As wee kittens she and her brother
were gifted to us from a neighboring
farm up the hill, a pair from a litter of
feral felines, welcomed on our place
as mousers and ratters.

Mostly they lived around the barn,
strolled and policed the property as
their domain. The male was always
by his disposition aloof, had no need
of close human contact, content to be
independent and on his own.

His sister was more inclined to draw
nearer, curious and at times amenable
to a pat on the head, or a small dish of
cat food. And the bearer of gifts in the
form of parts of the remains of her kills
deposited on my porch door threshold.
Proof I suppose of her doing her job,
or in gratitude for my feeding her.

One day her brother was predator taken,
though she stayed on her job, she became
a more frequent visitor to my porch, with
her litter mate gone perhaps she had become
lonely and needed companionship.

It has been a few years since the loss of
her brother and now she comes everyday
morning and evening, or whenever I call
her in. Running full speed to eagerly rub
against my legs, or flop down atop my feet,
wanting a belly rub, purring and ever so
glad to see me. For all her given affection,
she is not a fan of being picked up and held.
It offends, maybe threatens her half wild nature.

No where to be seen, yet when I go out to the
road to get the mail, to the barn or orchard
before I walk 30 feet, there she is running close
behind me, as if she had been waiting just for
that very occasion.

She is over ten now getting old like me,
she is around my inner yard or the porch
most of the time, I even let her inside the
house from now and then, she and my
inside cat, get along fine. Drink from the
same water bowl, eat side by side. They
enjoy playing together, I think he is even
smitten by her as only a neutered male cat
can be.

But always at some point, as if she hears
a distant calling, she goes to the door and
let's me know she is ready to return to her
life outside. Instincts are difficult to ignore.

The yellow morning sun rises out of an Easterly gray
sky bringing the promise of a bright blue, cloudless
new day.

A dozen songbirds are hard at work upon the feeders,
the barn cats lurk in the flower bushes, hunting waiting.
A hawk perches upon the barn roof, preening his feathers
in the warming lemony new light. Our red rooster crows
his morning song from the safety of the covered chicken pen.

I stretch, yawn and scratch my itchy bits, standing peering
out the window at the spring dewy grass scene that reminds
me to check and gas up the riding mower.

My hungry hedonistic house cat meows and rubs against
my bare legs, and hem of my old bathrobe, the aroma of
fresh perking coffee brings all morning ritual attentions
back inside, and just like the outside creatures, I also begin
yet another fine new day, content that for this emerging
brief moment in time all is right in my world. For as long
as I leave off the Television.

Oh, what I miss most
is the closeness and
touch of a human hand.
A simple thing, one we
normally take for granted,
like my grandchildren's arms
around my neck. Handshakes
or hugs in greetings or farewells
with friends, all taken for granted
for years, lost to us for now,
but will eventually return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We mere mortals too often forget who is actually
in charge on this spinning spaceship, we call Earth.
We are but passengers, ungrateful ones at that, we
use up, litter and destroy, we foul the very air we
breathe, our excrement and discarded waste clogs
and pollutes the oceans, creeks and rivers.
We callously **** other living creatures for sport
mounting their heads as trophies on our walls.
Not because we are hungry.

We are the only creatures on earth that make war
on and **** our own kind. Flawed, evil or just stupid?
Perhaps all these labels apply.

For our wasteful transgressions Nature will one day
purge us from the planet and we will deserve that
retribution. A dire and stark reality, but one need
only look around to see the direction things are going.
There are no lifeboats on this ship and no deity above
to save us.

And in the end the streams will again run clear, and the
air will be fit to breath. The green things will flourish,
and the small creatures of wing and four legs will once
again, rule the days. Humankind will be purged from
the earth, leaving nothing of any merit behind to mark
our passing. As if we never existed.

There it is again, flecks of fresh
brown earth flying up from out of
my lawn, several new dirt mounds
signaling their return, our battle
for this turf will now recommence.
We have ten acres, why must they
pick my garden to make their
subterranean homes?
I rub them out and more ****
gophers replace the departed
ones. They tweak my nose and
toy with me as if I were the
mouse and they the cat. But
they are grievously mistaken.
If it is war they want, it is war
they will get. Let the battle
commence.

