I've never betrayed my dreams,
           I've lived them.

Sincere reassuring hugs,
Touching and
being touched,
Caresses shared,
Easy laughter exuded,
Intimate whispers
of affection exchanged,
A fellowship of souls,
Sweet Companionship
spread, like frosting on a cake.
As comfortable and reassuring
as your favorite old wool sweater
on a chilly night's weather.

Bombs are falling in Aleppo,
the evil failed man that rules,
killing his own people,
Innocent noncombatants,
sheltering in their homes,
Crushed and buried in the
falling rubble of a dictator's
vengeful hate.

None but the volunteer
White Helmets digging
with bare hands to save
and unbury them, most
victims, irrecoverable pieces.

Occasionally, miraculously
some are spared and saved.  
Through these valiant selfless
efforts.

Oh Syria, you are bombed and burned,
while the world fiddles an obtuse tune
and turns its collective back on desperate
human cries for assistance.

"Thirty plus years in a
loving happy marriage,
My husband taken
by long illness
and sad ending.

Five years companionless
loneliness endured,
Now a naked man
is in my shower,
I can hear him softly
singing."

Love and companionship
can come at any age.
Rendering you both
whole and renewed again.

Gauguin or Michener
horizon lust inspired,
The South Pacific desired.
From early childhood on.
Fiji in the 70’s all alone in
A Personal journey of self
and world discovery.

From the big island of
Viti Levu, embarked
on native small boat, fifty
miles out to the Yasawa group.
Reaching tiny Yaqeta with
300 souls living close to the bone,
No Running water, or electric spark
glowing. Remarkably bright stars
shine at night, no city lights showing
to hide their heavenly glow.

Unspoiled Melanesian Island people
Meagerly surviving only on the sea
and a thousand plus years of tradition.

I welcomed like a friend of long
standing, with smiling faces and
open sprits. Once eaters of other
humans beings, converted now to
Methodist believers.

Their Island beautiful beyond belief,
Azure pristine seas in every direction,
Coral reefs abounding with aquatic life.
Paradise found and deeply appreciated.
I swam and fished, played with the kids
and laid about in my hammock, enjoying
weeks of splendor alongside people
I came to revere, generous and loving
at peace with themselves and nature,
Embracing a stranger like a family member.

My small transistor radio warned big
Cyclone brewing, of Hurricane proportions.
My thoughts turned to Tidal Waves.
The village and all those people
living a few feet above sea level.
Tried to express my concerns to
my host family and others, getting
but smiles and shrugs in return.
Spoken communication almost
nonexistent, me no Fijian spoken,
Them, little English understood.

It started with rain, strong winds,
Worsening building by the minute.
The villagers’ merely tightening down
the hatches of their stick, thatch houses.
Content it seemed to ride out the storm,
As I assumed they always did.

Shouldering heavy backpack
I hugged my friends and headed
for high ground, the ridgebacks
of low mountains, the backbones
of the Island. Feeling guilty leaving
them to their fate from high water.
Perplexed, they ignored my warnings.

In half an hour winds strong enough
to take me off my feet, blowing even
from the other side of the Island.
On a ridge flank I hunkered down,
pulled rubber poncho over my body,
Laying in watershed running inches deep
cascading down slopes to the sea below.

The wind grew to astounding ferocity,
Later gusts reported approaching 160
miles per hour. Pushing me along
the ground closer to the cliff edge
and a 80 foot plunge to the sea below,
Clinging to cliff with fingers and toes.

For three hours it raged, trees blowing
off the summit above, disappearing into
the clouds and stormy wet mist beyond.

A false calm came calling, the eye of the
Cyclone hovered over the Island, as I
picked my drenched self up and made my
way over blown down trees and scattered
storm debris to the Village of my hosts.

Most wooden, tin roofed structures gone
or caved in, the few Island boats broken
and thrown up onto the land. Remarkably
many of the small one room “Bure” thatched
huts still stood. Designed by people that knew
the ways if big winds.

The high waves had not come as I feared.
Badly damaged, yet the village endured,
As did most of the people, some broken
bones, but, mercifully, no worse.

Back with my host family, in their Bure,
new preparations ensued, the big winds I
was informed would now return from the
opposite direction, and would be even worse.

