By Stephen E. Yocum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Footnote:

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

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

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

The Plane from Bangkok touched down,
Bouncing hard, jarring nerves
And bones alike.
We emerged into the  
Hot damp breeze,
Smoky Sun light glare,
Our eyes squinting,
Fumbling then for dark glasses.

Descending the gangway steps,
As if into a different world.
A new fragrance of foreign things
Of a mystical persuasion,
Hung heavy in the air.
I quickly breathed it all in,
My mind racing in anticipation.

For years I had dreamed of this land.
A country of fabled mystery,
Legend and contradictions.

Reading enough to admire the richness
And sheer wonder of place and people,
All to know and see better for myself.
A land so different from my own,
Being there seemed almost surreal.

Taxi and PedalCab rides into the City.
In every direction, where ever I looked,
New sites, sounds and perceptions observed.
More people in one place,
Than I had ever seen, 10 million in number,
All in that single city.
Most it appeared to be on foot.
All moving with individual purpose,
Seeming to flow all in different directions.
What at first looked like chaos to me,
Apparently worked for them.

Calcutta by Western standards,
Could be judged an urban mess.
Old British style colonial buildings,
Crumbling to bits and ruins,
Yet still very much in use,
Relics of a bye gone age,
Lingering still,
A visual reminder of what was,
Of a another culture,
And people gone home,
No doubt to where they belonged,
With all the riches they could carry.
Leaving more than a trace,
Behind in their wake.

A Kaleidoscope of movement and colors,
Best describes what I was seeing,
Cows and monkeys in the city streets,
Along with multitudes of moving people
All in traditional dress.
The very images and grist of the works of
Western writers and photographer’s attempts,
To capture and relay for over two hundred years.

Fascination best describes my impressions.
Captivating wonderment cascading,
An unstoppable vast Human River,
Churning and ever rapidly flowing,
Ethereal and emotionally stimulating.

Attractive people, dark eyes staring,
At the specter of our Western selves,
We as unfamiliar to them,
As they appeared to us.
Two distinct worlds meeting head on,
Learning, growing from the encounter.

India, timeless and magnificent.
Never felt more excited or alive,
Loved everything about it.

Of man’s creations there are many,
A well cared for mature orchard
Is certainly one.
Be it generator of fruit or nuts,
Their perfect symmetry is bless,
Row upon row, standing tall,
Branches almost touching one,
Tree unto another,
Filled out and lushly dense,
As to block out the sun,
Ever striking the earth.
The ground beneath, around the trees,
Swept and manicured clean as a
Empty Billiard Table, awaiting the harvest.

Walk among these umbrella like trees
A tranquil quite abounds,
Recalling the peaceful interior of a church,
The songs of nesting birds the heavenly chorus.
A cool and shaded location, to be alone,
Well suited to meditation,
Or even composing a Poem.

Yet, oh how sad it truly is,
When an orchard goes abandoned,
Becoming the embodiment of apathetic neglect,
A bombed out city ruin of good intentions,
**** choked and cluttered,
Rotted Harvest and blackened branches,
Littering the unkempt ground.
Gone now from tranquil perfection,
To a dead and dying blight upon the land.

With no human hands to tend it,
Its glory is gone and the end is near.
Similar now to a spooky Cemetery,
No longer a space of serene splendor,
Or a place one might desire to undertake,
A meandering reflective stroll.

Our beauty outside is a fleeting thing,
is but a mask we all wear. And in time
something we must all surrender, when
the mask we see in our mirror is no
longer pleasing. But it's the beauty
within us that truly matters, and once
discovered and acknowledged never
really disappears.

Outer beauty can be seen with
a glance. Inner beauty must be
discovered. By ourselves firstly
and then recognized by others
who care enough to dig a little
deeper.

On Knees, was taught to prey.
The concept of religion,
Learned as a small child,
Later replaced with actual knowledge.
Discovering then that,
The “Soul” of Bible Talk,
Does indeed exist,
Within all we humans.
Neurons, tangled nerves of
Electric arc, impulses sent
And received, thoughts formulated,
Visions seen, recalled all in an instant.
Memories cataloged and stored.
The original Grey Matter Computer,
Our Humanity the result of all this,
Wondrous, remarkable activity.
Love, Thought, Empathy, Kindness,
Knowing Right from wrong,
Rational Reasoning, Humor,
Ingenuity, Creativity, Forgiveness
When needed.  Pride exceeded.