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

He came from money, had
several Ivy League University
Degrees, lived a long life,
traveled, had three ex-wives,
no kids, no dog, big empty
house, Cadillac car with low
miles seldom used by him.

Bragged he was always well
informed, he knew it all and
would pontificate as much at
the drop of a hat. He never
donated to any good cause.

He liked to boast that
he never voted in an
election. Waste of time
or so he maintained.
Though he did gift large
sums of money to certain
political candidates, that
in return would do him
certain business favors.
And he never paid much in
personal or business Taxes.

He died alone in his recliner
chair with the TV remote in
his hand, watching Fox News.
In the end that was his only
friend and social connection.
It was avarice and ignorance
that did him in. A wasting
terminal disease of his soul
that neutered his humanity.

I gazed too long at the sun,
blinded, at least now I am
spared the sight of all of
Lifes insufferable travails.
Better to dream or remember
the beauty that was, then look
upon the ugly that is.

I was strolling the sidewalks of my small
nearest to me town, a farm and vineyard
village, an unhurried and laid-back place
home to perhaps 15,000 souls. Tree lined
streets with singing birds aplenty, spring
sun shining, not a cloud in the azure sky,
another good day to be alive.

I was whistling some made up tune,
a thing I, almost never do, but feeling
so good just compelled me to expel.

My old legs signaled a needed rest stop
and an inviting bench lay dead ahead.
I took a seat and caught my breath.

Had not noticed the other old guy
sitting upon the end of the long bench.
I waived an index finger in passive greeting
which he acknowledged with a friendly
grin and slight nodding of his chin, a
weathered Fedora jauntily resting upon his
head. He wore old jeans with red suspenders,
green plaid shirt and well-worn work boots.
An old farmer come to town, not so different
than me.

We set in silence for a few minutes, just
relaxing and taking in the scene around us.
Caught up in that pleasant moment I began
to hum a 1960s or 70s tune, after a time my
bench mate began to hum the same tune,
in perfect unison and pitch, better than mine.
We turned to one another and both smiled.

We finished our shared melody and silence
returned, all but for the singing of birds in
the trees. I stood up from the bench and as
I passed the still seated friendly gent we
performed a convivial fist bump of shared
fellowship, and never a word was needed
or spoken between us.

Running forward on point, stalwart of
instinctive purpose he stopped at the
end of the orchard, waiting for me
to catch up, turning his head he sniffed
the air, listening, ever alert scanning the
surroundings and trail ahead.

No one assigned him to this task,
it was just in him. It's reassuring to
have a good old dog scout your way,
even if it is only a leisurely walk in
our own orchard.

He has gone on alone now, into the
next life, devotedly blazing our path
ahead. I trust that someday I will see
him there, forever faithfully on point.

For a time, this morning my
inner yard and porch looked
like a festive circus of delight.
Three outside cats joined for
a time by my inside feline put
on quite a show. Running and
jumping into the air, chasing
anything that flew in the ether
or quickstepped through the
lawn or dirt. Insects on the wing,
Shrews scooting through the grass.
Lightning fast furballs even chasing
one another around bushes, plants,
up trees and down again and around
the water fountain, like a pod of excited
children happily at play in a city park,
unbridled morning exuberance in the
most delightful way!

Perhaps, maybe, just for my enjoyment
or so I would like to think. But in reality
it was merely happy cat behavior on display
just for their own hedonistic amusement.

No scholarships came, two years of
college and football down the drain,
lack luster grades did me in, so
floundering a bit, almost 20 years old,
what next? Some change of scene and
a little adventure sounded good.

Like some dream or nightmare, in the
dark at 2 AM, I found myself standing
at rigid attention atop yellow painted
footprints, upon the very threshold of
manhood, in front of a building wearing
a large red and yellow sign that proclaimed
"Receiving Barracks", as two very indignant
faced formidable looking men in smoky
bear hats moved rapidly in and around
us harshly issuing selected colorful insult
profanities, to confuse and befuddle, issuing
our stunned stupefied group the riot act, at
the very top of their intimidating loud voices,
while ejecting bits of too close up spittle into
the faces of our band of mostly scared kids,
many of whom were no doubt starting to
regret their rash decisions in having joined
up for this. I however was kind of enjoying
the pulse pounding moment in an odd sort
of way.

