“Who Am I?”

I am, who I am,
Whoever that is,
Whoever I was,
Whoever I become.

Others try to tell me
Who I am or should be,
I try not to listen to them,

Because in truth,
As to who I really am,
I don’t actually know,
At least for now I’m not,
One hundred percent sure.

Is there a Committie somewhere,
That directs such things?
Purveyors of personalities,
Dispensers’ of intelligence,
Measurers’ of ambition and success?
How to look, how to dress?
What is too fat,
What's too thin?

Perhaps some kind of scale,
To measure up,
Or down too?

Maybe there’s some magic formula,
When Mixed and taken,
Makes us who we “should” be?
But then, according to WHO?

As for all those other people,
Well meaning or not,
How can they possibly know more
About me, than I do?

I am a Work in progress,
Until I fail miserably,
Or until I’m dead,
Please have the decency,
To allow me, to be me,
And the time to find out.
'Cause frankly, all your
Premature pronouncements
Regarding me and who I am,
Is some really boring ****!

The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes passed along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps nineteen,
long brown naked legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we were still and let
them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional
impulses. An open and free spirited
people living passionately within each
minute shared.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real-life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam naked in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires, rolling road
surface and there she was, a straw basket in
her Bike's basket, a huge smile on her
unforgettable, beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees, among birds singing,
in sight of the sea, upon a Palm log and ate fresh
bread and fruit. Drank strong black coffee
(French Roast I presume,) nibbling some
marvelous cheese.

We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake.

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.

He came, reluctantly pulled by his head
At the hands of a masked man,
Using large metal,
Salad Tong appearing forceps,
Rudely, crudely yanked from his mother’s
Cervical embrace, into the glaring,
First Light of intended living and breathing.
His head now misshapen,
(To return to normal they assured,)
His little body more blue than pink,
Umbilical cord around his neck,

Absolutely ridged, not moving,
No sound did he make,
appearing more gone than here.

My own breath did cease until to my relief,
His tiny arms and hands did give notice
Of life, followed soon after by a fitting
Shrill scream of rebuttal, a rebuke to
The light, the air, the rude process
That had brought him there.

One moment at peace, safe and warm
Within his womb of tranquility, dreaming
Whatever dreams the pure and innocent's
Do dream, then abruptly ripped from
All that peace, out into all this!

At that moment I too wanted to join in,
Echo his howl, his guttural protestation,
I too swept up by that ethereal wave of disturbance
Feeling his struggle as if he was drowning in new found air.
For me, as if at this moment of his birth,
I too was being reborn.

My knees grew weak, I was for a instant dizzy,
I struggled to regain my own lost breathing.
Restart my own heart, fight back the water in my eyes.

I let go of his mother’s hand, she with eyes closed,
As if sleeping, exhausted from too many hours of labor,
My respect and love for her and her magnificent efforts,
Expanded then to boundless.

The tender masked women in white,
They with shining, smiling eyes,
Quickly cleaned, and wiped him dry,
Swaddled him in a tiny blanket and laid him into
My unaccustomed arms, and for the very first time
In our lives, I looked upon the face of my son.

At that precise moment, some purposeful mental,
Primordial emotional switch, was indeed flipped,
And I, WE would never be the same again.

Now the first leaves, golden,
Falling, fluttering tranquilly.
Breeze becomes wind,
A slight chill present.

Summer ending,
Fall in the air,
You can smell it, see it,
Touch it, even taste it.

Saturday, Freeway fills with cars,
Flags flying, team colors displaying,
Car Horns honking, people waving.

Mighty Ducks are beating their wings,
Getting ready, who could have known?
That Ducks having no teeth,
Could be so very ferocious,
Tenacious, combative, thrilling.

Tailgating celebrating,
Throngs of laughing people, moving
Pennants showing, blowing in the wind,
Through the gates into the huge arena.
Filling the stands, waiting spectacle’s beginning.
Band blares spirited tunes, people and
Students cheering, Ear splitting, the grandstands
Vibrating, spines a tingling, tension mounting.

Among great fan fare, the Gladiators emerge,
Regaled in colorful Costumes for combat,
Helmets gleaming in the sun,
Muscles bulging young men strut and pose,
In spirited pent up raw anticipation,
Soldier-players moving now as one,
As a well practiced oiled machine,
Each part supporting the other.  
Each knowing its own function,
Resulting in precise synchronization.
A time and place where boys become men.

Beautiful young women, under dressed,
Bosoms bouncing, pompoms waving
Add to the Circus flavor of spectacle rising.

Only a game? None in the bowl knows that.
No one cares to think so, it is more than that,
It is war, it is life, it‘s aggression without death,
It is pride without regret; it is a melding of hearts,
And expectations, of loyalties to a common goal,
It is a Saturday in the sun and fall air, a chance to
Yell and cheer for youth in flower, to feel and fear
An inevitable outcome not yet predetermined.
To ebb and flow all human emotions,
To hopefully all, end the day a winner,
Or perhaps display compassion for the looser.  
To feel alive, to participate in life’s cycle of living.

Football, just a game? Don’t you believe it.

He sat hunched in the chair,
A slightly shrunken version
Of the robust man I had known,
The Coach, the Teacher, the Mentor
Of my youth.
The man I came to Revere nearly as
much as my own father.

That hero of the war with the Axes Powers,
That mostly soft spoken man of tolerance
And patients that could command respect
And obedience with but a single look.
That leader I would have battered down
Walls with only my head if he had asked me to.
That man that gave me a sense of self-respect,
Taught me strong Life Lessons that I still
carry to this day. That I have passed on to my
own Son and Grandsons. This man that taught me
That I could do anything I sat my mind to do,
if only I persevered, if only I did not give up.
That just to try is to win.
That a Team is always stronger that a man alone.
That fellowship lights the darkness,
That pride is more than just a word.
That the axiom of “It’s not if you win or lose,
It’s how you play the game.” Is not merely
Some bit of rhetoric thought up to console
Losers, rather a phrase that is meant to convey
A message of a morally correct perception and
Human understanding of life itself.

He sat there frail, looking a little confused,
Yet the man, the Coach was still there in his eyes.
He weakly, yet firmly took my hand, not in just a
Greeting “Shake” but rather in an embrace of
Old Comrades and I told him in a few choked up
words what he had given me, of my affection for
him and we both fought back tears of the emotion
that comes from a knowledge older men understand
will be the last contact they will ever share.
I forced myself to be brief rather than fall apart,
To perhaps embarrass us both.
I wanted to embrace him, but did not, fearing,
No, knowing that I would certainly fall apart.

I shook his Grandsons hand and told that fine young
Man that he had a great man sitting next to him there,
But then I’m sure he already knew that.