Yes, we have a soul, it lives within
Our Human Intelligence,
And all the abilities it affords us.
Without this Brain, this our Soul *****,
The body, our very existence is nothing.

I worship the stars, the moon,
the sun, this earth I stand upon.
Nature and all the peaceful
living breathing creatures that
share this space, the rivers that
course, the oceans that ebb and
flow. The rains that keep us green
the fields that keep us fed.
The ancient tribal people knew
this and put their faith in nature
and the celestial universe and they
thrived for thousands of years.
Some of my modern fellow humans
don't seem to understand, that all
this we already have is truly our
Heaven on Earth.

Hold your tears little man,
Ignore the hurtful things they say.
Rest your head here, with me.
Ten year old kids can be cruel,
Say things they should not say,
Hurt even their friends for no reason,
As yours have done today,
Thoughtless, mean words they were,
Said without thinking,
using bad judgment .

This thing they called you, “Fat Boy”
Or words to that effect, they mean nothing
Unless you let them, unless you don’t
Understand.  .  . Let me explain,
You are a growing boy, nearing what is
Called puberty, a physical change of
Your body from a little boy, on the way
to being a full grown man. Your body
will be ever changing, it’s how it is,
how it’s supposed to be, how it is for all people.
When I was your age, I had a more rounded
Shape as did your Dad at your age as well,
We too heard those mean thoughtless
Words directed at us. I cannot lie it hurt
every bit as much as these words and
names hurt you today.

Rest assured son of my son, dearest friend,
This chubby stuff, it’s only temporary not a
Permanente thing.

Now as to the stupidity of Mean people,
that hurt other people so thoughtlessly,
for them that state of Ignorance and
stupidity might just last forever.

Go dry your eyes and get the ball and Gloves
and let’s play us some catch.
Here wipe your eyes and blow your nose
on my sleeve and think no more about it.

I 've been up since 7:00 AM.
The time has flown,
It's raining and somber outside.
A day easy to ignore.
It's nearing now 5:00 PM
I sit here yet in my Bathrobe,
As I have done all day long.
Never did that before.

I apologize to no one,
Not even myself. It was not
Sloth or depression inspired,
It was an overpowering need
For massive doses of Poetry
That caught and held my attention.

Passion or obsession, who is to judge?
And what truly is the difference?

Weak from Love’s embrace,
We whisper in the shadows,
Words of breathy adoration,
Laying  skin to skin,
Arms and legs entwined,
Our bodies dripping wet.
Cool night breezes
from the window,
Contentment blowing in.

If only I could
capture this feeling,
Duplicate its magic,
Bottle it perhaps.
Deliver it on tiny parachutes,
This heart busting happiness.
To all my brothers and sisters,
The people of the world.
Gone would be the burden
of hate and disrespect.

If they got to feeling mean,
Pull the stopper and take a sip.
'Cause who can think of doing harm
When we can all feel as loved as this.

A morning orchard walk,
myself, two dogs and
two following barn cats.
Repeated often, a shared
companionable reverie
of mutual tranquility.
An odd family of sorts,
devotion comes is many forms.

A morning orchard walk,
myself, two dogs and
two following barn cats.
Repeated often, a shared
companionable reverie
of mutual tranquility.
An odd family of sorts,
devotion comes is many forms.

Life and Time
are an illusion
only in the minds
of we humans.
All other living
things on this Earth,
pay to either, not the
slightest attention.

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.

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.

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

Last night I dreamed of
Pismo beach, our blanket
on the sand, hidden in the
cratered dunes, the sweet
sweat of love making and
sandy deep wet kisses with
you, and the sunburn on my
backside that followed.
Memorable youthful passions
fondly recalled, never forgotten.

What are the truly indispensable things of Life?
Those meaningful, forever things,
Those enriching, soul sustaining,
can’t live without, nonmaterial things?
Those can’t reach out and touch them things?
The one’s that keep one breath following another?
Those things that foster the founding of religions,
Those that cause poets and writers to put pen to paper?
Of which most songs and music celebrate?
Those things that have forever inspired questions,
Without clear answers.
Those all so elusive concepts that only we humans pursue,
As essential to us as sunshine, air, water and food.

Those things that all humans spend
a life time in search of?
And far too many never find.
Those things that cannot be bought,
with worldly riches at any price?

These “things” I refer to center on matters
of the heart, and one's own brain,
These are the powerful, abiding gifts of self love,
And the bestowing of true love unto others,
And being the recipient of their love in return.
For without these indispensable precious things,
Though we possess everything else there is,  
We remain a mere, empty vessel for want of filling.

