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.

There is always a breeze or
wind from the Mountains East
or the Ocean West at our place.
We are in between you see.
Winds Bracing in Winter,
Welcome in Summer.
Never smog, fresh
clean unspoiled
country air, bringing
relief from the heat and
pleasant restful naps on
the porch outside.

What a fortuitous geographical
stroke of luck, I did not plan it,
it just worked out that way.
A bonus that came with the land.
Even a blind squirrel finds
a nut once in a while.

These days everybody is on display,
blogging, texting, tweeting. taking and
posting endless selfies, calling out, "look
at me, LOOK AT ME!"

Humility it seems is an old fashioned thing
of the past, in the now, where humble does
not count for much.

People starting to believe they are the image
in the fake repetitive selfies they take.
Look at me, I matter, LOOK AT ME!

An artist paints or sculps, throws pots of clay.
Shapes silver or gold into beautiful things.
Plays music instruments to perfection, using
hands and soul of creative "artistic" expression.

Perhaps it's because there are billions of us, that
people are so desperate to try and stand out, to
be seen and known for something , anything.

My mother and father were artists of a sort,
moral decent people that got up everyday and
went to work to earn a living, to take care, love
and teach their children right from wrong. Who
never asked for or took help or welfare, paid their
taxes and reframed from hurting anyone. They
enjoyed and reveled in their accomplished peaceful
anonymity, and family, that being all the fame they
needed.

I guess in a way they were "Life Artists". They never
expected or received an award for these humble skills
of being decent people and loving parents, nor did they
care one bit, or miss it. Their reward was in the doing.

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.

The early morning scent was of newly
damp earth, fresh rain on cedar trees,
Drink it in old mother Earth, dress
yourself in multi shades of new green.
All life here lives within the benevolence
of your grace, at your pleasure.
Let us be good and worthy tenants,
able stewards deserving of your
gracious bounty of life's earthly gifts.

It's my go to place,
has been for years,
The Wildwood Café,
serving only breakfast
and lunch closes at 2:00,
an eclectic tiny place
with a mix of old dinette
tables and mismatched chairs,
the cutlery also unmatched
and well used, some even a
little bent but no one cares
it's part of the unassuming
charm of the place. Old photos
and signs adorn the walls
and there is usually a line
of people waiting patiently
on benches outside.

Best of all there is this pleasant
girl, always wearing a welcoming
smile, who seems to know us all.
She knows my order by heart,
Ham and eggs over medium,
a half ration of potatoes, home baked
slice of bread, well toasted, well buttered,
home made salsa on the side, a cup of
"hot" Black English Tea. Tall water no ice.

If I arrive between the busy times, she may
sit for a spell at my table, we talk a while,
not a big thing, just chitchat, I'm old enough
to be her grandfather, it's the dessert before
my meal served with genuine friendliness
and unforced civility, not often encountered
in these strange days and times, a slice of
small town Americana at it's best,
she and folks like her help sustain my belief
that basic human decency is far from dead.

The food always good, but it's the
comforting embrace of familiarity and
simple kindness that assures my
frequent return.

It happened again today,
as it does too often.
A super sized new roll of
toilet paper unwound off
it's holder in a heap upon
the floor.

She followed me into the
bathroom and sat slyly
staring gauging my reaction.
I thought I could actually
discern a slight smile upon
her enchanting face.

What is it about cats that
makes them do that,
unroll all the Toilet Paper?
Are they merely mischievous
or inherently evil? I am in a
quandary to know the difference.

The dog firmly placed his chin upon the old
man's knee, stirring him from sleep in his chair.
The only light in the room coming from the
television screen. The dog's gentle message
being, "Time we go to bed" dear friend.
A ritual event occurring more often now
and most likely tomorrow night again.

As the man slowly stood the dog pranced towards
the door, to go outside and do his required business.
The man also to the bathroom did retire, brushing of
teeth and to attend to his own urgent business.

Six years of twenty four seven companionship had
bonded them forever, each knowing the other as
only best friends or family can, both fully habituated
to the other's needs and routines.