For another four hours the little grass and
stick House shook, nearly rising from the
ground, held together only by woven vine
ropes, and hope, additional ropes looped
over roof beams held down by our bare
hands. Faith and old world knowledge
is a wonderful thing.

Two days past and no one came to check on
the Island, alone the people worked to save
their planted gardens from the salt water
contaminated ground, cleaned up debris and
set to mending their grass homes. The only fresh
Water well still unpolluted was busily used.

With a stoic resolve, from these self-reliant people,
life seemed to go on, this not the first wind blown
disaster they had endured, Cyclones I learned
came every year, though this one, named “Bebe”
worst in the memories of the old men of the island.

On the third day a boy came running,
having spotted and hailed a Motor yacht,
which dropped anchor in the lagoon on the
opposite side of the Island.

I swam out to the boat and was welcomed
aboard by the Australian skipper and crew.
Shared a cold Coke, ham sandwich and tales
of our respective adventures of surviving.
They agreed to carry me back to the Big Island.

A crewman returned me ashore in a dingy.
I crossed the island and retrieved my things,
Bidding and hugging my friends in farewell.
I asked permission to write a story about the
storm and the village, the elders' smiles agreed,
they had nothing to loose, seemed pleased.

One last time I traversed the island and stepped
Into the yachts small rowboat, my back to
the island. Hearing a commotions I turned
seeing many people gathering along the
shores beach. I climbed out and went among
them, hugging most in farewell, some and
me too with tears in our eyes, fondness, respect
reflected, shared, received.

As the skiff rowed away  halfway to the ship,
the Aussie mate made a motion with his eyes
and chin, back towards the beach.

Turning around in my seat I saw there
most of the island population, gathered,
many held aloft small pieces of colored cloth,
tiny flags of farewell waving in the breeze,
they were singing, chanting a island song,
slow, like a lament of sorts.

Overwhelmed, I stood and faced the shore,
opened wide my arms, as to embrace them all,
tears of emotions unashamedly ran down my face.
Seeing the people on the beach, the Aussie crewman
intoned, “****** marvelous that. Good on 'ya mate.”

Yes, I remember Fiji and Cyclone Bebe, most of all
I fondly remember my Island brothers and sisters.

                                    End

What is it with this millennial
generation and the ones that follow,
Kids of seven, to thirty seven
that can not seem to formulate
a simple spoken sentence without
starting it with "Like" and ending
it with another quizzical "Like"?
Is it a verb or merely punctuation?
Or just an annoying affectation?

Like what the hell?
Like I just do not like get it!

I used to walk without a limp,
now it seems I possess a set,
first one leg, then the other went.

Then there are those day
or night urgent bathroom
calls, bordering on mini
bad disasters. Now that
never used to happen.

Even passing a little gas,
has become a risky business.

Up at least twice at night,
to pacify my bladder.
But thankfully so far,
my sleep *** Alarm
is still in working order.

I'm starting to suspect
that adult Depends may
be getting a little closer.

There are things I enjoy in this
human aging process, however
the annoying list of the above
items, are obviously not among them.

Amen to that, be gone you fool,
back to your ivory, gold plated,
tacky palace condo in the sky,
with your iron curtain mail order
bride, dumb and dumber sons
and the allegedly quite embarrassed
by their father, attractive daughters.

The wrongly booted former
head of the FBI, Sir James
may hold the iron truncheon needed
to batter down the House Of Trump.
Sir James the hero deserving of our
respect and lasting admiration,
the man that may free our nation,
from the fool that would be King,
the imposter sitting on the throne
of the Kingdom of America,
a clown not fit to rule, more fittingly
cast as the lowly Court Jester.

The wheels of reason and justice
will be slow to turn and no doubt
Trump will do a good deal more
tap dancing on his own male member,
to shock and amuse us and of course
continue to scare the living hell out
of the entire world.

While giving the press field days of
never ending "Special Breaking News
Reports" to frighten and blow our minds.

Yes indeed, the Circus has truly come
to town, and the petulant corpulent clown
with the orange fright wig and baggy suits,
he's the star attraction in the center ring.
He lacks a funny repertoire of "Clown Stuff"
but he sure can lie, and his slight of hand
and patented brand and ******* walk and
talk is completely beyond historical compare.