Look friends, this is a only a lighted screen.
On which people paint their dreams.
Spill out their fears,
Perhaps cleanse their souls.
Words printed not in stone,
Gone with the strike of a key.
Meaningless to all,
But perhaps their own creator.
Never intended to live forever.
As if they were wispy clouds in the sky,
Shifting, changing and then goodbye.
Does the maker of those clouds care
Who sees them there, need comment
of awe and splendor, an adoring audience
from below to lavish him with praise?
My guess is he does not,
Like our thoughts on this screen,
impermanent and fleeting,
His are flights of artful heavenly whimsy,  
A clear endeavor of self expression,
Not meant to last.
Put up there on his canvas,
Merely for his own enjoyment.

Questions, so many questions.
The why and how of things?
The acceptance of ourselves
And all others that pass through?
Those mysteries of Life itself,
Elusive and obscured?
Is romantic Love a real
And lasting thing,
Or a made up Fairytale?
Moments of clarity that vanish
in the mist?
Visions of understanding
That never truly appear?
The answers that elude our wisdom?
The doubts that repress and confuse?
The highs and lows of living,
That forever, ebb and flow?
Clarity that seems eternally,
Just beyond our struggling,
Out stretched reach?

Near a life time lived,
And still more questions,
Than answers stubbornly persist.

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.

The aromatic scent
of Fresh rain falling
upon dry earth,
is the essence for
the continuance
of all life itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

The older we grow
the faster life goes,
priorities change
quality of living
and loving takes
precedent, over
self-indulgence
and material things.
Nothing as important
as family and friends.

It is racing now,
these fleeting days
and years, reflected
most in my grandsons
growing too soon from
children to young men.

Along with Steller parents
our little farm provides
a learning ground for the
kids, teaching life lessons
that inspire character and
self-discipline, with Cows
and pigs to show at fairs,
pride earned with accomplishments
and Blue Ribbons to share.

So lucky am I having a ringside
seat, watching yet another family
generation grow and ascend,
Football and basketball
games to attend, Christmas
morns of excited children
clamoring down the stairs,  
many birthday celebrations
with ever more candles aglow.
Memories all, retained and shared.

Perhaps the best part is,
these grandsons of mine,
still are up for hugs and
good night kisses, genuine
affection received and given.

Families are a true blessing
and a privilege, the only
real reason we are here.

All these things, remain the
sweet frosting on my aging
Grandfather's cake of life.
I sometimes wonder where
I would be without all these,  
my reasons for being?

The older we grow
the faster life goes,
priorities change
quality of living
and loving takes
precedent, over
self-indulgence
and material things.
Nothing as important
as family and friends.

It is racing now,
these fleeting days
and years, reflected
most in my grandsons
growing too soon from
children to young men.

Along with Steller parents
our little farm provides
a learning ground for the
kids, teaching life lessons
that inspire character and
self discipline, with Cows
and pigs to show at fairs,
pride earned with accomplishments
and Blue Ribbons to share.

So lucky am I having a ringside
seat, watching yet another family
generation ascend and grow,
Football and basket ball
games to attend, Christmas
morns of excited children
clamoring down the stairs,  
many birthday celebrations
with ever more candles aglow.
Memories all, retained and shared.

Perhaps the best part is,
these grandsons of mine,
still are up for hugs and
good night kisses, genuine
affection received and given.

Families are a true blessing
and a privilege, the only
real reason we are here.

All these things, remain the
sweet frosting on my aging
Grandfather's cake of life.
I sometimes wonder where
I would be without all these,  
my reasons for being?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Two aging message senders
and receivers, circumspect
men of reflective thoughts
and words spoken, written.
Wayfarers from divergent
oceans converging.

Both Harpooners of the
unexamined life, seekers
of truths and wisdom.
Kindred spirits different
and yet the same,
A spiritual awakening,
a brotherly bond in the making.

Both touched and renewed
by a voyage taken
upon a common sea
of curious self discovery.

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?"

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.

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

Once long ago there was a small clan named Kah,
that lived in a cave up a draw, Who at that time,
had yet to discover even fire.

One among them, call him Shire was slightly
brighter than the rest, which is not saying much.

Bah the self appointed leader was a big strong man,
a hunter among men, a good provider.
But a fool in all other matters.

One day Bah returned to the cave with a large green
rock. A rock only different from all other rocks, by it's color.
Bah convinced most of the clan that this one rock was so
special that they all should worship it, get on their knees
and even pray to it, adorn it with bits of meat.

