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 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.

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.

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.

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.

Winter chills have come a little early,
the Cascade mountains to the east
covered with new snow, a warming
blaze in my fireplace, the first of the
season, I sit content with a hot mug
of tea, life is good and now returned
to mostly normal.

I do so enthusiastically enjoy normal.

The small family of four
were mixed into a crowd
of tired nearly exhausted
and disheveled long distant
travelers. Most having walked
overland for many weeks from
their homelands in Central or
South America driven by the
desire to escape physical danger
and abject poverty, all seeking a
new beginning. Men and women
many with babies or children in
their arms or upon their backs.
Willing to risk everything to reach
the Promised land.

Nearing their objective their paths
are blocked by a tall fence of steel
and barbwire, behind which stand men
with guns and snarling barking dogs.

And upon that barrier wall are posted
many signs some written others implied
in several languages that read.
"Stop!" "No Trespassing! "
"No Vacancies! Full up!"
"No Vagrants need Apply!"
"No work Here!"
"Not accepting any new applicants!"
"Move along no loitering allowed!"
"Go Back Where You Came From!"
"THIS BORDER CLOSED!"
"Violators are subject to having your
children taking from you, and or
you arrested or being shot!"

The disheartening collective message
being, you are not welcome here.
We got ours and you can't have any!

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.

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?"

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.

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.

When I was young the days seemed longer,
the weeks and months, even a year an eternity,
then the ensuing decades seemed to melt away
like winters snows. Reminding me that life is
a brief and fleeting thing not to be taken for
granted or wasted.

Two painful events led to a hospital
and a team of cardiologists, lots
of tests ensued, a plugged artery
in my heart they informed, a stent
procedure in a few days will hopefully
solve the problem and I can get back to
normal living, normalcy you see is a very
good thing. Not to be taken for granted.

As the crow flies, my farm is less than two
miles from the Willamette River that flows
deep and brown through the fertile valley
of the same name, in Northwest Oregon.
From my porch upon a hill, I have views
out over that valley looking east and north
and as fall comes around, early morning
light and dampness transfers hints of rich
river scents, this added moisture paired
with the absents of wind pervades and
manifests an enveloping shroud of silence,
with low moving banks of slow white
ghostly ground fog that renders striking
visual contrasts to the landscape, with its
stands of emerald evergreen trees, and
autumn dressed orange and yellow leaved
varieties of deciduous ones, along with
sculpted brown newly plowed fields.
Another of Nature's own fleeting ever
changing painted canvases that never
disappoints.

One must rise early at first light on these
chilly morning to witness this seasonal
panoramic scene, but it is always worth
the effort. And what the heck, I'm retired,
I can snap some photos and always crawl
back into my nice warm bed to sleep, or
merely cogitate on what I've been witness to.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

Today is not as dark as two days ago,
there is light at the end of the tunnel.
Joe is a good man, and he knows when
to stay and when to go, for the good of
the nation and the world.

Now, with the VP, put Pete Buttigieg on
the ticket and Trump will be out of all our
lives and maybe in jail where he certainly
belongs.

I know a woman of color and a gay man may
sound implausible to many but I think the
country is ready. A near brush with a crazy
want to be Fascist dictator is a very sobering
wake up call, it changes opinions and scares
people to open their minds up to new and better
possibilities. Perhaps it will expel the crazy Maga
Trump *** kissers from congress so our nation
can heel its wounds and divisions and we can
rise from beneath the evil specter of Trump and
all his misguided minions.

Kamala and Pete are both very smart and super
capable people. Born leaders. It's time the voters
thought with their heads and not their lame skewed
and bias petty prejudices.

Are we addled sheep or thinking human beings?
We have 105 days to get our collective **** together.
I think we can do it. I just pledged $200 to support
the Dem Presidential Campaign, the first time in
my life ever donating to any politician's election.
If not now, when? I have a feeling I will not be alone
in this regard and desire for change.

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 still quite
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.