Hurry, hurry, hurry folks, step right up
and get your ticket, the Circus is in town
and sadly in full public view.

My father and my uncle
grew up on the streets
of Chicago, tough streets
for kids to roam.

Uncle Sal was a lanky guy,
with a Pork Pie hat and an
attitude, he took no ****,
but had a heart that was pure.

At nineteen Uncle Sal
died in Korea before he
lived for real. I still have the
Bronze Star they gave him.
A **** poor exchange for
a life unlived.

I never got to know Uncle Sal,
but I sure wish I had, maybe
even just a little bit.

Today was unusual,
while crossing a rocky
path, my 42 year old
son reached back offering
his hand to steady my
steps of progress.
A small thing at first glance.

When for all these years
it was me holding his hand,
guiding his path.
Age has intervened,
Now our roles have reversed,
as it does, as it must.

Accepting this reality
the only path to choose.

Waking two hours before dawn,
my young grandson and I,
The old stagecoach Inn was
dark and silent, squeak
of floorboards underfoot the
only discernible sounds.

A crowd of deer bounded away
off the green front lawn as we
sleepily made our way to the truck.

A bright yellow full moon was on
descending ebb, in a star clustered
sky, allowing just enough light,
to light our way by.


The high desert two lane road was
fully deserted, only our headlights
pierced the darkness. Within seconds
they began to appear, darting from
both sides of the narrow road, as if on
a mission, hypnotically attracted to our
headlights I assume.  At 60 miles an hour
almost impossible to miss.
But, god knows I tried. "Thump, Bump!"

"Thump, bump!" Another bunny under my
wheels, swerving not really mattering, miss
one hit two others. Jackrabbits and cottontails,
as if Kamikaze inspired, eight or ten at a time
from both sides of the road darted headlong
trying to cross. Fast as they were some did not
make it.

We stopped counting the carnage near 100 hits,
no way to tally the many we missed.  No joy in
keeping score of the newly departed. By the time
we reached the Alvord Desert, the ride transformed
into a 25 mile surrealistic trip. Who could have
known there could be so many?

Blood on my tires and my soul, I did not intend.

Out on the vast dry white, hard caked, once long
ago lake bed, now desert, we sat watching the new
day's sun rising up from behind the distant eastern
mountains. This quiet inspiring moment having
been our goal of intention.

All the while, I was distracted from the
magnificent scene before us, as I kept
seeing and hearing the repeated echoes of;
"Thump, Bump! Thump, Bump! Oh no,
not another!" In my guilt ridden brain.  
Why they do it I can not say, compelled
perhaps, like moths to a flame.

I fell headlong into
the depths of her
captivating deep
blue eyes,

Now I'm drowning
in the endless sea of her
unquenchable expectations.

Early morning fog off the river,
crawling, spreading like smokey fingers
caressing the low rolling flanks
of the predawn valley floor,
No breeze to disturb the stillness that pervades,

The silence nearly complete,
but for the last faint voices of night
birds before sleep requires they cease,
Answered by the cooing calls of a
morning dove, seeking out it's mate.
One shrill voiced Whippoorwill competes.

The heavenly songs of flocks of geese,
high above on the wing,
moving in precise migration formation,
across the grey-blue sky.  

East across the valley,
in majestic back lighted,
rising sun silhouette,
the purple hued mountains
stand as a lofty shield,
stealing and preventing
rain to fall on the eastern desert.

This morning sight of rebirth and renewal
is never tiring for my sleepy eyes to view.
To rise so early, ah now, that is the challenge.

The long awaited sun is
high and pleasantly warm,
The swallows have returned
and all is well in my world.

I turned away for what seemed a brief bit of time,
Life got in the way, work, family, other joys.
When I returned to my sweet friends on HP
nothing much looked the same, unfamiliar,
even strange.

Then there are all those unknown names,
Talented folks among them for sure,
but too many to count and begin to know.
Lonely alienation disconnect,
Like transferring to a new school in your, Senior year.

Change they say is a good thing,
even inevitable, most of the time,
But, where is that old loved gang of mine?