Shire too was a hunter, crafty and skilled, but also a thinker.
In the rock he saw no difference, to him a rock was a rock
and nothing more, although he did admire it's color.

"It's only a ROCK." He told the others and  "nothing more!"

The clan was overcome by anger, how dare this one among
them not believe as they did? That night and the next Shire
got no meat, nor any pleasure from the women. Yet still he
pointed out his belief, that the green rock was no different
than any other and he refused to worship it.

The clan turned their collective backs to him, treating
him as if he did not live. Even his wife and children.
Still Shire did not relent, so sure was he in his own belief.

In a rage of Holy Righteous Indignation, Bah picked up the
green rock and smashed it into Shire's head, caving in his
skull. Where upon the green rock broke into many pieces.

As Shire lay bleeding, dying, he picked up a piece of the
shattered green rock and said, "See brothers and sisters,
it is only a rock, and not a very good rock at that."

Bah kneeled down beside his old friend and he too picked
up bits of the broken rock. Then said to his brother, "I am
sorry I killed you friend."

To which Shire's last words were, "I forgive you."

The clan was so inspired by these events that a new
religion was founded, in place of the rock, the dented
skull of Shire became their new thing to worship.

Many years later, one literate among them carved on
the rock alter under the sacred skull,
                            "He died for our sins".  

And so among them grew a legend,
Shire became a God to his people.

Later still, another professed scholar calling
himself a Priest, carved a commanded message
in the face of the rock alter.
                 "**** not a Brother in the cave,
               before the eyes of our God Shire.
                (Out side however is just fine.")

In all these years,
Through thick and thin,
Marriges and many other,
“Loves” known and spent,
Why have I never once heard,
Those few simple
Words sincerely said?
Words so basic and important to hear,
to know and share.
Words that should be a necessary ingredient
For any recipe of Love declared.

I have for the most part lived a life free of sins,
(At least the big ones.)
Worked hard at always doing the right thing.
Provided for and put others first,
Loved with passion and fidelity.
Giving my trust, offered respect,
When sometimes it was not earned.
Granted Forgiveness, not deserved.
Played life by all the rules.
Was it just my bad luck,
Or something I did or did not do?

Not once have I ever heard from a woman I loved
Or professed that she loved me, (completely unsolicited,)
Taking my face in her hands, looking straight in my eyes,
uttering this few words;
“You’re a good and decent man; I love you with all my heart.”
Not merely a “Me Too” or exchange of “I love you” in
Our comings or goings, or good byes on the phone,
Or in a return reply to my words of devotion.
Not just in the cries of a completion of passion on the sheets.
Something a little more, unexpected, sincere from the heart.
A freely offered anthem, a true irrefutable declaration.
Pledged for no reason but truthfulness of thought and feeling.

If we doubt ourselves, continue to seek that elusive thing we
All seek, that unconditional love we cannot seem to find,
Perhaps this simple sentence of plain words spoken and
felt would have made all the difference, every single time.
If you truly feel it, take a moment to say those words,
To your own man or women. They too need to hear it.
Indeed, we all do.

Spring is the awaited child,
seeds to plant, plans to explore,
conjuring promise and renewal,
That awakens our soul.

Summer inspires with long
sunny days basking in the
embrace of green crops growing,
relief from heat under leafy trees,
leisurely nights of clean skies,
bright stars on high to infinity.

Fall comes as a warning beacon,
days of long shadows,
cool nights with chill breeze,
bedecked trees
in reds and yellow.
The report of hunters guns
from the depths of the forest.

Winter's a prelude to gloom,
short days, low sun when it
appears, wind-chills that burn.
Snow to shovel, ice to befuddle.
Conjuring envy and impatience
for the return of Spring.

So the seasons flow
one into another,
while every year lived
the cycles grow shorter,
with no guarantees of
how many more may follow.

He comes as if on a mission, first around my feet,
rubbing against my legs as if asking permission,
then ever so carefully he jumps up onto my desk,
sits on the edge for a moment looking at me. Then
he turns his back allowing his large tail to hang off
the corner edge of the desk and like a fisherman, the
tail his line and bait, he slowly sways it back and forth
as an intentional invitation for me to play the "Tail Game"
with him. Left and right, back and forth, slowly, enticingly.

It swings to the left and my waiting fingers gently grasp it,
give it a light brief shake and let go and it swings back
onto the desktop, then back and forth for as long as I care
to participate. Cunning little attention gaining feline fellow
that he is.

