I was head down at my desk,
it came wafting, on a whispering
breeze through my open window
like a belated bouquet of spring
flowers, the refreshing long awaited
essence of life on our planet, gentle
new autumn rain upon thirsty earth,
plants and yellowing summer grass.

No other ethereal scent is like it.
The enticing fragrance of rebirth
and replenishment.

And what a fine, long needed
gift of nature this is.

Perhaps when I was younger
it mattered, needing to belong,
be part of the crowd, one of the
guys, desiring to meet girls,
or were business required,
looking for acceptance and
inclusion from mostly strangers.
Now as I have aged, been and done,
I would almost rather eat broken
glass than endure endless boring
events and gatherings of required
social small talk with people I'm not
related to and actually, have nothing
in common with and never really did.

Introspection;
A journey of self-discovery,
that should never end.

It was an insect,
A fateful convergence.
A sting or bite inflicted.
Fever, chills and pain,
swollen arm all raging
within eight hours later.

ER and hospital confined.
Booked into a "Double Room".
Rather sick and needing sleep
I closed my eyes and let the
IV drip.

But this man, my room mate
was a chatty and popular fellow.
One phone call after another,
All recalling his medical trouble
in endless and stark detail.
Oh not softly mind you, at the
very top of his voice as if he had
very poor quality cell service.

And for two days and nights came
a seemingly endless stream of visitors.
As if it was some happy social occasion.
At one time ten people and kids on his
side of the thin room dividing curtain.
Laughing and talking, mostly all at once.

There appeared to be no rules on when
and how many visitors might be allowed.
And you would think by this guys popularity
that he must be the city mayor or some celebrity.

All these people could not help but see me
laying in bed, eyes closed attempting to sleep.
Must have realized that I was ill and in need
of quite rest, as they entered. And yet none
even lowered their voices.

Finely on the second day of this insanity
I rose from my bed, clad in backless hospital
gown and pulling my IV Stand behind me
pulled back the thin curtain pushing a chair
in front of me and sat down among them.
Saying not a word, just looking at the eight
people gathered there.

A profound silence ensued, all eyes fell on me.
"Well I guess you have not noticed me behind
this non sound proof curtain, sick and in need
of recuperative rest. And figuring I could not
beat you, I though I might as well join you."

Faces reddened, apologies were uttered and
within a few minutes the guests departed.
An hour later I was moved to a private room.
And now a few days later, I'm feeling much better.

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 arrives.

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!",
Cruse the strip back home
and pick up chicks.
Put on their Class A,
And strut down the block.
Find that foxy girl from English class,
And make her his wife.
Tell his old man,
to actually "*******!"
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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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"!

You know if I am all wrong and there is
a heaven and some how I end up there,
I'm sure there will be three dogs waiting
right there for me.

Rommel my Rottweiler, ******* and tan face
and head, a body like a Bradley Tank, always
watching, always loyal. Liked to stick his big
wet nose up ladies skirts and sniff what they
were hiding there. And like his master, he never
met one he did not like. Self appointed Body
Guard to my little boy and me. Would run
through smoke and flames to protect our little
family of just three, Ian, Rommel and me.

Then there is Rocky, a Boxer breed,  the best
of the best. He never made a misstep, always
knew the way. Calm and intuitive in an almost
spooky way. Could read my mind, anticipate
my moods and moves. A tower of canine power,
gentle and loving companion and friend.
I could wade a stream, casting a fly, go for
miles and never wonder where he was, turn
my head and there he stood, on a boulder,
or up on a cliff. He would follow me anywhere
and never ever stray. He was a ROCK and
thus earned his name.

Then there would be Max. Steady as a summer
rain, gentle as a baby lamb. He displayed a
kind of affability seldom seen in man, or dare
I say, even beast. Soft eyes filled with love,
you always knew where you stood. He lived
only to be near to me and what ever I would do.
I dared not speak too harshly to him, as if my
words alone could actually crush his bones.
Far too sensitive for any dog or man. Gentle
and kind as a baby lamb. Open a door and
there he'd be, always waiting just for me.