She comes to me with
seductive expectation
in her alluring grey eyes,
Bewitchingly she crawls
onto my lap, my chest.
Our mutual desire for closeness
quickening the mood
She puts her arms around my neck,
Our eyes locked in an intimate dance.
I take her beautiful face in my hands
stroking it's soft contours, as she
closes her eyes pleasurably succumbing
to the gentleness of my touch.
She begins to softly purr.  

We both understand these brief
loving moments can never last,
owing to my damnable allergy to cats,
Thus, soon back outside she must ****.

Few memories remain
from when I was Five.
One that does, is still alive.

Her name was Penny,
a copper colored,
old Cocker Spaniel Dog.
Mostly blind, moved only slowly
deep into her last few years.

We lived across the street about
a block from my Grade School.
How she did it I will never know,
but every day when the dismissal bell rang
at 3:00, just outside my class room door,
There all alone, Penny would be,
Her old Sweet face waiting for me.

Like clock work as if she knew
the exact time of day,
she crossed the busy avenue  
walked up the street and went
straight to my class room.
After greeting me with a lick or two,
she dutifully walked me home from school.

If a person thinks that a dog
has no real love to give,
I would politely, advisedly say
"Sadly, in this one fact, you are
greatly mistaken."

Loving thoughts to remember,
tie a string around your finger
less you forget and to sadness
surrender.

What is fondly recalled grows
not old and never truly fades.

It was my birthday,
Sixty Five years turned to grey hair.
My love and I, and two old school
friends on a breezy Fall day.

Over Tea and a lovely frosted
three layer cake, we cajoled
and joked about our age,
all turned senior citizens that year.
And yet in truth, we all agreed,
none of us had ever been as happy as then.

The cake was sliced onto china plates,
Each piece served flat on it's cut side.
I noticed something then as we all
took our first bites.

Our forks all started at the thinnest corner,
on the bottom layer's side, gradually
excavating the two lower levels of fluffy
cake, saving the best for last, the top layer
where all the sweet frosting remained.

It occurred to me then that indeed life
is like a three layer cake, the last top layer
can indeed contain the sweetest bites.
That rather than gobbling life hurriedly whole
it should be savored more like patiently eating
and enjoying a three layer cake.

Brief moments of painful heartaches occur to
remind us how wonderful life is the rest of the time.

I know within my eyes you see my hurt, but
do you know my pain when you exclude me?
Throw me but scraps from this table of life.
Chain up my freedom, for you convenience.
With force, enforce your many rules, most
of which I am not aware of until you yell or hit.
I try so hard to please you in every way and yet
you treat me more like a possession than a friend.
Do you even know I would die to save you or this
family from harm, that is how I'm made.

Know this, my Master, for all the thoughtless things
you do, like leaving me in an overheated parked car
at the store yesterday, I, your ever faithful canine friend,
forgive you and always will, 'cause that is how I'm made.

Now can we talk about that new flea collar thing?
I hate to complain, but I do so itch!

His name was Bing,
one eye grey the other blue
an Australian Cattle Dog
the best I ever knew.
Cows or Sheep he was the man.
Nipping at their heels, heading
them where you bid them go.
Smart as a whip, quick as a bullet,
Work all day for a pat on the head.

One early day no Bing appeared,
Strange 'cause he was always the first
into the truck bed, first in the pasture,
first to work, the last to quit.

We called out his name many times,
began a search, buildings to barns, silo
to shed. In the center of a cut hay field,
I saw him, hunkered down not moving.
The boss and me approached and called
to him, yet still, he did not seem to hear.

At twenty feet he stood up quick,
turned to face us with a ****,
his eyes burned with hell's fire,
his muzzle and jowls were awash in foam,
his deep-throated growl a caution warned.

Not much doubt he'd been skunk bit,
was beyond redemption touched in rabies fit.
I was sent on the run to fetch
the long gun from the truck.

We approached him careful like,
I was still panting from my run.
The boss cocked the lever,
chambering a round into the gun.

Bing's eyes looked to be pleading,
as if to ask that we end his pain.
In his crazed anguished state,
he could have reached us in a flash
spread the contagion to our flesh,
yet through instinct or love
old Bing held his ground,
awaiting his inevitable fate.

I tried to swallow but had no spit,
and then the rifle thundered
and stung my ears,
One shot through the head
took old Bing's pain away.