My life is but one of thousands of young men
And women’s lives that were  touched and inspired
By the “Coach”. That was his profession, his
“Calling” and he did it splendidly.
What I owe that man, I can never repay.

Thank you Don Brown, my dear friend just thank you.

The years had not been particularly kind to her.
Too much sun, smoking and hard living I suppose.
Something else too, a vagueness in those once
Lively young eyes, a detachment, almost as if
She did not know me, had never known me.

I had come there seeking her above all the other
Old friends, I had wanted to share a final farewell,
A chance to tell her how much she had once
Meant to me. How long ago I had once loved her.
How still in the foggy half light of slumber I did yet,
From time to time dream of her, reliving the images
Of us as the kids we once were. Of the still stuck in
Time, romantic visions of her played out in my over
Active mind and memories of days long in the past.
Of our flower of innocents shared for the first time,
Of our naked bodies Entwined.  
Of an all consuming young passion,
Never surpassed or repeated in over a hundred
Relationships and two short term marriages.
So much to say and yet,

After but a few confusing words exchanged,
Consisting of words, that I can’t now even recall,
She turned away as if our meeting meant nothing,
Or had not even taken place at all,
Like two strangers passing on the street,
Exchanging but an abrupt meaningless greeting.

She turned and was swallowed up, lost,
Within the large Ball Room,
A room filled with many of our former class mates.

For a moment I felt empty and then overwhelmed
With sorrow, not for myself or my foolish expectations,
But for the lost child, that full of life young girl,
That 1960s Gidget, that Cute as a button,
Girl of such promise.

She that I had once loved.  What had happened to her?
Where had that girl gone? More than merely age,
We had all aged, something much more insidious,
What illness or demon had taken up residence within her?
What tragedies, what pain had she endured?
Even her best girlfriends reported similar encounters.
What was the cause? I’m sure I will never know.

Back in the day, living our collective coming of age
Shared life at school, it was easy to imagine that we
Were all the same, children of the hour, brothers
And sisters together, all alike, all the same.
But of course that was not the case, different homes,
Unique sets of parents, different private lives.
Divergent directions and paths taken,
Many years lived in between to make it or break it.
Some of us being more fortunate than others.

Never too old for a Lesson taught and learned,
Some memories will no doubt remain,
Now with no regret.
What once was can never be diminished.
I wish her well. I wish her peace.
Memories remain in the past for a reason.
Chapter closed, at long last no second guessing,
Time now to move on. . . Free to dream that dream no more.

By Stephen E. Yocum

In 1974, from out of Kabul,
The bouncing open back of
An old flat bed truck,
Eating dust and Diesel fumes,
Two alone we journeyed.

A round the world exploration
Of adventure and discovery.
Of lands and cultures,
people never before encountered.
Naive Ecotourists, before there
Was such a thing, called by a silly name.

The land there about, dry and dusty,
Sparse vegetations, Inhospitable to all,
Featureless and drab beyond comprehension.
Harsh lands breed harsh unforgiving people,
Matching their dire extreme surroundings.
This being one of those places.

I was on an adventure,
More so than she with me,
A rocky marriage at best,
Stressed further by months of travel.
I seeking the raw, the real,
She wanting first class comforts,
Like the “Good Life as seen on TV”.
A rough open flatbed truck, eating dust,
Not even close to fitting that description.

We were going to a small distant town,
Where I might see a game as old,
As that culture, of those Afghan plains,
A game, no truly more of a passion,
A long held national obsession,
Not so much played,
As combated, a war on horseback,
Brutal, ****** and thrilling.

Under noonday sun, yet chill of weather,
An hour out, four mounted horsemen
Appeared over a low hillock horizon,
Their horses in gallop, snorting, prancing,
High stepping, bounding, on a mission,
Kicking up a cloud of yellow/red dust,
The riders making straight for us.

These were the days before the AK-47,
Before the Russian invasion of ‘97.
The tribal Afghan men back then toted old,
Long Barreled, flint lock looking weapons
Often adorned with ribbon or paint,
Looking at first glance merely ornamental,
Not quite dismissing their lethal intent.

I had seen a sheep shot by one of
These old rifles, the entry spot was
The size of an American Half Dollar,
The exit hole the size of a tennis ball exploded.

As they approached, at my direction,
She withdrew further back towards the
Cab of the truck, beside a wooden crate.
I still sat, legs dangling over the tailgate,
One hand holding onto the wood slatted
Vertical, side rail of the bed.
The other hand on the hilt of my 8 inch Buck Knife.
That given the impending situation, would have
Done me as much good as my ******* into the face,
Of a very strong hurricane wind,
Doing me and us more harm than good.
All the while, still watching the horsemen,
As they rapidly approached ever closer.

Ignoring our dust, they reined in less than
Fifteen feet from our rear bumper,
(If there had indeed been a bumper.)
Horses wild eyes rolling, saliva snorting
From their mouths and nostrils,
Lather of sweat coating sleek bodies.
Looking more akin to fierce Dragons than Equines.

Their dusty riders looked like mounted warriors,
Escaped from out of a Hollywood movie,
Full bearded, hard men, with Scars on their faces,
Their serious dust laden red eyes burning like fire.
Jaws firm set, faces otherwise devoid of expression.
Dressed in traditional head to toe garb,
A style unchanged in hundreds of years,
Large curved Knives in wide leather belts,
Two, sporting hefty British holstered revolvers.
All four with long rifles in one hand,
Horse reins in the other.

Just like that, there we all were face to face,
I could not avoid their eyes, locking mine on
The bigger man near the center,
Hiding as best I could, my concern, no my fear,
With a neutral expression, neither smile nor sneer,
That might give me away. Yet the hair on the back
Of my neck did tingle, throat too dry and constricted
To speak should it even be required.  

The bigger man into whose eyes I stared,
As if I had issued some challenged invitation,
With but a single practiced move of his,
Right arm and hand,
(Horse reins held in the other),
Quickly shouldered his menacing weapon,
And sighted down its long barrel, right at my head.

Perhaps it was only a few seconds,
Yet it seemed an eternity,
That gun’s bore looked immense,
Like the gapping open mouth,
Of some great ballistic cannon.
For a moment I ceased breathing.
It felt as if my heart stopped beating.
I could not but sit there waiting,
There was no escaping.

That throw back to a fiftieth century man,
Held the power, of Life or sudden death,
In his hand, my life on the tip of his trigger finger,
He and I both instantly understood this.

It was clear in that one moment,
That to him, this was nothing new,
Or even of the slightest importance.
A thing to which he was plainly indifferent.

Down that bore, was a place in which lurked,
A lethal bullet with my name written upon it,
I felt trapped, like screaming, but remained silent,
Eyes open, and then why I will never know,
Still looking at him I narrowed my eyes and smiled.