And if I deserve another chance to join
their most exceptionally congenial company,
a very lucky man I would truly be.

And how could that place be anywhere but
"HEAVEN" ?

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

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

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

It's raining buckets,
Pounding on my roof,
Music to my ears.
The drought is busted,
All ready the green returns.
Drink you Earth of mine
Today you are renewed.

He runs to me as if long unseen,
rather than only yesterday.
"Poppy!" he loudly and excitedly
calls out as he jumps, off the ground,
Into my open and waiting arms.
His excitement fully genuine,
His loving hug, firm and fixed.
His seven year old smiling face
and eyes, the stuff that melts my heart.
My own joy boundless and complete,
Another small moment of pure tranquility!

In my youth I grasped for
more than I could possess.
Now grey of hair and beard,
I have learned less can be
more than enough.

In My Yard,
They stand barren, starkly naked,
Silhouetted against the winter sky,
Their white spines moving,
In February gale winds,
Traces of icy snow,
Still clinging here and there.

I have watched them,
For going on seven years,
Planted with my own hands,
Where they proudly stand,
Looking so cold and alone.
Their intertwining branches,
Appearing to reach out,
To each other,
For mutual support.
A natural latticework of beauty.

I have measured my own seasons
By their natural progress of change,
Winter being the saddest one.
Yet an hour ago draped in snow
Still they looked so splendid.

They endure, rooted there,
Waiting for the warming,
Seasonal change,
The return of life renewing Spring,
Buds to blooms, to small green leaves
That dance and ripple in the wind,
As if showing off just for me.

A roost for passing song birds,
Shade from summer heat.

In Fall they display splashes of color
Branches and flowing leaves in motion,
A rustling vibrating, audible hum of green,
And later golden colors turning,
Tiny banners beating like sparkling jewels,
In the sun and blowing breezes.

Never tiring to look upon.
To all my human senses,
Always so very pleasing,
These my Quaking Aspen Trees.

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."

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

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

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

Half sleep whispers in the night,
faint yet stubbornly persist.
Words fully formed of
encouragement and regret.
Always in concert with the
background pendulum beat
of a relentlessly ticking clock.
Our lives never as precious as
in those waning years when
time is no longer our friend.

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

Our breathing quickens as we touch,
Kisses mingle in perfect harmony,
Wet and deep and lingering.

I stroke your warm nakedness
And shudder in disbelief.
Tracing the lines and curves,
Of your form, one more perfect,
Softer than the next.
And I shutter still more.

Tasting then each other’s
Ultimate intimacy,
The salty-sweet nectar
of human love exchanged.
Tongues and wet warm mouths
moving as if they are possessed,
Having minds of their own.  
Our mutual excitement pushing
us both to nearly explode!

You whispering words of love
That deepen my desire even more.
We are actually panting now,
I can feel the intense beating
Of the heart within your Chest
And it matches that of my own.

Our bodies’ moving ever closer,
Deeper to the object,
Of our collective desire,
My head spinning,
Dizzy in response to this,
Our compelling growing excitement,
As we franticly rhythmically dance,
In Loves penetrating embrace.

The loving complete,
Our passions spent,
We lay exhausted,
Wrapped in each other’s arms,
Both of us clinging as if unwilling,
Or perhaps even afraid to let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was fetching at Nineteen,
with her dark eyes of mystery.
Her composed, secretive demeanor.
She exuded the promise of exotic sexuality,
all without much real experience.

I was Twenty Two, older in
many ways than she.
I took her to her first Night Club,
Deep into those Disco Days.
No one carded anyone back then.

She was like a Deer on a road,
caught in the Headlamps of
a oncoming car.
Dazzled in a world she did not know.
A player on a artificial stage.
Several times that night
I saw it happen.
Her eyes meeting and locking on
to some cheesy Saturday Night
Fever Guy clad in garish Polyester,
Soaked in dance sweat,
a club Dennison of no real merit.
Her eyes said it all in a lingering glance.
It told her story and set the tone for the
rest of her life and a list of failed couplings.  