The Boss, a hard-edged man of fifty
began to silently weep like a child of five,
the loss of his dog too much to abide.
I must admit my tears weren't far behind.

We bore him from the field
like an honored fallen warrior.
Buried him in the yard by the house,
He deserved that respect and more.

Alone, the old man sits staring out the ***** window,
seeing only what was, looking back not ahead.
The clock is ticking, it is his eleventh hour.

Within the unfolding creation of this Earth,
with its majestic mountains and valleys,
its rocks and trees, its life-giving streams and seas,
Surely man was but a minor afterthought
no more important than birds, or snakes.
Only we see ourselves as exalted above all other
living things. Our opinion is highly overrated
and wholly underserved.

Creation in a dew drop, seed to grass, sapling to tree,
***** to egg, to progeny. All is life, a pattern seen,
Continually repeated, yet never just the same.

The cycles of life do churn,
while time passes undisturbed.
All living things diminishing in turn,
until reaching our fragile, predictable ends.

Blue Orb Earth continues to spin and
creation persists, seemingly forever undeterred.

Dappled rain drops of sunlight
Upon my open window shine.

While out across the valley hovers
A rainbow of neon majesty,
suspended in thunder cloud blackened sky,
An optical trick of rain and sun.

From within the dense dark clouds,
Lightning bolts flash and reach the ground.  
The air smells fresh and of ozone electricity.
The hair on my head stands on end.

In wonderment and reflection,
I am humbled and transfixed,
by all that Nature is,
In this one small moment in time.

Images and murmurings of my yesterdays
play like color movies inside my head,
Memories of love and adventures,
mixed with some regret.
Of red painted female lips,
Of passion sweating upon the sheets.
Of youth spent folly,
Of chasing Demon ***,
and being drunk for weeks.

Of sail boats on azure seas,
Of palm trees a sway in tropic breeze.
Of brown skinned maidens bare of breast,
Of white sand beaches pristine,
with not a trace of Human print.

Of brilliant blue/green Pacific seas,
Of magnificent underwater reefs,
alive with thousands of aquatic occupants.

Of the songs of Island People ,
never previously known, or heard,
Nay, chants they were instead,
Haunting ancient rhythms,
etched forever upon my soul.

Of lives and places briefly touched,
Of people loved, lost in time,
Of all these remaining indelible images,
within the echoes of my mind.

Human wisdom is nothing more than time paired
with our natural ability for quizzical attentiveness.

Night Vision
I see them still,
From time to time,
Their goofy smiles,
Their laughing eyes.
Still hear their *******,
Their growled complaints,
Their farts in the night,
from five bunks down.
The relentless joke telling,
The brotherly jabs.
Still see their sad empty eyes
When no mail from home arrived.

Oh and the lists of things
That they would do,
When back they'd go,
Into the World,
Added to daily, always growing.
"Get that new Camaro,
Set them tires on fire!",
"Cruise the strip back home
and pick up chicks."
"Put on my blue Class A,
And strut down the block for all to see."
"Find that foxy girl from English class,
and make her my wife".
"I'd tell my mean old man,
to actually *******!"
"I'd find that bully from back in school,
and teach that fool a thing or two."

We were but boys,
Too eager and green,
Posturing and playing at being men.
What I wonder, would they have become,
Given the chance to grow to a man?
Young lives cut short by ballistic pain.
So now still they linger, boys they remain,
Night visions left in the mud and the rain.

Started with words as most things do.
anger escalated to yelling and swearing.
She came at me, fire and hate in her eyes,
This petite little woman I called my wife.
Her fists pounding my face and chest.
Shocked more than hurt, I extended my
arm to hold her off.

No man could ever do what she just did,
Not without my strong physical rebuke.
Yet I turned not a hand to this woman I loved.
A day before I would have taken a bullet for her,
and now it appears she'ed **** me if she could.

How does Committed Love so quickly turn to this?
So it would seem, love is not even skin deep.
My father warned me of this fact, a truth
I refused to hear, and upon him I had turned
my back and chosen her.

To her disrespect and abuse,
I did what any decent man would do,
I walked out the door and never returned.

Cheeks wet with,
Mascara tented tears,
She aimlessly puts one foot,
In front of the other.
Down a path unknown to her.
Seeing and feeling nothing,
Out beyond herself and,
His parting words still
Reverberating in her head.