The dog sat upon his own bed, close by to the man's
bed,  patiently waiting as he always did. The man leaned
down and took the dog's face and head into his hands,
forehead to forehead they paused while silent endearing
messages were, like every night, conveyed and mutually
affectionately received. Love as real as any.

The man climbed aboard his own bed, donning his CPAP
mask like a pilot before take off and arranged himself
in his fully-automatic-adjustable bed, then clapped his
hands twice to extinguish the lamp on the bedside table.

"Good night buddy, we'll have some more fun in the
morning." the man murmured, closing his eyes to sleep.

Another day ended as most now do, as will, all their
remaining shared tomorrow's.

The whole world has PTSD,
brought about by watching
far too much TV.
Normal people becoming
neurotic or psychotic
by all the "Breaking  News".

Talking heads spewing fearful
endless chapters of dread,
all with their own ax to grind
into our heads, day after day
after day until we want to scream.
Real news or fake, impossible
to know the difference.

A political landscape strewn with
landmines of division and hate.
Melting Ice, and adverse weather,
hurricanes and tornadoes devastate
and forest fires burn, as racists and
terrorists abound at every turn,
and crazy's with military weapons
killing us for sport, just to make
the nightly news, as our nation's
infrastructures crumble into ruins,
all "Breaking News day and night",
while we and the world choke and
quiver from an excessive Carb diet
of information overload, trying to
sleep bathed in bad dreams, laced
with too many strong doses of PTSD.

He was a run of the mill
Black and white cat,
a kitten adopted from
a cardboard box, out
front of the Farm store.

Took him home, fed him well,
he soon claimed our barn as
his own place to dwell.

Grew big and fat from eating
rat, roaming the farm from his
home in the loft.

I installed a pet door in the
garage as winter approached,
soon three Barn cats, including
Jerry moved right in, sleeping
all warm and winter content.

Jerry a Super Ninja cat,
hunter extraordinaire,
every day rodent or bird
remains laid at my door.
As Homage or proof
of his hunting prowess.
Unlike the other cats
he was indifferent to the
need of human affection,
aloof and independent.

But as he aged he was not
adverse to claiming my lap,
purring so loud other people
could hear it from a distance,
drooling while purring,
creating small drool puddles
on me before leaving.

He came when I called him,
or when I fired up the barbecue,
He was a supreme feline opportunist.

Jerry was the king of his domain,
strolling the property with regal
impunity. A feline of distinction,
Battle scared from doing his duty.
We all loved him for the guardian
friend he was.

It has been over a month now,
Jerry has completely disappeared,
after being on the job for seven years
never straying or missing.

Taken I surmise by some predator
of wing or paw. We searched and
called but he never returned.

Life's cycle can be cruel, but it's
the order of things. My friend
Jerry cat will be sorely missed.

At times I wish I was a
dolphin free swimming
and frolicking in the sea,
in the convivial company
of others just like me.
Free of debt or strife,
wars and the endless prattle
of human beings, who think
themselves so very supreme
over all other living things.

If only wishes could come true.

She came to the farm a shy stray,
hid in the woodshed for days.
Food and water we left for her
kept her alive. In time though
very nervous, little by little
keeping some distance, upon
the porch she climbed.

After a month she ascended
a chair next to mine, where
in the spring sunshine we two
set side by side. Not touching
or speaking just biding our time.

One day she reached out a paw
placing it on my knee, politely
asking permission to step onto
my lap.  Her fear overridden
by the need for companionship.

She prefers to remain mostly
outside, but everyday she comes
to my door and with outreached
front paws she frantically scratches
up and down on the glass begging
to come inside.
I feed her then feeling safe she sleeps
awhile on the back of the couch,
eventually seeking gentle
permission to sit upon my lap,
on a soft blanket kept just for her.

She purrs with contentment while,
taking cat naps now and then, as I
stroke and caress her head and chin,
occasionally opening her sparkling grey
eyes to study my face, as if to be reassured
it's me touching her and that I'm still there.