And so those 90 hectic exhausting days
of boot camp had abruptly commenced.

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

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

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

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

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

The gulls sweep in, squawking
sky spiraling upon clear sun bright
morning air, perhaps disputing
my unintended trespass into
their natural domain.

The comical Puffins have returned,
doing their Charlie Chaplin waddle
across the surf rippled sand, eating
whatever comes to beak or hand.

The ocean's salty wet scents embrace
me like an old friend. Flipping off
my croc clogs I roll up my pant legs,
to feel the comforting sand and shallow
surf between my toes, to be one with
this wonderful day and our mother the
sea. Reverting to being a child again
for an hour or two, mostly alone on
this beach, say for the birds, waves
and sun upon my face.

Spring sun and breeze,
porch sitting at ease reflecting,
hip deep in tranquility, smiling
living well one breath at a time.
Possessing way more than enough.

The coastal winds set all our
orchard tree leaves dancing,
vibrating like music in the air.
That same clean breeze on my
face generates a smile, while
offering the slight scent of the
oceans salty splendor.

In my mind in color, behind closed
eyes I can clearly see my beach, the
waves, sand, rocks, all the winged
creatures soaring and wind floating
on the westerly air currents. I could
even hear their calls to each other,
and the muted laughter of human
children at play. The sight of people's
dogs free running the beach and
cavorting in the shallow surf.

An hour and a half drive each way,
taken many times over most of my
lifetime, seeking that view and being
rewarded by it. Familiar as the faces
of my beloved now grown children
and nearly as comforting to gaze upon.

Yes, I could make the drive, but even
that gets harder these days, as most
everything does. But why drive it,
when all I need do is close my eyes,
point my nose up into the breeze and
embrace that beach in my still vivid
mind's eye, while these technicolor
memories last, before they all fade
to black.

I watched "Judgment at Nuremberg" last
night, I have seen that film many times.
However, in light of our nation's current
chaotic political direction, that theme and
topic have taken on a new unsettling and
dire significance. The implied specter of
the term "National Socialism" is all too
ominous.

73 million people died or were murdered in
WWII when a nation of otherwise normal
rational people were ****** in by listening to
a homely, little possibly insane former German
army Corporal rant and rave their nation into
a frenzy of cultism, and "National Socialism".
Through lies and deceptions, Adolf ******
plunged the entire world into a chaotic and
destructive war.

I can't be the only one to see and be deeply
concerned by the undeniable significance and
similarities of our current parallel direction
towards a National Socialism agenda?
Inspired and led by the newly appointed wonky
cult of administrative dimwits and their newly
self-anointed unstable KING, that appear not
to give a **** about our laws, our Constitution
or any of us as individual free citizens.

Our US government watchdogs the Congress
and Senate seem to have lost their direction and
patriotism, grown spineless and mute under the
spell or fear of King Trump.

Wake up America!
We are headed in a very bad direction.

Humans are born into this world encumbered
with ignorance and spend a lifetime endeavoring
to overcome its grip. Sadly, most of us never do.

With all these weeks of rain, the grass is
lushly green, well over a foot high,
still wet, smelling absolutely marvelous.
I am on a hunt, a small harvest of sorts,
for the most succulent of viridescent,
tender blades of grass.

Oh, not for me you see, but for my big lazy
rotund, inside only cat, as his diet is bland
canned, or dry foods only, he turns up his
feline nose at chicken, or bits of beef from
the table, and so once a week I faithfully
venture out to collect a big handful of
chlorophyll rich lawn grass that he dearly
loves, with big eyes of intense expectation,
he watches my every move from his perch
upon the windowsill of my living room,
knowing as he does exactly what I'm doing.

When I return inside with his prize in hand he
excitedly reaches up his front paws and dances
about, vocally meowing for his anticipated fresh
salad, which he always devours right down to
the very last grass green blade. Oh, for such
a simple cat existence and pleasures.