She had thought herself
Hopelessly in love with him,
That he loved her in return.
He had said so often,
Yes granted, whispered
mostly in passion,
In the sweet hot darkness,
Of her bed.

He was everything she had
Ever longed for,
The answer to all her dreams,
She had given herself completely
Never one thought of regret.

He had painted such beautiful
pictures of all that lay ahead.
God knows he is a gifted talker,
Could no doubt charm,
Birds down off their perch.

She'd had boyfriends and lovers,
Yet never one like him.
She was hearing the footfalls
Of aging fast approaching,
Yet still just twenty-six.
By now most of her girlfriends
Were well married,
Some being mothers
Of long standing,
Homeowners and,
Driving a van.
Grown to adults,
Living in a grownup's world.

Dark thoughts started,
To invade her mind,
This was not the first time.

How might she do it,
End this pain?
She had no gun to do the thing.
A rope, a tree perhaps?
Maybe some pills would do the trick.
These thoughts again considered,
Only made her sick.

Why had she given him such power,
Over her mind, heart and soul?
Why had she been so silly,
To have swallowed his line of ****,
Lies that took over her very being.
With visions, that could never fit.

Then she began to laugh at the
words he'd used as explanation.
"Truly Dear Girl it's not you,
It's me, I just do not deserve you."

She then stopped,
And smiled,
"You *******,
At least that final line of yours,
Was the only true one,
You've ever spoken.
I know my worth,
I am too good for you!
And It's your loss,
You insufferable *****!"

She turned, lifted her head,
Straightened her shoulders
And walked purposely out,
Of the darkening forest.
Her smiling face still streaked
with trails of now dry mascara,
the light of hellfire in her lovely eyes.

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.

The fine accomplished man
I always wished I might be,
Is the man my son has grown to be.

In an open-air flower market,
it happened in an instant,
with one solitary scent,
years unraveled and
I was that kid again.

One AM on a school night,
vague street light through
my window, painting
shadowed crosses on
the wall and ceiling.
Even in the depths of night,
a stifling ninety degrees,
our home no air conditioning.
Slight temperate breeze through
open window conveyed
exotic sweet Camellia perfume,
from two large flowering plants,
standing sentry out there.

Too hot to sleep, turning and tossing
on a sweat-damp sheet,
I'd conjure and dreamed of far away
Pacific isles, of cool sea surf and sandy beach,
palm branches sway in fresh, clean breeze,
robust with the soothing fragrance
of thousands of tropical blooms,
Like those standing guard
outside my window screen.

Heat-induced, half sleep,
Horizon Lust loudly calling me.

They should have checked all
the road maps of their journey.
Three years married and they are
hopelessly lost in the barren desert
of the reality of their insurmountable  
differences and the once hot-blooded
impetuous ignorance of their lustful youth.

Her body was wrapped
in the finest Indian silk,
as any precious gift would be,
exquisitely sensual to his touch.

She trembled as his hands
opened and explored layer
by layer the sari her mother
had given her that morning.

Their kisses were wet and deep,
His breathing was as labored
as her's.

It was their wedding day
and first night together.
They were as yet children,
lost in the passions of first love.
Their shared rapture all consuming,
Soon, two would be forever as one.

Passions kiss on quivering lips,
naked skin touching now enfolds,
bathed in amber candle's glow.

It comes now without
preamble or announcement,
On the ending of the poignant
symphonic overture,
Or, the melodramatic moments,
of a romantic drama on TV.
A sunrise or sunset can do it.
A story retold with child innocence
recounted by one of my grandsons,
can bring me to my emotional knees.
My son calls it the result of my brain
operation a few years ago,
This emotional tearing up,
of my excess humanity.

I like to think it is a reward of sorts,
a blessing of age and well-earned maturity.
Sensing the end of the long traveled road,
gives my humanity, a focused clarity.

The days are long and hard to go,
Walkin' down my side of the road.

Up ahead I see Emmylou comin' ,
known her since we was 2 or 3.
Yet, she crosses over from,
My side of the road,
Making like she don’t see me.

Up ahead comes old Nat Black,
Shuffling along and limping some,
He marched with Mister King,
Over in Selma in ‘63,
That’s how he got that limp you see.
But still he keeps to his side of the road,
On the opposite side from me.