As perhaps a reply on the man’s harsh face,
There appeared an ever so slightest grin.
Then he hefted his weapon back down under,
His arm and silently smiled and laughed,
In my direction.

I could not help but notice that one of his
Upper front teeth was of bright gold, while the
One next to the gold, was completely missing.

He nodded just once his head, to me a message,
All said with no words actually spoken,
“Today traveler,
I could have killed you,
Taken your woman.
Out here no one would know,
No one would have cared,
Not even the truck driver.
You are in my homeland,
I control it and you,
Today I choose not to **** you,
Tomorrow I might feel different.”

Then he and his unsmiling companions,
****** their straining unyielding horses,
to their left, galloping away in an obscuring
cloud, of yellow and reddish dust billowing.

While adrenaline turned my arms and
Legs to jelly, and shortly thereafter,
My stomach to sudden fits of
Wrenching regurgitation.

When in a few years I first heard,
That the Russians had invaded
That harsh unforgiving land,
I told a friend,
“Those fool Russians,
Have grabbed a fearsome,
Tiger by the tail, and that beast
Might just devourer them,
And not the other way around.”
It came to pass, I was not far off,
In my knowledgeable easy prediction.

The lesson I learned that day?
No matter who you think you are,
Or where you might come from,
What Nations impressive seal,
That your Passport reveals,
When you travel far and wide,
Trespass in another man’s back yard,
You best beware, of all the possibilities.

Upon our return trip the next day,
We took a bus of public conveyance,
Imagining perhaps there would be,
More safety in a convergence of numbers.

Footnote:

Over the centuries many invaders
Have attempted to subdue the wild
Land of the Afghans’ and nearly all failed.
A land and a people offering absolutely,
No forgiveness, not even to themselves.

Rudyard Kipling wrote of the British Empires brief
Excursions into that land, offering some sage advice;
“When you’re wounded and left on the Afghanistan’s
Plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to
Your God like a soldier.”

All present and would be conquers take note,
This remains Wise advice.  No one truly conquers there,
They just visit and bleed and then eventually go away,
Tails tucked between their knees. If indeed they still
Have one.

I have loved this time spent and shared
with you, said some things that meant
something to me, and read some beautiful
thoughts and words said by others.

Frankly this thing, this site can become
down right addictive, and before we know it
a whole day is shot, we might even give up
needed sleep to pursue it.

Like any addiction it needs to be controlled,
taken if at all, in small doses and that then
is my intention.

For new and old friends, I treasure your
warm embrace and no doubt I shall return.
There are other things I must and wish to do,
and as in all matters, I peruse everything in moderation.
Hugs of friendship to all, keep writing, be happy.
Thanks for the tutorial on Poetry communication.
I very much enjoyed it.

Will the day ever come,
when I run out of fun?
If that happens it will
be time to bury me.

For now I breath,
I reach to grasp
all of the life I can,

Because my friend,
sooner than you know,
everything flashes by
and all too **** fast.
And then, I know this
comes as a shock,
We all eventually die.

Now as to this sad end,
if there was some cure,
I'm sure somebody,
would have already found it.

And besides, living forever,
might not be all that good,
If these aches and pains of
aging are any indication of,
what could happen if indeed,
I lived to one hundred and seven,
Or three hundred and eleven.
By then I'd be nothing but,
a small bag of hurt and brittle
old bones a rubbing together.

And considering all that,
after serious contemplation,
Living that long,
does not sound that pleasant.

Then I guess, the answer here is,
Live BIG while you can,
Make the most of what you have,
Don't waste that precious time,
feeling sad or unhappy.
Treat others well, show respect,
Love your family and have no regrets.

Because this right here,
This one life,
This gift we're given,
It's all there is, no do overs
can or should be expected.

I reached the summit in time to see,
the grey of dawn just leaving,
The new sunrise begin to ascend.
The breeze, reborn, fresh as the day.

An Eagle soaring high over head,
spiraling on updrafts, master of the sky,
not hunting, just testing his wings,
apparently enjoying a little joy ride.
Oh what freedom that must be,
to fly like that as you please,
so completely released from gravity.
I watched him play, 'till out of sight.

Below me, on a ***** stood a
sure footed Male Mountain Goat,
Warming himself in morning sun.
Head held high, proud and alert,
eyes searching for opportunity.

Mountain Jays squawk and play
among the sparse trees below
my lofty perch, as if they too frolic,
in new day celebration.

A day ago I saw the sun rise from
the fourteenth floor window,
of my office building.  
That same sun, I now see,
from the top, of this mountain peek.
But it was very different.

Rather than fresh air laced,
with the scent of Fir and Pine,
It was the stale stink,
of cigarettes and dust,
Air pushed through a vent,
Resuscitated, recirculated
and processed, dead air resurrected.

My view East slightly obscured, by ***** glass.
A picture window that can not even be opened.
The Cascades majestically blue on the horizon,
The new days sun, resting on Mount Hood's shoulder.
A bright light inviting, Big and yellow, calling.

And but a day later,
here I stand, on Three Finger Jack,
Looking further East,
Breathing in this new clean day,
Taking memory pictures with my eyes,
Alone, but never completely.

Next time I will not wait so long.
Oh, if I could only live right here forever.

On further thought, after I'm dead,
haul my ashes up here, and leave 'em,
Sunrises and sunsets for all eternity.

Do you ever wonder if the past loves of your life,
remember you as clearly and fondly as you
remember them. Or even recall you at all?
Is my memory that much better than theirs?
Or do I just think too **** much in general.

People meet, quickly attract,
fall in lust, or even love,
for a moment, or two,
entwine their lives,
their naked bodies,
perhaps their hearts and souls,
confess deep secrets,
then soon they part,
going their separate ways,

Like Ships that pass,
and briefly collide in the night,
then merely, casually sail away.
A perhaps damaged hull , more than
chipped paint, left blowing in the wind,
Corrosive sea water seeps in, rust begins,
we look for someone to do a repair,
Some body work, a little new paint,
and off we sail again.

And yet no collision is without illusions
of it's "what might have beens",
indelible inevitable, later recollection,
Second guessing fermenting distraction.

So back to the question,
Do any of our past loves remember us
as fondly as we remember them?
Or indeed remember us at all?

In the prevailing final analysis,
it's all long gone and done,
Why should we even care?
Too much thought can be,
a nagging unwanted distraction.
What is over and done,
can never be again.

So give it no more thought,
than one of last years
fine summer days,
While you are basking,
in the warm soothing,
sunshine of this day, today.

I discovered once again today,
yet another child savant poet.
A mere kid of 21 with a brain
and old soul, the size of Texas.
I say another 'cause there appears
to be so far over a dozen.

Who are these Wiz Kids and just
what Planet are they springing from?
What race of superior beings produced them?