It took ten long years and a child born
for me to fully comprehend what those
looks that night really meant.
To then finely extricate my son and I from her.
And sadly too I learned, that some people
will never know or understand what Love means.
Or perhaps deserve it in return.

"Is it NOT enough to breathe
one breath at a time?"

In silence I set watching you
From across the room.

You with feet curled up on the sofa,
Composed and calm,

Your sweet face in profile,
Bathed in a halo of light from the window.

It was a simple little thing,
Just two people sitting,
Watching TV.
Alone but together,
Sharing a moment.
No words were needed,
Contentment was ours.

I never loved you more
than at that moment.

Must be hard to be a full of energy young dog
that belongs to an old man with bad knees.
He always wants to play, sadly I don't.
Oh well, at least he gets plenty to eat and
lots of rest. Seldom gets too cold or wet.
And neither of us can complain of not getting
enough love or affection, 'cause that's what
we give and get. Not a bad deal in the end.

A dark moonless night,
Envelopes and hides the field.
The puddles upon the ground,
Have lost their crimson hue.
The twisted stiffened bodies,
Hidden within deep shadows.

His perch atop the Bell Tower
A lofty lonely isle amid,
A sea of waste and destruction.
His filthy hands still griping
His instrument of death,
His eye straining at the glass
Searching for movement
In the silent depths of death below,
Finger on the trigger.

Three days have come and gone,
Since he climbed those stairs
And took his place among
The pigeons’ and rafters.
He had been a mere boy of
Seventeen three long days ago.
Now he felt a hundred sick,
And tired years old.
And even the pigeons had
Deserted him,
Or been shot to pieces,
From below.

His fingers took inventory,
Only sixteen rounds remained.
He had fired his weapon
Over ninety times and
Never once, had he missed.
Haunting ****** pictures,
Of their devastation continuously
Replayed in his head.

An hour ago he heard
Its treads and engine
Churning in the dark.
The tank had come for him,
Would **** him at first light.

Strangely he felt no fear,
Resigned and willing,
To make of this,
His end final and fitting.
Grown to a man and dead,
All within four days span.


Postscript:
It is a tragedy that any man of any age
is compelled to make that climb, to fire
a weapon, to take a life, to give up his
own. Wars are an abomination.
And sadly it seems mankind will
never understand that.
Somehow we always find another reason.

It's as if it calls my name,
Mostly at night,
Near sleeps edge.
I feel the wind,
Smell it sweet and pure,
The plants and sage,
Even the rich dry earth,
All their scents are there.

The High Desert remains,
Like no other place, there is.
Steens Mountain
She beckons me too,
My roof-top sentinel
Of all I survey,
Vast vistas of startling,
Sun drenched, anointed
Wide open color rich land,
As far as the eye can see.

All so pleasantly devoid,
Of any trace of Human Beings,
I become solitarily lost as much,
As I choose to be.

With Blue skies so bright
and deep they take
your breath away.

At night the unobstructed
Black heavens are alive with
A mass of stars, the likes of which,
Most people on Earth have never
Seen with naked eyes alone.
Almost like an Astronauts view,
They appear endless and
Right at your front door.
A brightly illuminated Galaxy
Endless to infinity.

Pulsing lights vast and inspiring,
So close appearing you feel,
That you might bump your head,
Must even duck down a little,
Just to give them room.

Actually wept a few tears,
The first time I stood there,
Under the lighted umbrella of their spell.
No wonder the ancient peoples'
Worshiped the stars, the heavens.
Perhaps we all should.

To some, a High Desert is but
A wasteland of dirt and weeds.
Not true, rather it's a vibrant
Landscape alive with activity,
More Wildlife than I've ever seen,
In one place, at one time.
The landscape and the creatures,
Mostly left alone by man,
To thrive, grow and roam.
It's all as it must have been,
A thousand years ago.