Eventually I will tire of the game and require two hands
on the keyboard, thus ending the event, he will then turn
around and lay down right in front of me on the desktop
purring his pleasure song, and blinking his big seductive
contented "I got ya' again" cat eyes.

Once I undertook a journey,
upon the very face of our entire world.
To view for myself the many pictures,
and written descriptions in all the geography
books and History Classes, National
Geographic magazines and movies seen.

A Quest to see with my own eyes what
I had only experienced second hand.
In my mid twenties, like a dream,
one foot in front of the other,
I went about exploring.

I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands,
Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry,
fried snake and even monkey brains.
Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands,
Along the shores of Islands and the coasts
of many lands.

Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects
and cultures, smiling and laughing with
the families and children of all of them.
Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men,
heard their chants to their gods above, the
moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land.
Clapped my hands and moved my feet in
their ancient mystic dances.
Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared
grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood.

Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains
in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the
face of the God of my youthful teachings,
disappointed when I did not see him, or Her.
Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted
to me by Red robbed Monks from within their
chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments.

Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year
old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of
nearly forgotten once great Civilizations.

Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning.
Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks,
Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways,
rented motorcycles and cars.  Walked perhaps 1000 miles.
In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years.

And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim
of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?"
"What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"  
All indeed, fare questions.

When a boy, I read a simple five word line,
“Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and
Horizon Lust compelled me.
 
The next obvious question you might
ask is, after all that; “What did you find?”
That answer is very simple,
I found myself.

Freedom is a seven letter word that denotes an illusion.
A fleeting boundless state of mind, seldom achieved.
An illusive gift perhaps only truly given from us to
our selves. Maintained with diligence and positive thought.
(I believe and so I am.) Living within, in a Dictatorship or
a Marriage, it remains a state of mind. To attain it, worth a
revolution or a divorce.

Where were these feelings of peace when
I was younger. Back when I overthought
everything and strove too hard for more
than merely enough.

That old clock is ticking away,
the days bleed on one into another,
mostly all the same, nothing much
new to report here. I do what I can,
what my aged body will allow.
A limited return on my investment
I guess, but still finding little joys
that sustain me, mostly given up
on big dreams and illusions, anyway
being rich and famous was never on
my wish list agenda, all in all it's been
a very good run, with strong family
love given and received, our linage
prospers and continues, that is after
all the only real reason any of us,
human, bird or beast were put on
this earth.

To believe otherwise is but a
uniquely human delusion that
in the end matters not in the
least and changes nothing.

She sits or naps there almost every day.
She has other choices she could make.
Ten acres to roam,
Under the cover of large spreading trees.
Maybe the woodshed,
Or the old house near by,
Empty now and full of nice.
The Barn, filled with solitary places
in which to slumber or hide.
The Garages, an open boat, trucks,
several beds there for her use.
But she picks the convertible
roof on my diminutive Red Car,
Like the Little Girl in the "Three
Bears Story", it would seem that,
that canvas roof is, "Just Right".

Or could it be that my sweet
little cat Charlotte, loves that roof
because it's mine?

Not unlike needed caresses or gentle kisses,
the morning sun did bathe my upturned
face in needed glow of restorative warmth.
An encouraging respite after weeks of clouds
and cold rain to lift my flagging spirts,
supported and enhanced by the celebratory
songs of a plethora of birds, all this perhaps
the shining moments of glory in my entire
self isolated day.

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.

Your investment in Kindness
rendered to others' is a gift
shared, that costs you nothing,
yet pays huge return dividends.

In ’68 Hutch and me,
Sitting at the bar drinking
Our third cold beer.
In a semi Fern Bar
Laguna or Newport Beach
Which now, I’m not sure.
It was around nine or so,
A week day night,
The place more empty than not.

She came in alone, made
Entry like the dramatic host of
A TV show. As if she were the
Center piece on the nations
Thanksgiving Dinner Table.
Over dressed to the nines,
Lots of color, heavy make up
She didn’t really need.

Her perfume scent hovered
Around her like a cloud of insects  
On a hot summer night in a wet meadow.
Kind of made my eyes water up.

She perched daintily like a dancer,
Upon a bar stool,
Three empty stools down,
Nodded the bartender her regular order.
A martini, a double it was,
With but a dab of vermouth.
One green olive on a stick.
The glass was prechilled as if
It had been waiting only for her.
She pounded that first one down,
As if the stem wear was a shot glass.
Another full stem glass appeared,
That one also quickly consumed
Two bright red lipstick stains all that
Remained in or on the stemmed glass rim.