It is not for me to reason why,
but to just keep on reading.
Makes this old horse want to
throw away his pen. But instead
I think I will try to learn from them.

Let the children lead, all we must do
is follow.

When still a teen, I rented my first Motel room.
Moving for the first time from the back seat
explorations of adolescent desires, in my '58 Chevy.

Privacy found, never known before, acquired for
only twelve dollars, dank, smelling of stale
tobacco stink, mold on the window shades,
on the bedding and on the stained carpet floor.

Glasses wrapped in paper, water spotted,
Little tiny bars of miniature Lifeboy soap,
sticky sit on the chipped old porcelain sink.
White towels, more yellow than white.
A plastic shower curtain, missing several
metal rings, sagging in the middle. The tub
stained from the residue of aged rusty pipes.
With a drain that later refused to drain the
shower water we took together (Our first ever)
The old bed sagged in the center, put a quarter
in a small box on the bed side table and the
whole bed would vibrate, or so the sign promised.
There was a Bible also there on the table, I quickly
hide it away in a drawer, was about to find a quarter,
when a soft knocking came at the door.

Funny how when she entered that dingy room,
how none of it's squalor mattered, within moments
it became a Palace, a womb of warn safe contentment,
a  Shangri-La for us together.  

For a while it was a blur of frantic kissing and
tugging at clothing, wet kisses deep and wanting,
our bodies and brains aflame with passion.

Again and again we loved one another that night,
seemingly inexhaustible, as we sweated on those
already worn thin sheet, ending each frantic coupling
in childish laughter thrilled by the new almost existential  
feelings, of all that real love is and what it can ever be.
Wishing in our naïve way the night would never end.
Knowing full well that she must be home by Eleven.

We then and there confessed our mutual love,
as deep and real as any love ever, or anyone's love can be.
We talked of continuance, hopes of a life together, forever.

"You are nothing but children!" Both our families agreed.
"You know nothing of love or what it means."

They were so wrong, how could they possibly know,
what we knew, how we felt.
That age alone can not determine when love is real,
or when it is not. Love does not "Card" you at the door.

"You have your whole life ahead, College, a football scholarship,
and lots of growing up to do." Mine said.
"That's it, you two are done, it's over." Hers directed.
"You are not to see each other again outside of school."
They both assured us.

We did as told, but not for trying,
caught once or twice, and then overnight,
She was gone, shipped off to some
Aunt down in Texas,  
And a Catholic girls School.
And that was truly the end.

But now its been 50 years, a near life time and
yet I have not forgotten, once in a while it all
comes back in a night dream, Her and the scent
and feel of that squalid and yet wonderful Motel
Room, and the love we shared there as children.

In two weeks I will see her for the first time, a Reunion.
She now a long time mother and four time grandmother,
I married and failed twice, but got two sons in the bargain.
Now I too, a loving Grandparent. She has a husband she still
loves, she says in an email. I lied a little when I told her I was
happy for her, wished her well.
Two short emails in 50 years.

So many years come and gone,
Both of us now grey of hair,
and much rounder at the middle.
Like a kid, on Christmas morning,
I'm excited to see her.
Will we even recognize each other?

I wonder if she will be able to look in my eyes,
and tell that I still dream about her and that room,
That I still love her.

Just how does one define friendship?
Oh, I already know what the Dictionary says.
It's far more than merely one word, or two.
You could apply many verbs to describe it.
Few, on their own will justice due.
It is more about one's emotional perception,
than a mere sentence of words, though descriptive.

For sure it's a feeling, a strong visceral response
evoked by respect, even love of a thing above all other's.
Friends come in many shapes, sizes and colors.
They can be inanimate or living breathing.

All inspire in us a near electrical resonance of reassurance,
a sense of peace, surely comfort. Maybe it starts with
the rhythmic beating of our own mothers heart,
the sound and vibration of our first true friendship.
A little later her breast and the nourishment it gave,
became our first outer world dearest best companion.
Mother's milk, served warm, sweet and tenderly,
Love's personification.

Yes of course Friendship can be an extension of a
strong lasting bond with other people, yet even more.
Our family's are our closest best friends, if we are lucky.
But what of the others?

I have been  befriended by books, movies, dogs and
many other non human living friends, I even have
a old film camera I packed completely around the world,
that I count among my closest companions.
A soft warm favorite wool blanket acquired down in
New Zealand, also fits nicely that same description.
An old bamboo fly rod that belonged to my Father,
Is a friend I would not part with for any amount of dollars.

And less I forget (No pun intended) our memories too are
right there, with the best and oldest of our dearest, lasting friends,
Conjured up at a minutes notice.

And perhaps last of all, (you may have more on your list),
I can not leave out the most important friendship of all,
It's the friendship we have with our selves, to which I'm referring.
For if that very personal friendship is not strong and on going,
It's truly doubtful that we will have, or sustain for long, any others.

They come amongst
a cacophony of noise
and clutter, little voices,
uttering unintelligible sounds,
amid giggles and laughter.
Sometimes it's pushing
and shoving,
"Mom he's touching me!"

Leaving as they go a trail,
of ever changing strange things,
like dropped Legos, paper airplanes
rubber band and old bent nails.

Once I found, to my otter amazement
A freshly dead intact Grasshopper,
Neatly folded up in brightly colored
Special Occasion Wrapping paper.
A gift no doubt from one of them,
left right out, on my Dinning Room Table.

Other times they emerge slow and stealthy
a  pair of Ninjas, all in black and scary.
Or as merely Batman and Robin,
Maybe Spidy and the Incredible Hulkster,
All of their personas assuredly entertaining.

As they barge through my door,
they tend to sing loud a lot,
True, squeaky, off key, yet sweetly.
Most are songs I've never heard,
Or just made up for the moment.

If I'm a little down, feeling kind of blue
five minutes with them is a sure cure
Funk gone in a flash, replaced by nothing
but happy.

Consummate story tellers they can be,
The nine year old should be the "Town Crier".
No news fit to print, ever went untold
from his lips, always relayed with such gusto.
Ask him a simple "How was your day?"
and he will recite 15 minutes of vivid detail,
all for my very delighted amused approval.

The six year old is sweet enough to eat,
Always bright blue eyes a flashing,
Not to be outdone, he will try his best,
to **** right in and share his days happenings.
Little brothers need always to try harder.

We all three laugh and joke,
and sometimes I break out,
the oh so dreaded "tickle fingers",
chase them all around 'till I catch one
and then for sure their screams of delight
and giggles do indeed fill up the room,
not to mention my old soft heart as well.
These little boys are pure magic.

Watching them thrive and grow, is my tonic.
A battery charger I can't get enough of.
Smart, charming, funny, sweet, cute and happy,
the loves of an old man's life. With them around,
who needs another.