Further ahead comes Jake Sutton’s kid,
Strutting along at a pretty brisk clip,
A stout club in one hand,
and a white sheet tucked under his arm.
Off I bet, to burn a cross somewheres.
Him and his rowdy friends cluttering up,
both sides of this road I tread.

Sleepy little ‘Bama town,
With so much trouble all around,
I just keep on trudging down,
My side of the road.

Hoping someday, it will lead us all,
Someplace better and fair,
Then this divided road we all share.

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
exaggerated imagined illness and or personal fears.

I thought we ran all of them out of town,
suitably tarred and feathered,
Riding on a hitching post rail.
Perhaps some things never change.

"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 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."

Now where did we put that rail?

It was my first Cathedral,
Cavernous and nearly silent.
Dark enough that I closed,
My eyes giving them time
To adjust to the depths,
Of it's shadowed blackness.

Languid slanting rays
Of penetrating sunshine,
Alive with moving mists,
Of floating, rotating dust,
The only source of light.

The bittersweet scents,
Of venerable age mixed,
With fodder and animal waste,
Not at all unpleasant to sniff.

Leather tack hung on walls,
Awaiting the call to work.
Long delayed, and overlooked,
Replaced by mechanical steeds,
Wheels and blades of steel.

Neatly festooned wall hooks
Displaying wooden handled
Hard-worn steel hand tools,
Flecked with rust, chipped by use.

The choir was in the rafters,
Pigeons’ and Doves
Cooing Heavenly Hymns.
Occasionally the murmur of,
Feathers flapping on high,
Like the sounds,
Of Angels wings.

I climbed the ladder,
Into the Loft up high,
Followed by a friendly,
Old one eyed Barn Cat,
I recall his name was Cy.

Old Cy who knew,
All the good places,
To explore and secretly hide.
And too, where tasty rodents
Were found in heavenly,
bountiful supply.

That lofty perch,
Among the penetrating
slanting rays of sunlight
Inspired a fathomless hush
of contemplation and inner bliss,
I'd never known before, or since.

We sat silent for many minutes,
In a state of transfixed repose,
Old Cy and I, speaking not a word.  

We crawled among stacked bales,
Of fragrant fresh cut hay,
Like a lofty Fortress built for us,
Playing and imagining,
Endless flights of fantasy,
Long into the eve of day.

Yes, my Grandfather’s
Old wooden Barn,
Was indeed a magical,
Reverent and sacred place,  
As any formal denominational
house, of any faith can be.

If ever, I truly felt,
The presence of Holy Grace
Surely it was within,
That impressionable
all inspiring place.

Even fleeing memories
of a long ago small boy,
Have not diminished,
That big Cathedral's
Prevailing, exalted space.
Spiritually overseen by,
An old, feline, one-eyed
clergyman named Cy.

My breath like smoke
upon autumn's morn.

Into my boot chill water seeps,
the stream runs icy clear and deep.

He comes up swiftly, turns,
sees my fly and does reverse,
takes a pass and eyes the prize,
quickly I ****** back my line.

He is big and brown,
speckled and Steelhead sleek.
  
I cast again,
briefly let it float,
where he was
only a moment ago.

The silvers of his belly flash,
he rolls and rises
takes another look,
ever so sly and cautious,
or so he thinks.

Does this beauty not know,
I'm strictly Catch and Release?

I hastily entered the elevator,
my mind focused on my meeting
atop the 24th floor.  

Walked to the rear and turned,
putting my back against the wall.
The car mostly full.

She stood next to me, slightly in front
close enough that I could smell the sweet
bouquet of her body and hair.

More riders boarded the car nearly full,
She pushed up against me a little,
turned just her head and smiled,
apologizing softly.

Her freshly washed hair was piled up upon
her head, swept back on the sides,  up off
her neck, held in place by a pair of tortoise
shell combs, with but one brownish blond
stray lock hanging loose, resting upon
the collar of her yellow summer dress.  

A small single pearl earring adorned each
of her lobs. Her profile was enchanting, the
curves of her slender neck enticing, and inches
from my face. I closed my eyes and breathed
deeply her essence, just as the doors on the 14th
floor intruded.

