57.
The first girls we both kissed and
all the ones we missed.

Our shaded front porch, mom's cold
lemonade on hot summer days, old
dog Dusty, what a good boy he was.
How he would fetch anything we tossed,
for as long as we would throw it.

Whispered bedroom secrets in the still of
night that only we two knew and shared.
Brussels sprouts clandestinely passed to
old Dusty under the dinner table, that mom
never appeared to notice. But the old man
knew, never said a word. As a kid he must
have had a good old dog too, or perhaps he
also hated Brussel sprouts.

Now living 600 miles apart, it is frequent
phone calls at all hours, with new/old
recollection to share, smile and even shed
a tear or two over, things only we are privy
to, for as long as we are both still living with
the ability to recall and remember.

My last hitch ride had turned off,
I sat on that empty road waitin' a
long while, on another to come along.

The wind chill of near night made
itself known, and still no headlights
on that road had shown.

Some trees out yonder on a rise
looked doable. So, I slung my
rucksack of worldly goods onto
my shoulder and trudged off all alone.

Being free ain't all it's cracked up to be.
But the in-betweens have their moments.
Like a warm campfire and a rabbit roasting
on the spit. And tomorrow yet another
horizon to reach.

awoke heart pounding,
uneasy, eyes blinking.
dreamed of her again,
knew it was my mother
but could not clearly
make out her face.

In the half dark room,
I sat up in bed and then
awake could still not recall
her face or features.

Detached and distressed,
slow tears came to my eyes,
though it had been 53 years
since she passed away, how
could I lose her image thus?

Standing from my bed, I
flipped on the bedroom light.
There on the wall was an old
black and white photo with
that reassuring still familiar
sweet face of my mother,
my father and two little
boys, being my brother
and me.

I smiled and returned to
normal breathing.
"Aw, there you are mom".

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.

I have decided "It's All *******!"
Try buying something on line
or using an 800 phone number,
you wait on hold forever and can't
speak to a real person, or maybe
finally you reach a living breathing
human, but quickly discover they
reside in a land far far away, you
can not understand much of what
they are saying, it's all *******!
Try to get waited upon in a store
by someone that actually knows
something about what they are
selling and where the hell it is.
Watching the news on any channel
with all those opinionated, over
explainer talking heads, desiring
to come away smarter or better
informed than when you turned
on the set, but you don't, 'cause
generally speaking it's all *******.
Watching and listening to the endless
line up of politicians, of either party,
as round and round they go where
they stop nobody knows, 'cause it's
all confusing, incredibly redundant,
solves no problems *******!
Try to talk to almost anyone you
meet or even know, good luck
'cause it's mostly half truths and
jaded off the wall opinions and
unbelievable unreliable *******!
He said, she said, they said, way
too much misinformation, in the
end it's all just a huge meaningless
waste of of your time bunch of
fresh, deep, and odoriferous
*******!

Possible solution:
Unplug, hunker down and read
a good book, pet your dog, bounce
a child on your knee, take a walk
in Nature, exercise, paint a picture,
write a poem or story, maybe sing
and or dance like no one is hearing
or watching, because my worn out
demoralized friends none of these
last things just listed, are in any
way odorous bovine defecation.

He fought a war and came back alive,
not quite right in body or mind.
Years spent alone on the streets,
scrounging for nickels and dimes.

A kindly veteran passer-by gave
him a Ten dollar bill and a smile,
much to the elated man's surprise.
Where upon he bought a jug of wine,
two cans of soup, and on a whim a
scratch off lottery ticket too.

It snowed that night freezing temps
blanketed the city. Two days later
under a bridge he was found dead
in his tent by an aid worker.
Three empty jugs of cheap wine
beside his frozen body. A roll of
brand new fifty dollar bills in his
pocket, along with a two day old
Bank deposit slip noting an opening
balance of Twenty thousand dollars.

And so one overlooked, forgotten
man died all alone, no longer needing
to panhandle for nickels and dimes.

In a small sailboat
I went to sea alone
and came back reborn.

After a fine early dinner I had
fallen asleep in my easy chair.
The house was hot when I awoke.
Stepping outside onto the porch,
the valley was bathed in golden
departing light, our Hazel Nut
orchard was alive with dancing
leaves of fluttering green, like flags
of a million tiny ships upon an ocean.

The cool brisk breeze from the West
off the sea embraced me with it's
invigorating freshness, I breathed
deeply and smiled as perhaps only
an old man can within such a realized
moment of absolute peace and perfection.

The descending sun turning sky and clouds
to yellow gold, evening shades pulling the
reflected glow into the sea, behind the hills.
Low amber light spilling across the valley floor
casts muted textured shadows, the loveliest light
of the day.

Doves still calling to one another, perhaps
discussing where to bed down for the night.
Peaceful voices of reassurance and calm that
always makes me smile.