They are a precious gifts from my kids, their
Mother and Father. Another chance to have
children close, be their loving guiding grandfather.

In them I see my son as a child, now a fine
grown man, In those boys I see the very
reason I was put on this Earth,
A life of human creation, come full circle.

She comes many times
completely unexpected,
On padded paws,
Silent and stealthy.

Not a hint she is near
'till she jumps in your lap
and meows her first greeting.
Though so softly, as to not,
wake even a sleeping baby.
She is sweet beyond belief,
wants only to be loved
and give love in return.

She never insists like some
women I have known,
Rather she waits until
you're completely done eating.

Soft Hypnotic gray eyes
intense in their gaze captures,
at once your full attention,
Then gently she places her
tiny head right in your hand,
Seeking your touch of affection.

Her motor purring starts,
growing ever loud and louder.
Then she begins rhythmically,
Kneading your chest or stomach
with her front paws as she would
have done her own mommy,
But it' s not milk she seeks,
it is love from her human,
physical, emotional contentment.

She would sit all night,
in my lap if I let her,
yet she can sense when
I have had enough,
Knows when to quickly,
quietly take her leave.

Truly not many,
females like her.

Returned flush with excitement,
From a ten mile bike ride,
On a day near perfect,
Out along the river,

Temp in mid seventy's
not a cloud in the sky.

Beside the river I ride,
the water summer calm flat,
Scents of wet mossy rocks,
and dogwood trees non relenting.
The perfume of the Valley,
the River damp, sweet and pure.

Ride as I did the trails,
some on paved surface.
most on wood chips and dirt.

Shifting gears to suit the,
changing terrain and the
resources within my aged knees.  

The wind from my speed,
blows refreshingly in my face,
Dark glasses slipping down my nose,
yet keeping sun glare from blinding.

I pass some people,
I smile and wave,
they reply in kind,
Maybe we even
exchange brief
verbal greetings,
Some lost in a blur
of movement.

Easy for us all to smile,
we are happy in our work.

Half way there,
I stop for a drink,
Ease my burning legs.
The spot I pick is under  
cover of a huge old walnut tree.
It's massive umbrella shade,
an embracing sanctuary.

Across the way, a little lake,
On the far bank there stands a
metal skeleton outline of three
buildings that once stood there.
This recreated site of the first
European settlement in Oregon,
Clear back in the year of 1837.

Methodist Missionaries they
were, came overland West,
from North East by wagon.
Bringing so they thought,
Needed "Civilization" to the
poor "heathens" here about.
Almost as always a very,
mistaken, arrogant notion.

There effort lasted only
four years, the locals
responding not so well to
their well intending invitation.

In historical retrospect,
one can not but applaud
their self scarifies, hardship
and strife, some of them even
died still trying.

However they did open
the door, to a new beginning,
Be it for good or ill.
Soon other settlers
made the long journey.
Becoming "Oregon Or Bust"
for many.  

As I reflect sitting beneath
this tree those early people
no doubt planted,
from seed or sapling,
brought so far to this
new land of beginning.
It stands here still,
176 years later,
a wonderful living,
still growing testament
to human efforts of trying.

The breeze livens,
stirs sweet pungent
scents of brackish water,
forest, and Valley,
hints of crocus,
ripe black berries and
summer flowers blooming,
All these scents mingle,
and grow ever stronger.

Off in the near distance,
a strengthening breeze whispers,
Approaching through forest trees
coming ever closer and nearer.
Reaching me in a refreshing
gust that lasts for only a minute.
The sweat upon my face
cooling at it's touch. As I smile,
in grateful acknowledgement.

I have seen this day,
two kinds of squirrels
one red, one grey colored.
Coveys' of doves taking flight,
from my approaching bike,
And birds of many description,
A Red Tailed Hawk on wing,
Harassed by two small pursuit birds
protecting their nests from him.
A huge Bald Eagle diving for fish.
And one of my very favorites,
a spindly legged Blue Heron.
Standing in mud, fishing.
Even a smart fox,
scurrying back to hide
in the foliage, too shy
and too fast to be viewed
for too long by a human.

Thankful as I am,
for this one more
glorious day of living,
In the ***** of nature
so inspiring, so splendid.
I embrace Life and in return,
it grants me, continuation.

I plan on returning soon,
maybe tomorrow if my legs
let me.

Just when did our expectations
grow so very incredibly grandiose?
This feeling we seem to have developed,
regarding divine personal entitlement?
We want what we want and,
by God when we want it!

If "Selfish" was a Mill Stone,
Most of us would surely wear it,
around our self-absorbed necks.
It's all about me, to hell with the rest!
People, friends we are all in this together,
Maybe it's a test.
"Do unto other's" still works the best.

Then there is the blame game we play,
the old/new too quick to sue game.
What about that?
Slip and fall on your back,
take the money and run, it's a sad fact.
The boss gave you a hard look,
go straight to HR and sue the *****.
Never mind that the poor guy,
has a huge family to feed,
That he was not wearing,
his glasses only focusing his eyes,
and not "hard looking" you.

I don't know, people used to be more civil,
even willing to forgive and forget, now it seems,
All about some windfall from out of the blue.
How to ***** your neighbor before they screws you.
What ever happened to "Live and let Live?"
Come on my brother's and sister's, get over it!
There is a big difference between "Want" and "Need".
And want in my dictionary is spelled "G R E E D"!

Can there possibly be,
any more affable and
devoted friend than big old dog?

Dogs; the only animal in the world,
bred, and raised that have within
them one driving passion and desire,
to live along side and please their
human companions.

Should we find reason to scold,
or forcibly correct them for some
transgression of unwanted behavior,
They merely love us with their eyes
of shinning acceptance and affection,
Ready to forgive and forget.

A dog is not petty, they hold no grudges.
They seldom nag, never talk too much,
In short they are the perfect friend.

Other than a hopeful encouraging gaze,
Two times a day, like clock work,
Beseeching us as they do, for food,
They seldom require anything of us.
Except to be protected, loved
And treated fairly.

Oh sure they also let us know when,
they need to go outside to do their Duty.
Now that is so completely preferable,
to that other odious option.
How **** smart is that?
Sometimes I don't even know,
when I got to go to the bathroom,
And I'm an intelligent human.

At least once a day, they
conspicuously stand at the
door, leash in their mouth
looking to go outside,
for a little exercise.
And gentle reminder to us,
that a brisk walk would,
do us more good, than them.

I can sometimes be a little down,
When along comes my canine clown,
And charms and delights all that,
Right out of me. Such is their nature.

Even merely going out to the garage,
for less than five minutes,
Upon my return, I'm excitedly,
lovingly greeted as if,
I'd been gone forever.

Five minutes or five days,
To a dog, it does not matter.
Unconditional love has
no built in time meter.