How I wish I could get even half that excited
about anything, anymore. But those days are
long past. Well on second thought, maybe at
this point just waking up every morning, is
good enough.

How fine it is to see
these waves roll
upon my beach,
To watch the sun dance
and play its light on
the water, like a vast
array of precious gems.

What a joy to feel the cool
power of the tide curling
around my legs.

These same waves perhaps
have embraced a thousand
other beaches, and have
belonged to strangers unknown,

But today these waves, this beach,
this moment belongs to me alone.

What has it been, over four years
since we lay naked in each other's
arms, breathing each other's breath,
enfolded entwined clinging skin to
skin upon damp bedsheets, with
the scent of your evocative perfume
and our spent passions strong in
the air of that room, lit only by two
flickering candles on a bedside table.
It is your touch and caress even more
than the *** that is remembered and
missed.

Two grandparents, friends and lovers
in their twilight years, one last night
that shall never come again, relegated
to sweet fading memories and shadows
on their own 600 mile far distant bedroom
walls, and a phone call now and then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I believe I have reached a point
of creative decline. Been on HP
since 2013. Close to 350 poems.
I may have thought and said
about all I have to offer.

Hard to come up with any real
original worthy material, the
old well might have run dry.
Or maybe my brain is growing
addled. That happens in our 80s.

In idle times I will still look in
on you all. I have enjoyed my
time here and made some fine
and talented writer and poet
friends. Thank you.

Adieu good and gentle people.

Some, you Meet?
Some you meet are hollow,
Some have hides of steel,
Some are craven, witless dogs
While some know how you feel.
Most ambulate with caution, friend,
Tread the middle path
And then once, in a lifetime,
You’ll find that man with heart!
He’ll stand there like a solid rock
Deflect abuse and shame,
He’ll fight for trust with passion
He’s proud to bear his name.
He’ll shake your hand in kinship
And support you to the end….
That rarity in human kind,
That finding is your FRIEND!

M.
2 July 2020
Taranaki NZ
Dedicated with warmth to my very, very few, real friends.... but in particular to my old comrade in arms, Stephen E. Yocum
Written by
Marshal Gebbie  75/M/"Foxglove", Taranaki, NZ

      
Stephen E Yocum  comment/reply,
I am not the weepy sort,
but not too proud to shed
a tear when the emotions
of my spirit are moved by
family or friends, I have
known thousands of people
in my 75 years of life but very
few that I call my "Brother",
friends in a category all their
own, friends elevated to the
status of a loved family member.
That we two share this bond
of many years grants me leave
for thankful tears.

Your poem is a special gift,
thank you brother Marsh.

It seems we spend our whole lives
always waiting for something.

Babies for their mother's breast.
Children and adults, waiting for
the approval and admiration of
other people.
Smiles from anywhere that reassure.
Food, always food.
More Shinny Stuff to amuse and thrill.
Meaningful love from somewhere
that might actually endure.
Annoying Long lines for one thing
or the other and eventually everything.
More Love, always fleeting, forever love.
Awaiting knowledge and wisdom long
sought that may never come.

In midlife awaiting, our own
needed, highly anticipated
self-respect.
The arrival of every Spring.
The tranquility of Nature.
Every inspiring sunrise.
A walk in the orchard with
our best friend.
Some elusive understanding and
meaning of Love and Life itself.

In advanced age, we wait mostly
for the end, one that lurks like a
thief right around the bend of this
our all too short life's journey.

From youth, not unlike the love
I received from my family, I surmised,
that extended love might be everywhere.
With artless, open arms and heart,
I embraced this simple notion.
In time, sadly this childish wish
was honed to a hard truth by maturation.

Friends and loves come
and go, fleeting in heart,
and committed soul.
Unreliably, flowing in and ebbing out,
like deep undulations of an ocean,
all too often with sneaker waves
that pull us under. Breakers pushing
our ship onto the rocks, in a sea
of shallow unfulfilled expectations.
Encounters becoming disappointment,
with too many frogs kissed.