In an hour, darkness will intercede, the clear
heavens will radiate and sparkle, stars much
brighter with but a diminished crescent moon
for competitions light.

In the coming darkness the night music of
crickets and frogs will begin to serenade,
and as I recline in my comfy porch chair this
seductive creature orchestration, may induce
early slumber in me, so difficult to evade.

But then what better way to end a nearly
perfect day?

The bent old man limped
out upon the wooden pier.
The day was bright and clear,
he had fished there for over
72 years, a high mountain
lake he revered as both boy
and man. Now at 82 every
step he takes hurts. Even in
sleep at night his pain persists.

The sparkling clear calm water was
like looking down into a mirror.
To his own reflection staring back
up at him, he softly uttered,
“I used to be someone,
but not anymore.”

No one was around to see him go,
or hear the splash that took him low,
deep under to his own desired ending.

For most of my son's life
I was his teacher,
Now as an adult man
my son is teaching me.

He stalks and low crawls across the space.
Eyes wide and focused upon his prey,
a millions years of instincts throbbing
through his brain and sleek body.
His toes and claws flex with the coiled
anticipation of a hunter predator.

In a sudden burst of energy and blinding
speed he launches his attack, at the last
moment I pull up on the bait and he springs
three feet high into the air front claws extended!
For the next fifteen minutes the three month
old still a kitten, and I engage in our twice a
day ritual dance, a sparing inspired and facilitated
by a little feathered stuffed toy blue bird on a sting,
and I the puppet master.

His resolve is limitless, he will never quit, in
pursuit he springs and jumps circles in mid
air until I eventually end the affair for his own
good, when he begins to pant mouth open.
Then it is cat nap time. Sometimes for us both.

The darkness is not frightening
it enfolds, shrouding everything
even me. I had all but forgotten
it's feel. The silence, the thoughtful
contemplation.

Four days and dark nights without
electric power, or water, layered in
the grip of an ice storms power.
Trees, plants and fences, everything
encrusted in thick coats of ice.
Power poles and lines toppled and
snapped. Hundred year old trees
uprooted, falling upon homes and streets.

How many times have I still flipped
a light switch or tried to flush the
toilet, all to no avail, how easily our
all electric lives can disappear, cutting
our dependent umbilical cords to all
technologies that we take for granted
until they disappear, living by faint light
of hearths fire or candles glow like our
many times removed ancestors did long ago.  

Cold food and cold rooms, huddled
by the fireplace for every bit of warmth
it offers. All in silence but for occasional
crackling sparks from the fire, my own
audible breathing, the snoring of my old dog.

Inconvenient yes, but usefully instructional if
we heed the message, even rather peaceful too.

I peck the keys with one
finger of one hand as the new
Christmas kitten lays content
and warm curled upon my
chest and folded into the crook
of my left arm, his purr motor
at full rev, this his preferred napping
perch whenever I sit at my computer,
little hedonist that he is.

And who am I to object to these
moments of shared warm affection?

Not unlike needed caresses or gentle kisses,
the morning sun did bathe my upturned
face in needed glow of restorative warmth.
An encouraging respite after weeks of clouds
and cold rain to lift my flagging spirts,
supported and enhanced by the celebratory
songs of a plethora of birds, all this perhaps
the shining moments of glory in my entire
self isolated day.

When did I get so old?
In my 20s, 30s and 40s I had life
by the tail, active and productive,
breaching horizons and
accomplishing significant things.
Thought I had all the time in the world.

In my 50s I could still run the track,
bench press 225 and make love with
all the passion of a younger man.
Old age was never on my mind.

In my 60s I could still walk without
a limp, climb medium mountains
and date woman 20 years younger.
Trying to ignore my bodies ever
increasing aches and pains.

In my early 70s, old age descended
upon me like some pernicious thief,
diminishing and stealing my physical
and intellectual strengths.

And yet at 75, in my minds eye,
I still think and feel like I am 25,
or so I try to delude myself.
Though my physical body does
stubbornly, remind me otherwise.
Dating women of any age is definitely,
completely off my mind. Preferring a
single man's life of unchallenged tranquility.

In the sum total of a persons allocated
few decades of life what remains are
wonderful vivid memories, of love
given and received, of children born,
and of natures beauty seen and felt
from climbing lofty mountain peaks.
Of a life lived that seems all too brief.

Make no mistake, life flies by like a
speeding commuter train on a one
way track, with absolutely no return
tickets being purchased or issued at
any worldly price.

Nero fiddled while Rome Burned,
the fires set at his bequest. And
Trump plays golf while no one
steers our Ship of State and
thousands of Americans die from
his wanton dereliction of duty,
lacking even an once of human
empathy or concern. A common
trait of Mad Kings Dictators Fools.
Trump knows he lost the election,
he is just running his last great con
on his brain dead believers, the forever
Snake Oil Salesman picking the pockets
of his faithful follower rubes, to pay his
mounting debts and feather his nest.