If you could hook up,
their gyrating, manic tails,
to your house current, no
utility bills need be paid.

Sometimes I swear,
that old dog of mine,
is actually smiling.

Long tailed dogs can be a bit of a menace,
What with their "Excitement Whip" appendage,
slapping seated kids on the floor, in the face,
And sweeping all the little bric-a-brac,
keep sakes, right off your coffee table.
A small price to pay for all their affection,  

I like people just fine,
but I must honestly admit,
in the company of noble dogs,
I can be completely content.

Sure occasionally I seek the
reassuring comradeship,
of some good humans
As long as my dog,
can come along,
and attend the party too.

When I was a child,
we moved a lot,
Human Friends
were not in abundance.
It was an old loving dog.
that pulled me through,
his warm companionship
I have never forgotten.

It was about then,
that I truly understood,
that dogs are people too.
Much smarter than,
we give them credit.

The only real sad part
to this compatible pairing,
this marriage of the heart,
is that we must always,
it seems, out live our buddies.

Love is love and
gone is gone
and nothing
can ever change that.

That loss has come
to me, more times
than I care to remember.
I weep and morn and
Swear to never ever,
Suffer that pain again.
That my last dear friend,
was beyond replacement.

Yet, a sweet new
little puppy can
do wonders to heal
a sad broken heart.

Once more you begin,
to open your soul
and embrace that
young pup forever.
And what was old,
is new again.

And just starting over,
that fresh beginning,
That new budding
friendship,
Is what's important.

For no man is an Island
as long as he has a
good dog beside him.

Notes on a IPad.  A rejected lover’s lament.
What she says and in parentheses (What she thinks)

Oh please tell me,
What will I do now that    
You have gone away,
Three days now it’s been,
Lost to me forever,

(And took my wristwatch?
Will I ever know,
the correct  time again?)

I gave you everything,
And you crushed me!

(No I mean it, the other night
When you rolled over in bed
You actually friggin’ crushed me.)

Our lips are empty now,
Of each other’s kiss,
Like our odorous love,
our bed sheets grow stale,

(‘cause you didn’t put them
in the machine, like I told you,
Before you walked out the door!)

Life can never be the same,
Oh, to end my terminal misery.

(I’m thinking that notion over.
Maybe this is a positive thing,
My parents warned that he was,
not good enough for me).

I walked alone, along the lake today,
You know, the place we met,

(All those **** Ducks around there,
really make a mess. Got that goo
all over my shoe,)

But I digress.

You are gone now,
My loving arms are empty,
Of your sweet scent,

(Of the Brute Cologne,
I bought you for Christmas
You ungrateful  Retch!)

My blurry eyes they do,
so sorrowfully weep,

(From all the pollen in the street,
God, I hate spring time for that!)

We were going to buy a cute,
Little yellow house together,
You vowed to love me forever,

(****, Now I’ll have to renew my
Apartment lease, and get a roommate)

(You PIG, did you ever in your life,
Put up a toilet seat?)

You left when you said,
That you never would,

(And just what the hell,
did you do, with my car keys,
I ‘ve looked all over the place)

Truly my broken heart,
My stomach aches
and pines for you,
All Love has flown,
Oh,what will, what can I do?

(Hm’ I wonder if McDonalds has
McRibs back on their menu?)

Ring! Ring!  The cell phone beckons.

“Yes, hello. . . Oh it’s you.
(You *******!)
What’s that you say?
You’re coming home to me?
Darling, that’s so great to hear!

Want to meet down at McDonalds
I think they got McRibs!”

There are times in life
when a man needs change,
And I don't mean,
dimes and quarters.

Remember when you
were just sixteen,
Driving all alone, solo,
in your old man's Buick?
All the windows down,
radio music blaring,
Your bare arm draped
out over the side of the door.
to better exhibit your bicep.

Hell mister, no doubt,
you were ten feet tall,
the king of the road.
Ever wish you had,
that feeling back again?

Cars were always my thing.
I owned some Detroit
Muscle, Full blown Chevy,
Firebird 400, Chrysler Hemi.
Smoked some tires and
went to Court a time or two.
Of course all that was long
ago in my fitter youth.

When I became a Yuppie
I acquired a Poodle Puppy,
a Porsche and a MGB.

But the ***** does turn.
and so then, did I,
And my road got,
a little bumpy.

Along came marriage,
then a baby carriage.
And a big house
In the Burbs.

Then came a progression
Of Volvo Station Wagons,
to Soccer Dad Mini Vans,
to large SUV's.
All for hauling,
any number of things.
Kids and dogs, strollers,
bikes, kites and scooters,
Fellow car poolers,

And less we forget,
"Pulling" things too.
Boats, RV's, Utility trailers,
and all nature of landscape,
gardening, and general
shopping paraphernalia.
Little League Teams,
Drooling big dogs,
Papier Mache Volcanos.
Home Coming Floats,
Once even a Goat
You name it, I hauled it,
Or pulled it!

Years rolled by,
eventually the Kids
flew the nest, got married.
And low and behold,
The wife and I split,
Each going our separate way.
No one's fault, just grew apart.
The thinly veiled allegorical
Previous Patriarchal
arrangement became,
A whole new start,
A workable self allegiance
to just one.

Soon once more, I was the MAN.
I ran out, bought a **** boat
But not having the kids around,
Soon sold it, having found out,
that alone, I was not a water sport.

I caroused around, dated women,
got my pockets picked,
learned a few lessons.
Fell in love, fell out again,
Took a few pretty good blows,
Right on the chin,
Even some down lower.

Round about then,
An Epiphany kicked in.
Remembered my most,
ennobling, happy events,
behind the wheel,
driving Dad's Buick.

As I stepped on the lot.
There was never doubt,
There was only one choice,
I just had to have that,
Little VW Bug Red Racer.

Nothing like your Mother's
Beetle, the engine's up front,
Not stuck in the trunk,
And man it produces over,
200 Big Time Horsepower
Not to mention,
Lays rubber in three,
Of six gears.
Getting all the while,
33 miles per gallon.

Receiving additional help,
from a sweet Turbo Booster,
Just like a big, Indy Track Bruiser.

There's 19 inch racing
tires and alloy wheels,
They look so cool,
Spinning in motion.

Dual stainless steel exhausts,
And best of all,
a cool collapsible,
Convertible top.

Rack and Pinion steering,
Handles like a sports car,
Yet still offers a backseat
To take my Grandkids,
out for a spin.

Dude, it's got,
All the bows
and whistles!

Top Down Driving is such a thrill,
Makes me feel sixteen again.
The open road, the sky above,
The wind blowing thru my hair,
what there is left of it.

Perhaps the only thing that
Could possibly make this
Driving experience greater,
Would be to speed down,
The road, going eighty,
Behind the wheel of my
Little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course all the while,
Feel the wind in my hair.