Is it any wonder then,
I sometimes think I hear,
That beseeching wind,
Whispering it's invitation,
To my waiting ears?
Then barely contain myself,
Until I must return.

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

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.

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.

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

Like my life, all my kitchen crockery
is used, worn and chipped,
Maybe I could buy replacements,
but sadly, they do not make them
like that anymore. Or me either.

Aging and time are unavoidable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

Oh, little grey cat,
come sit on my lap.
and snuggle like
my old departed
feline used to do.

Too independent
as cats tend to be,
maybe in time you
will perch on my lap
and purr contentedly.

Truth be told, I fully
understand your
affection shown is
way more about your
needs than mine.
The rest of the time
you could not care less.
Cats are the ultimate
animal hedonist.

In the eternal dark depths of night,
A single match struck and held aloft
For someone lost and alone,
Can burn as bright as a forest fire.

The photograph frames a proud father,
Holding a dark haired, wide eyed boy of two,
A handsome, smiling child, appearing                    
Normal and happy.
Back in the still good old days.

The little boy in the photo never grew up,                  
Stayed locked up in a grown man’s body.
A Misshapen, painful body racked with
Years of recurring illnesses and frequent
Urgent trips to the Hospital.
The doctors said he would not live into his teens.

The little man within never complained,
His attentive loving family never gave up.
It was love and hope that sustained them.
The Child/Man suffered a hard fought, 40 year life.
And yet he endured. While all that time being
Imprisoned in his diminished child’s mind and his
Tortured adult man’s twisted ever failing body.
Causing some to say; “How much suffering is enough?”

On his last day on Earth, in his limited fashion,
He enjoyed the sunshine,
Smiled a little and even spoke a few rare words,
To his Care Givers.  
Perhaps he was actually celebrating,
It is reported that he even laughed a little.

No doubt painfully exhausted from being
Imprisoned within himself.
Recently back from yet another difficult Hospitalization.
Last night, deep in his own heaven of peaceful slumber
His soul took wings.

At last that little boy that was there, but not there,
Trapped within himself for a life time,
Is finely released and free to soar.

Fly on Child of God, soar now, fly free Little Big Man!

The other night,
I dreamed of you and Katmandu.

It was of that first night in that
Guest House, where the seedy
proprietor tried to sell me the
12 year old Kitchen Girl for
20 US Dollars. And throw in
a small bag of Black Hash for free.
Then upon my refusal,
Lowered the price to Ten,
And again I told him no.

The place where the rat came,
up onto our bed and nearly,
ran across my head.
Where February winds threatened,
To blow the shutters in.
The smell of burning lamp fuel,
Fouling the stifling cold room air.
You insisting I not put out the light,
To prevent the rat's return.
That foreign place, the Himalayans base
That city, that cold room.

Our stomachs rumbled from the tainted
dinner rice and so called, chicken meat.
As always your feet like two popsicles,
In the bottom of our sleeping bag.  

Yet our bodies radiated a familiar heat,
The only civilized comfort of that night,
So very far away from home,
With you all wrapped up in my arms.

I have not thought,
Nor dreamed these things,
In over 35 years,
Visions no doubt lost among,
All the bitterness and tears.

And yet last night there they were,
Of you and me in our bed.
And I smiled at this,
Our shared and lost remembrance.

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.

My Grandson is now ten and
growing like the proverbial ****,
but still young and sweet enough
to yet sit upon my knee,
to share moments of joy
and reflection, or for me
to tell him a story.

He still giggles when I tickle him,
and thankfully he's not too old to
give and receive hugs and kisses.
Best of all he never fails to tell me he
loves me whenever he arrives or leaves.

We meet and entangle,
An impassioned embrace,
That ultimately,
Crushes the heart.  

Bitter sweet love,
That flows and dies.
The folly of expectations
the key to its sad demise.

No perfection exists,
Except in the mind.
All the rest, an illusion.

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.