In these two self anointed emperors
I can see very little difference, one
just as evil and bad as the other.

Sitting for an hour by
his bed watching him
deep in slumber,
so peaceful, so still, a
little blond haired boy
with a glistening tiny
trail of night drool from
his angelic mouth coursing
down one pink cheek,
generated no doubt by
his gentle snoring.

His every breath heard
and registered, as if they
were magical gifts to us
both from another realm.

What Childs dreams
must he be having?
What green fields does
he run with that spotted
old dog of his, who licks
his face clean of ice cream
or peach juice and never
leaves his side. Who fetches
a ball for as long as his little
boy will throw it.

Everything about his
Childs face makes me
smile. He turns six next
week, oh my how these
years have flown by.

My son, I never thought I
could love anyone as much
as I do you. As much as I
forever will.

There in that darkened room
a cold chill of momentary fear
ran through me, and I asked
myself, "Can I do this?
As a single parent, can I
raise my son all alone?"

Returning from the grocery store,
my only trip out in weeks,
I passed by our small town's
High School, all pandemic
deserted and shuttered now.

Slowing, I stopped my car,
taken by momentary joyfulness,
out there in bright blue Band
uniform on the football field,
a single drummer marched
all alone,

Her enthusiastic snare drum  
echoing out stirring, lonely
rhythmic staccato sounds.

This solitary stalwart drummer
practicing in the rain, rehearsing
skillful steps and robust drum
beats, until she gets the call.

Remaining ever ready when
normalcy reluctantly comes rolling
back around. Where marching bands
and football players once again tread
upon this nearly hallowed ground.

I was once a Wolf and
ran free in the woods,
Now I'm a tired old dog
that hides in the barn.
Such is the way of aging
and change.

No sunshine in two weeks,
a smoky shroud has descended
upon the land, the tomatoes
turning black on the vines. I can
not see beyond 100 feet, colors
of green disappeared, all is brown
or yellow, ash is gently falling like
bits of grey snow, the air outside
dangerous to breathe, smelling of
wood smoke, reeking of the burned
up hopes and dreams of my neighbors
less than twenty miles away.

Each day the smoke colors change,
red, brown, orange, yellow, eerie
unnatural day time colors, at times
darkness like night at mid day. The
winds have gone and the smoke
has become a choking noxious fog.
This must be how the dinosaurs died.

The news says we have the most
dangerous polluted air quality in
the entire world. Wearing a mask  
even inside my closed shuttered
home. Taking pandemic "self isolation"
to a whole new level.  

I dreamed last night of deep
blue skies, untainted air,
walking the orchard with my
dog, the sun and a smile on
my face. Upon awakening the
reality shroud of smoke remained.

They say some rain might
fall this week, that wind
from the sea will intervene,
blow the smoke East, restoring
the colors of the sky, the sun
and land, breathable air.

I hope that's all true.

Being in self isolation is a challenge
for sure, seeing and looking at no one
else but ourselves in the mirror, or
talking heads on TV, it does not take
long to resent what you see, longing
for a change of scene, a breath of fresh air.

Deeply missing and wishing for real living
breathing people to see and interact with.
Even if prior to this, thinking and believing
I didn't really like or enjoy people in general.

Getting on towards midnight,
my buddy signaled time for bed,
I let him outside and joined him there,

The stars were resplendent in their
clear heavenly glow, the moon
painted back lighted silhouettes upon
the lawn and shrubs, a gentle fresh
breeze chased the remaining 90+ heat
of the day away, musically rustling
leaves of the yard trees as it passed
through headed East.

The Orchestra of  tiny creatures in the
orchard and grass, were busily playing
their rhythmic nightly concerto, in perfect
harmony,  like the very heart beat of the
earth on which they abound in their vast
multitudes, echoing their celebration of life.

The garden fountain bubbled it's soothing
water sounds adding it's voice to the pleasant
cacophony of collective night music.

I was lulled into submission as the breeze
and the mood embraced me, and fell asleep
in the old comfy Mission chair from my den.,
now relegated to porch duty, My dog resting
in that chairs twin, beside me.

Around three AM the full moon rounded the
house and peeked under the porch, lighting
me up like an impertinent cop's flashlight.
Encouraging us to move on.

Tucker and I did then retire to our beds inside ,
blissfully at peace with the world outside.

"To sleep perchance to dream" ah, but there
is no "rub" here. . . Only peace and tranquility.

A family came to our farm,
friends of my son. I had not
been around,  even seen
small kids in a long while,
from my porch I watched the
two boys under six and their
sister of three, as they raced
about the property, to the barn
to see the animals first, then
to bounce on the trampoline,
soon into the above ground pool
to cool off, splashing, playing.
Their little excited sing-song
voices like music to my ears.

I longed to get closer, to talk
to them, just to be near this
magical aura that small children
radiate, this purity of heart,
this unbridled gist for living.

Alas, needs for social distancing
got squarely in the middle.