I don't know, I'm too old,
To call this a mid life crisis.
But on the other hand,
Maybe the acquiring of
This little red sporty car,
Has something to do with,
Those Testosterone shots I'm taking.
I'm even thinking, of dying my hair,
naw, lets not get crazy!

Man, woman, fear, touch, kiss, scent, taste, magical embrace, *******,
exaltation, celebration, emotional intoxication, tenderness, cuddling.  .  .

Fear, doubt, expectation, incrimination, inebriation, allegations, regret,
concerns of damnation, impregnation, incarceration, restraining order. . .

Reconciliation, fear, Man, Woman, touch, kiss, scent, taste, embrace . . .
And you know the rest

For several weeks,
I'd been staying there,
Near a tiny village
on a tropic Island
not quite a mile square.

Encircling this place,
water so blue and clear,
As to render you mute,
Even produce a tear.

Mitchener was right,
His tales were true,
The South Pacific is,
indeed heaven so pure.

The people residing,
Once fierce and frightening,
Even Cannibals they were,
Turned docile and friendly,
Embracing a perfect stranger,
Like a long lost, family friend.

Those native people,
to this very day,
Proved to be,
Some of the best
I ever encountered.

In spite of our
language barrier
One old man, age 87
Was in particular,
A special friend of mine.

His few bits of broken
English though meager,
Always delivered,
With the utmost,
Vim and Vigor.

My Fijian I must admit,
Was assuredly not the best.
But as people do in that
situation, we smiled a lot,
Nodded our heads and
Pantomimed the rest.
Though that sounds
a little convoluted,
Strangely enough it suited,
we seemed to get the gist.  

One eve around sunset,
This old Gent and I,
Sat side by side thinking.
Watching water and sky
changing colors,
Way out into infinity.

We stared in silence,
Until the sun did plunge,
Into the darkening Sea.
All alone, just that
Aged fellow and me.
Watching a sunset
Beyond supreme.

The old man stood,
Nodded his head,
Pointing with his chin,
In clear indication,
That I should follow.
Which I did without,
The slightest hesitation.

In no time at all
We worked our way
Round, to the opposite
Side of the Island.

Where upon our arrival,
At the edge of the water,
The old man squatted,
As both of us reclined
Crossed legged in the sand.
And in all that time, still not
a single word was spoken.

After some minutes,
As darkness descended,
Low on the distant horizon
An amazingly huge, irradiant
full Moon, began it's glorious
Ascent.

I had all my life,
Seen that same moon,
From places all over
The globe, and yet,
This one bright yellow orb
Did steal my breath away.

At that moment for me,
it was easy to see, why the
Ancient's held the Sun and
the Moon as sacred.
How else would a person
Living then possibly explain,
Such Heavenly projections?

About that same time,
the old fellow sighed,
Indicating his own,
enraptured amazement.

With liquid eyes,
He turned to me.
Pointing out towards,
That uplifting glob,
And simply, softly said;
"America, You own the Moon."

Even after my friend stood
And silently departed,
I sat transfixed, motionless,
Watching that moon to its zenith.

Where upon, sheer elated emotions,
Of this my journey of self reflections
Began to sink in and I started to cry.

There are times is one's life,
When lessons are taught,
When almost no words
need to be spoke

And the best teacher's are
our own Brain and Heart,
Comprehending, embracing
Life's numerous shared Lessons.

Shaded porch, thick summer day,
Two old friends chat transported back by  
Shared words of youthful,
Enduring brotherhood.
Days they will never see again,
Still clear in their minds and memories.

Reading the other day,
an article about some,
Renowned fellow's notion,
On the study of "Human,
Productive Locomotion".

A reputed Authorty,
of "Time Management",
His main proclivity being,
The belief in his increasing,
Other peoples productivity.

Modulating their all too,
common Human tendency,
For naturally wasting time,
and non productive energy.

Him asserting himself to be,
a self styled know it all,
Bonafied Expert in Efficiency.

Now I can see,
How it might be,
That this type of study,
Offers some relevancy,
For the Barons of Industry,
What with them regulating,
The flow, While streamlining,
and furthering the advance,
of all things, relating to commerce.

A purely Scientific belief,
For the primary benefit,
Of the Time Clocks sake,
And all those Bosse's
Emotional financial betterment.

But what on earth,
did that have to do,
with an old retired,
fool like me?  

What matter that,
I merely sit and think,
for hours at a time.
Read the paper,
or a book,
Computer chat,
or cook?

Putter in my garden,
Or gratefully just stare,
at big billowing clouds,
or rainbows in the air.

Or perhaps I choose,
to hug my wife,
Or chase my Grand
Kids up a tree,
Maybe grab a nap,
Or even take a ***.

Pet my dog,
Or have a Beer.
Watch the Tube,
a little bit,
Or congregate to meditate,
with a convivial group of friends.

Maybe take a walk,
Down by the river.
Get out my old,
Bow and Quiver.

Wash my car,
Cut some grass,
Go to my writing class.

Slip on down,
to the " Red Dog Saloon"
Where I'll promenade,
A little Texas Two Step.

Come home in time,
To unwind and,
watch some David Letterman.

What's efficient,
and what is not?
Clearly, that interpretation,
Is completely up to me.
No Efficiency Expert needed.

When I was young,
I chased only fun,
My head all filled,
with stupid.

I wrecked some cars,
Got into fights,
Broke some bones,
never learned my lesson.

There was back then,
A guiding Light,
That tried to shine
From within my Father.

He knew the ropes,
Had run the course,
He'd even been in prison,
But me, well, I was too
"**** dumb" to listen.

We butted heads,
The Old Man and me,
I remained too
stubborn, to heed
His hard won
Sage wisdom.

To me back then,
his words, sounded
silly, at my age then,
I reckoned I knew
everything.

When he died,
We all cried,
After all he was
my Father.
But gone is gone,
And I wanted fun,
Off I went to find it.

In a bar, the "Memphis
Star", A guy pulled a
knife to stab me.

In a full blind rage,
I triggered my hate
And stole that man's
Life forever.

All hell commenced, and
My Everything changed forever.

Now as I sit here thinking
Within this rank prison,
I dearly wish that to
My old Daddy's wisdom,
I would have devoted,
more attention.

Tomorrow mornin',
A Hangman's comin',
and at the end of my
own rope, I will be
surely hangin'.

Went to the County Fair today,
I have always liked to go,
So many animals,
and things to see,
It's truly quite a show.

The Carnival Games are fun,
But certainly never free,
Most are surely rigged,
You hardly ever succeed.

There are Side Shows galore,
Some bring, right out in the open
******* clad young women for
perusal, to tease men into arousal.
But you need to pay to go inside,
To get a better peek.