My educated suspicion is,
beyond our family of blood kin,
Faithful canine love is the only
other "truly committed devotion"
we are likely to get.

In the end, that may well be enough.
Perspective wisdom can be a bitter lesson.

If we dwell on this mountain of
on going, scary daily breaking
news events we will be herded
like animals over an emotional
cliff, plunging down an abyss of
fear and extraneously induced
confusion into a dire collective
chasm of moral and physical
depression, perhaps as damaging
as the world wide plague itself.

Becoming a global population
infected with PTSD, wounded
casualties in the war of COVID-19.

A conversation and all
human communications
require more than just
one single person talking.
It's a two party exchange
of giving and receiving.
If one party is obsessed
with only incessant "I or
Me" topics and hardly ever
pauses to take an occasional
breath, it becomes a discourse
of self-absorbed hedonistic
over glorification, and the
other person (s) might just
tune out, elect to walk away,
or hang up the phone.

These sybaritic talkers may
merely find their dog, or
house cat and bore them
with their narcissistic prattle.

If their critters wish to eat
they are obliged to at least
appear to be listening.
The rest of us have no such
obligation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I do not seek the darkness,
the low road, the negative
thoughts and deeds, the
follies of my fellow human
beings have no place with me.
What is truth and what is not,
opinionated talking heads
spewing and spreading doom
and gloom like peanut butter
on fresh white bread.
I prefer some strawberry jam
on my PBJs and feel-good
smiles afterwards. Not heart
burn and an upset stomach.

There is electricity in the air,
I feel it on the back of my neck.
The morning sun from the east
is fading, ominous blue black
clouds are massing to the west,
announced by the sounds of the
distant percussions like kettle
drums, beating and rolling.

It's getting closer now, the thudding
of drumbeats have become the earth
shaking booms of bursting cannon
roars, streaks and flashes of lightning
flare and detonate, their reverberations
felt for miles around, our chickens
flee into their coops, cows disclaim
their pasture for the shelter of the
barn, the yard cats run full tilt back
to their sheltered beds on the porch.
The birds have gone to ground,
vanishing to hide away in the trees.

Visibility east into the valley is fast
disappearing socked in by clouds
and mist, becoming rain pouring.
The exploding thunder shakes the
windows and rattles the doors.

When the thunder momentarily
subsides, an ominous stillness
pervades the land, as all of we
helpless creatures remain holding
our collective breaths. Suddenly a
steady hard rain loudly pelts the
roof and pings the skylights of my
living room.

Mother Nature now rules the day,
and we all remain at her benevolent
Mercey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We've a feral male cat on our
farm, with actions and attitudes
more like a small Lion on the
prowl, He slinks and preys on
rodents and birds, I've seen him
leap four feet high, take out a
small bird in mid flight.

Like any wild creature, he is
completely indifferent to us.
He does not wait outside my
door seeking human provided
food or passive affection like
our other cats, he would rather
hunt for his earned sustenance.

He sits or lays watching, on
elevated ground or high places
as Lions on African savannas do.
He radiates an independent
regal aloofness I can only
admire and aspire to.

He is the only cat on the place
without a given name, it seemed
superfluous to his dignified and
feral nature to call him by any
silly made up human name.

Some creatures are just born
wild and should never change.
This no name feline is one of them.

We come into this world swaddled
in clean, soft Diapers and parental
love, and some decades later, go out
of it wearing soiled Pampers and
mostly on our own, or all alone.

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

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

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

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

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

I hope that's all true.

A neighbors' barn caught fire
last night, full of newly bailed
hay, lit up the sky with yellow
glow and black smoke,
Many of us came running but
could do little but watch, it was
not a blaze controlled by a well
and a garden hose.

With a twenty minute response
time by our rural volunteer fire
department, having not enough
water in their two pumper trucks
to do much good, it burned for
hours and was a total loss.

In the morning after most everyone
had gone my stoic friend, a man
of 60 years and few words wept,
he had lost his tractor and his beloved
border collie herding dog in the flames,
Molly obviously not able or willing to
abandon her seven newly born pups.

He said, the barn, hay, even the tractor he
could replace, but "never my wonderful
sweet Molly girl."