Her main task accomplished,
She audibly exhaled,
As if tired or relieved.
I couldn't tell which.
Turned around on her stool to face
Hutch sitting closest to her.
“You boys Marines.” She declared,
More than inquired.
The close chopped hair cuts
giving us away.

Hutch just nodded, he never did say much.
A ****** just back from The Nam,
A dark scary guy of few words.

She opened her fur trimmed cloth coat,
exposing two very nice stocking clad legs,
And just a quick flash of red underpants.
Rotating towards us so we got a better shot.

She announced her name,
like as if we should know it.
Our blank stares informed her we didn’t.
Her face was to me, somewhat familiar.  
From movies in the 40s or 50s.
We were early 20 guys, she much older,
Trying hard to look younger, not succeeding.

Soon she was sitting right next to Hutch,
Two more Martini stems had come and gone,
Her lipstick finger prints upon them.
And still Hutch had not spoken more than
Three or four words.

She bought us a pitcher of brew,
Hutch grunted a short bit of gratitude.
We didn't have to say much, she was in charge.
It was all about her, she rambled on and on
Speaking volumes saying not much at all.
Beating back her crushing obscurity,
With flowery reminiscence recall,
Of glory days, long gone away.
Important for the moment, if only to her.
It was all; “me and I, I did this, I was that,
I slept with him,
And him and him”.
How about so and so?  I asked,
“No Darling not him, he was gay!
Still is.”

It was not long and she was touching Hutch.
On the hand, the shoulder, she was working him
With languid hungry looks from her big baby blues,
And the message could not have been plainer,
Had she held up a large hand lettered sign.

I don’t believe she was a “Working Girl”,
Just someone very lonely seeking to find
Herself, and some company for the night,
All to prove that she was still alive.

Looking at her, I could only think,
How sad and pathetic she seemed,
How desperate her plight.
To humble herself so,
In that dingy bar, among strangers
She did not know, Acting yet, still
On the only stage she could find,
Staring in her own bad ‘B’ movie drama.
In that dingy smelly bar.

Hutch and her left after a hour or so,
He never told me much about it.
He was unofficially AWOL for three days.
I covered for him, kept his name off the
Missing Morning Formation Reports
and the Daily Duty Lists.
No one cared to check. Our unit made up
Of mostly guys back from the war,
A pretty loosey-goosey outfit.

Once in a while now I see an old movie,
most are Black and white, Film Noir stuff,
And there she is, a much younger her,
Looking pretty **** good,
Not real big roles they were,
Claimed she was in the chorus
Of "Singing In The Rain" in '52.
To this, I cannot attest, over the
years watched that film several times,
But I never saw her there.

Had parts Playing damsels in distress,
A mobster’s gun moll a time or two,
Or unhappy Play Girls on a bar stool.
I guess it was type casting that done her in.
Or maybe she got a little too long in the tooth.
A sad ending to a short B movie career.
Life isn’t easy, even for a so called “movie star”.
Fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.
A smattering of fame, apparently worth,
Nothing at all.

I thought Snake Oil Salesmen were a relic
of the past, standing up on a stage dispensing
blatant lies and bogus even dangerous cures
for our exaggerated imagined illness and or
personal fears.

I thought we ran all of them out of town,
suitably tarred and feathered, riding on
a splintered hitching post rail.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry. Step right up folks!
In this little bottle, I hold in my hand, is a
magic elixir of my own imagination and
invention, that is absolutely-unconditionally
guaranteed to heel what ails you and Make
America Great Again, all I ask for this be all,
cure all, is one small vote cast for me, crowning
me King of all there is, and your money to get
me there."

For the weak of mind and of poor judgement
his bombastic lies and falsehoods are irresistible
even dangerous, yet still they reach deep into
their pockets to buy what he is selling.

Now where did we put that rail?
Decency and intelligence should
rule the day, not stupidity and
meanness of heart. Run that orange
charlatan out of town, or better yet
lock him up and throw away the key.

I thought Snake Oil Salesmen were
a relic of the past, standing up on a stage dispensing
blatant lies and bogus even dangerous cures for
exaggerated imagined illness and or personal fears.

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

"Hurry, hurry, hurry.
Step right up folks!
In this little bottle, I hold in my hand,
is a magic elixir of my own imagination and invention,
That is absolutely-unconditionally guaranteed
To Make America great again,
All I ask for this be all, cure all, is one small vote
cast for me, crowning me King of all there is."

Now where did we put that rail?