Best of all though, for me,
Is the vast array of Junk Food,
Right there on display,
for everyone to see.
Forbidden none healthy stuff,
that the rest of the year,
I never get to eat.

While walking around,
The sights and the sounds,
of these many prohibited treats,
Their enticing smells do so delight,
That my stomach begins to growl.

It does not help, that huge colorfull,
signs, on each food stalls does adorn,
Advertising it's tantalizing offerings,
making them all the harder to ignore.

The combination of these deeds,
of visual, and nose sensory sensations,
Can doubtless render this person,
incredibly weak in the knees.

Next up jumps a big dilemma,
Which one thing should it be?
Pop Corn, with lots of salt and  butter,
Better yet, that fresh corn on the cobb
I see.

Look over there, Oh MY!
It's fried dough Elephant Ears, I spy,
Sprinkled with honey and cinnamon,
I seldom, almost never pass them by.

Oh YES, Bright Red Candy Apples!
A boyhood favorite of mine,
and a sure win.
An apple a day, they say,
Keeps the Doctor away,
The candy is just there for a grin.

Fried Chirreo's and Corn Dogs on a stick,
Both I could do, making that combination,
a bona fide Hat Trick.

Nachos dripping with melted cheese,
Oh sure, that's bound to please.

Pulled Pork on a bun would be kind of fun,
But the Barbeque Sauce gives me gas.

One that I'd almost forgotten,
How 'bout Candy Cotton?
A marvelous Incantation,
Sugar dropped into a machine's
whirring vat, spun like magic,  
Puff, just like that.
No slight of hand required.
Really quite a sweet sensation.

I've spent now over an hour,
Just wandering all around,
Looking at the stalls and signs.
And yet,
Still can't make up my mind.

Racked with indecision,
This perplexing dilemma,
Rests with no other person,
This one is all about me.
Yet another half hour,
from the clock has expired,
and still no decision is rendered.

The day is ending,
it's nearly Six,
Not long 'till Supper Time.
Before I left home,
My wife did inform,
"It's *** Roast tonight,
your favorite,
Make sure you're here by seven!"

With a certain hesitation,
And twinge of remorse,
Disappointment etched on my face,
I turn listlessly towards my car,
With slow pace resignation,
Still pondering all those treats,
I might have had,
If it weren't for my procrastination.

Decision making,
I've been slow to admit,
Has never been my forte.

Well perhaps, No for sure.
Maybe, I'll probably come back.
Tomorrow, or even the next day.
It could, or might possibly be,
That by then, I will have thought,
this all through,
And come to some decision.

I extend out my arm,
just as far as it can go,
I covet things you know,

More things can be the
answer to all my dreams,
The abolishment of my pain,
An ending to my loneliness,
And even buy me friends.

There is nothing they say,
that money can't buy,
It's a proven panacea.

I want to be a Has,
and not a Has Not,
And I want everyone
to see it.

The only real problem is I guess,
That my grasp it seems,
Can't begin to match my reach.

There was a Double Rainbow
in the sky, over my house today,

Any special meaning there you say?
Double Luck, Double Trouble,
Double Dip, Double Bubble,
Double Up, Double Down,
Double Dutch, Double Duty,
Double Play, Double Header,
Double Cross, Double Jeopardy,
Double Negative, Double Genitive,
Double Dealings, Double Whammy.
Double Jointed, Double Hung,
Double Pleasure, Double Fun.
I'm quite sure I could go on like this,
Beyond the ordinary, If only I had  
my copy of Mister Webster's Dictionary.

Working this over in my mind,
running it up and running it over.
The best conclusion I can reach,
Two stripe rainbows are nothing more,
than what you see and what you think.
A pretty painting in the sky, and hence
Of no other particular consequence.

Once it was just an innocent pick and shovel,
not much effort not much trouble,
Populations grew and demands exploded,
machines invented, more fuel was needed.
Trees were cut, factories built, coal discovered,
Smoke stacks billowed, still it was not enough!
And populations doubled.
  
Holes were drilled, to reach down deep,
"Black Gold" they said would be so cheap,
light the homes and run the ships,
drive the trains and keep the peace.  
Still it was not enough!
And the populations doubled!

**** the Earth, she can take it,
there is always more to exploit,
more to shamelessly profit from it.

Deplete the surface, Oh hell,
just go down deeper,
Oil all gone, well how 'bout shale?

A little recipe for disaster:
Drill multitudes of holes miles deep,
inject under extreme pressure,
thousands of gallons of water
imported from some great distance.
"Truck it in, ***** the expense!",
Add tons of harsh chemicals into this
volatile, polluting mix.
Blast deep strata with this brew,
until solid rock does crack,
Shale into gas and liquid gold,
Then bring it to the surface.

Now never mind the consequence,
That near by ground water as it flows
from out of household taps,
can be set afire by just the touch
of the lighted flame,
from a single just struck match.

And those now huge cracks deep
within the mantel of the Earth,
what of them I say,
Well not far below those cracks
is our molten lava core,
Just looking for escape.

Respected Geologists warn us of the risks,
Triggering quakes and huge volcano rips,
Yet the Fat Cats and their government,
still assures us, "never mind the consequence".

Ridiculous yes, perhaps suicidal,
As if the Captain of a submarine allowed his crew
to pound large nails into the body of his boat,
To hang up pictures of the Pope.

Again ridiculous you say,
Who would do such a insane thing?
The same **** guys that once owned the crews,
that swung that old pick and shovel,

A father to son inheritance,
by the same thieves, that manipulate our economy,
Riding the Bull up Wall Street and back down again,
All at their selfish greedy whims,
Never considering their corruption as any particular sin.

Those one percent spoilers who generation to generation,
continue to profit from their latest Big Business Gyration.
Even inventing a new name for this particular indiscretion,
Never even wincing, they straight faced lie with conviction,
and say hence,
"Hey folks, it's called Fracking, and you shouldn't mind
the consequence", 

So, it's profits over common sense,
The Fat Cats win again?  
My response to that,
Perhaps someone should FRACK them!

Now as to this just read little parable,
Less you dismiss it as some environmental fable.
The moral here is,
You glutinous greedy Big Oil Boys,
need to push back from the table!

The waves rush in and out again,
Legs useless, hands limp, arms bent,
The masked ones have departed,
the cutting now has quit.

Silent, though I wish to scream,
Brain it is pounding,
in a preamble to explode.
White light and incessant buzzing,
relentless pain is throbbing,
conveying its full extent.

Hands and kind face suddenly appear,
Holding blessed instrument,
Approaching now quite near,

Into my drip it does commence,
I descend into the depths,
white to grey to black again.
Down I go in welcome spin,
into the embrace of oblivion,
Ah, Morpheus my dear,
dear sweet friend.

Wake me not until I'm dead,
Or 'til the tide does ebb again.