In her eyes if that is not devoted love  
and gratitude I see looking back at me,
I don't know what else it could possibly be.

Walked the Orchard this morn,
my dog and two barn cats in tow,
the sun brilliantly aglow,
comforting whispers
of westerly breezes,
the air wonderfully pristine'.

Sat for a while out front in the sun,
watching clouds morphing to recognizable
forms. The valley orchards and crops below
resplendently dressed in multi shades of green.
Further east Cascade Peaks remain white
crested in blankets of snow. . . Beauty all,
to humble the soul.

Home on the farm with family, is everything.
Why travel afar to lands I've previously been,
to revisit sights already seen and recorded within?

Why would I indeed, when everything
I love and need resides only steps away,
right here where the spirit of
this land dwells deep within me?

When I die, I wish my ashes spread
here among these orchard trees.
In death, nurturing life.
What stunning Head Stones
these trees will be.

Perhaps my soul will linger, forever
walking these orchard rows with
my dog and two old barn
cats eternally, faithfully in tow.

If that is not heaven what is?

From opposite sides
of the valley,
in straight rows
marching, the
brave lads came on,
flags unfurled and
fluttering, as bugles
and drums did sound,

The cannons roared
and smoke did shroud
the grassy killing field,

The boys cut down like
summer wheat in heaps
upon the ground.

Their Uniforms of Blue or
Grey becoming all the same,
turned to crimson Red upon
that lurid blood soaked field.

Begun with an inviting smile,
Followed by hand holding
and one single amazing kiss,
opening the very depths
of passions bliss.

Passions that lasted for
weeks, day and night,
intensely ethereal.
Consumed and blissfully
spent in passions never
felt before or since,

Marriage and two beautiful
children, house with picket
fence, all beget with just one
single awe-inspiring kiss.

We stand now in Court,
bitter and numb, you get
the house, while I get to
keep paying the mortgage.

As loving parents we agree
to share custody of our kids.
While each one of us struggles
to survive the crushing aftermath
of all this.

Hard to imagine now that
all these flames of love and
pain were ignited with but
a simple smile and a single
amazing kiss.

If we must worship a Deity,
we need look no further
than the mighty mountains
around us, the glorious deep
abiding oceans that surround
us, the nurturing forests of green
that provide the very air we breath.

Our mother Earth is the GOD
we seek, from her all life, hope
and blessings flow and repeat.

In our life time
people come and go.
Our children however
come and never go.
Or so it seems.

Life and Time
are an illusion
only in the minds
of we humans.
All other living
things on this Earth,
pay to either, not the
slightest attention.

She was my classic first love,
a 60's Gidget, cute as a button
big dimples and ribbons
in her hair. Charming and
the life of every party.
When she was happy her
whole face reflected it,
especially her smiling
iridescent green eyes.

Together we shared most of
our firsts, talked of the future
and beyond, but like all sweet
dreams, real life intervened.

Many years have passed, yet
strong memories remain and
every once in a while within
a vivid dream of deep slumber,
she and I are again sixteen,
enchanted and in first love.

Waking is always an unwanted
intrusion.

Each morning when I open
my eyes, there they are.
Four people keeping watch
over me, an attractive blond
woman and dark haired,
handsome man and two
small boys, all smiling a
sincere new day welcome.

They are the last people I see
at night and the first to greet
me in the haunting dawn light.

I know them and yet I don't.
They are often on my mind
but my age and memories
of them have turned from
resplendent vivid colors to
fading black and white.

Sweet and gentle parents,
long passed away and my
brother now a 76 year old
man of age.

Where all those years went
I can not say, soon all the
people frozen in that photo
will permanently fade away.

Visiting a friend on his Quarter
Horse farm, the day sunny and warm.
We walked out to his brood mare
pasture, the ladies were running,
awaiting and sunning, anticipation
in the air and their nervous behavior.

Noble his name, consistency his game,
a reliable aging stallion, sire to many
fine sons and daughters, years of proven
pairings, came halter led and prancing.