Half the riders exited the car and though there
was more room, neither of us moved from where
we stood. I could feel the warmth of her body
on my right thigh, my hip, my chest.

The 20th floor was hers, the doors opened,
She took one step, half turned and smiled
at me, her eyes were of the deepest blue as
if lit from within. And then she was gone.

On two other occasions, I explored that 20th
floor, seeking by chance, to find her, without
success. It has been many years since that day,
and still, like a photograph, her image, even
her scent; earthy sweet like lavender in bloom
are etched forever into my memory.

And yet, I never saw her again.

Way back in my youth,
I looked at "Time" as my friend,
Now, I'm not so sure.

"Tiss that time of year,
the field rodents run,
the big machines hum,
the snakes slither,
gofers go deeper,
all to avoid the whirling blades,
dust clouds rise and damper the sun,
scavenger birds look for eatable pieces.
Harvest time busy the crops to gather.

Gravel crunches beneath my feet,
the meadowlark sings it's song,  
Low morning sun breaking upon the dawn.

Across the valley the back lit blue Cascades
majestically fence off the Eastern sky,
as if to hold back the light.
Mount Hood wears the emerging sun,
like a lighted crown upon her regal peak.

Out in the valley harvested golden wheat
fields stand side lighted and resplendent,
stalks shimmering with nighttime dew.  

Ground hovering Fog off the river,
to the eyes delight, rising with the sun.
Crisp clean air as Fall descends,
blowing chill breath around my ears.
Oh how sweet to be right here,
and look upon this sight.

I open my eyes and there he'd be,
Sitting at the edge of the bed,
Staring right up at me.
I swear his eyes and expression
Have love written all over them.
A silent message impossible not to see.

I pat the bed and up he comes,
Flops down beside me and
nestles his head upon my chest,
A big contented sigh his only utterance.
This our ritual of the morn,
He always waits, never jumps the gun.
Waits for permission like any good son.

What do they think I wonder,
What drives their loyal companionship,
Their unconditional love for we human beings?

Truly did we ever have a better friend?
A shadow, follow us anywhere,
Willing to take a bullet to protect us,
Cries when we leave them,
Always overjoyed to see us even if it's only
been minutes since we left their sight?

What other living creature is so willing to
overlook our failures, our unintentional abuse,
And never guilt us for these our all too human mistakes.

I wish I only knew more people,
That had the loving, steadfast
Nobel character of a faithful dog.
Oh, what a better world this would be
if only we acquired some simple animal behavior.

He made the stairs up from the yard,
Without falling even once.
Entered the house with a feeble little
skip and a bound of renewed energy,
Wagging his long crooked tail,
wearing the shaggy faded yellow
coat of an aged Labrador.
Loose skin and bone where once firm
muscles shown.
Nearly blind and fully deaf he still managed
to grab up an unclaimed tennis ball from
off the floor. Tooth and gummed it a few times
then flopped down on his rug, exhausted and spent.  
Sixteen summers and winters lived,
Loving companion, faithful friend,
Raising my grandsons to the ages of seven and ten,
Slept by their beds and protected them.

The mobile Vet has come, it's the needle not the gun.
I can not attend, too soft of heart,
I've buried too many canine friends.
My son is stoic, tending to what must be done,
But later alone, he will grieve and weep as I have done,
He is after all his father's son.

Rest in Peace Bennie you brought our family much joy.

I too have taken a two month leave of HP.
I don't think anyone noticed. That is how it is on
Social Media, words that live only for a day or
two turning to cosmic cyber dust and forgotten
as such.  As if only the now, the new matters
and perhaps only to their creator. Like a fleeting
thought in our mind, here and then quickly gone.
Replaced by hundreds or thousands more.

"Old Poets never die, they just fade away."
But I for one Joe Cole, will miss your thoughts
and words. As I too fade away, take my leave
to write another book. Loved my time here
as I'm sure you did too.

Be well sir, be well all you creative people.
All the words matter as do you.
Sincerely signed,
Another old poet.

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 many faults and
failings, with his long history of 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 for
him to do.

Half way 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 table cloth. 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
both 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 mirror.  

"Peace on Earth and Good Will Towards Men",
does not work for everybody friend. Hopefully,
maybe next year, we'll try it all again.