He had their scent and his spirit awakened,
the three ladies believed to be in season began
to snigger and whinny, their excitement growing
as the stallion entered their grassy domain,
the dance was about to commence.

The handler led the big fella' forward,
both sides began their quizzical inspections.
one young filly more aggressively willing
than the others. Noble excitedly returned
her heightened interest.

Within a few minutes Noble began to rear up,
he knew his job, his august appendage extended,
trying several times to mount his mate intended,
adrenaline pumping his back legs began to shake,
on his fourth failed attempt the eager proven
suitor fell to the ground, rolled over, paused for
a moment and struggled to stand on unsteady legs.
Appearing even somewhat embarrassed.

The mare moved aside, kicked her hind legs in
the stallion's direction, whinnied loudly and
ran away. Rejected the old stallion stood looking
perplexed, failure was something unknown to him.
His spirit was willing but his aging body was weak.
The old stud slowly returned to the barn, his head
hung low, no longer prancing.

For every time and being there is a season, aging
is part of the cycle, like this stallion, we all reach
this moment of understanding. Sometimes gracefully,
most times with stunned disbelief.

From Noble to nothing in one afternoon.

Power is indeed a corruptive force,
Through all of mankind’s history
This has always been true.
Emperors, Kings, Potentates,
Popes, Presidents and Despots too.

Gathering near the Throne are the
Eager Courtier leeches reaching to
touch the anointed one’s robe.
Declaring their undying loyalty,
In the process selling their souls.
Their rewards, a speck of personal power,
Castles and new riches of gold.

Like their Master, the entitled ones
will lie and cheat, while ignoring
The principals of right and good.
Believing “Decency” is but a
poor man’s word, Never uttered
within the hearing of the Ruler.
Never a considered artifact of
absolute power.

The slaves, serfs, the common people
Matter not, but to serve the Ruler.
The power elite will start needless wars,
or offer up sacrificial lambs, all to distract
the unrest of the common man.
They will suppress human rights,
free speech and defame, banish
or imprison their detractors.

All merely smoke and mirrors to conceal,
Controlling agendas of personal greed.
From ancient times down to today
This cycle repeats. Now we are living
our own Textbooks history of tomorrow.

Kingdoms and Nations have perished
From this kind of poisonous corruption,
Needless to say, it will happen again.
Perhaps it already is.

The older we grow
the faster life goes,
priorities change
quality of living
and loving takes
precedent, over
self-indulgence
and material things.
Nothing as important
as family and friends.

It is racing now,
these fleeting days
and years, reflected
most in my grandsons
growing too soon from
children to young men.

Along with Steller parents
our little farm provides
a learning ground for the
kids, teaching life lessons
that inspire character and
self discipline, with Cows
and pigs to show at fairs,
pride earned with accomplishments
and Blue Ribbons to share.

So lucky am I having a ringside
seat, watching yet another family
generation ascend and grow,
Football and basket ball
games to attend, Christmas
morns of excited children
clamoring down the stairs,  
many birthday celebrations
with ever more candles aglow.
Memories all, retained and shared.

Perhaps the best part is,
these grandsons of mine,
still are up for hugs and
good night kisses, genuine
affection received and given.

Families are a true blessing
and a privilege, the only
real reason we are here.

All these things, remain the
sweet frosting on my aging
Grandfather's cake of life.
I sometimes wonder where
I would be without all these,  
my reasons for being?

A steady cadence  
pulsing in a heart beat
like rhythm, voices
and strummed instruments
all in harmonized concert,
An orchestral multitude,
of frogs and crickets,
never tiring or ceasing,

How many must there be,
to render such a cacophony?
Sustained and loud enough
to keep city folk wide awake.

Nature's Music of the night,
should you but choose to listen.
How do they do that, all night
with absolutely no intermission?

A crescendo finale triggered
only by the coming dawn's
first light, and the boastful
crowing calls of our cocky
persistent red rooster chicken.

Where these musicians go in
daylight is anybody's guess.
To sleep I suspect, deserved
resting up for yet another
night of endless music.