The days are long and hard to go,
Walkin' down my side of the road.

Up ahead I see Emmylou comin' ,
known her since we was 2 or 3.
Yet, she crosses over from,
My side of the road,
Making like she don’t see me.

Up ahead comes old Nat Black,
Shuffling along and limping some,
He marched with Mister King,
Over in Selma in ‘63,
That’s how he got that limp you see.
But still he keeps to his side of the road,
On the opposite side from me.

Further ahead comes Jake Sutton’s kid,
Strutting along at a pretty brisk clip,
A stout club in one hand,
and a white sheet tucked under his arm.
Off I bet, to burn a cross somewheres.
Him and his rowdy friends cluttering up,
both sides of this road I tread.

Sleepy little ‘Bama town,
With so much trouble all around,
I just keep on trudging down,
My side of the road.

Hoping someday, it will lead us all,
Someplace better and fair,
Then this divided road we all share.

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

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

From afar I knew her at school,
We talked once or twice,
She was a beauty you see.
Having a boyfriend elsewhere.

Came our Senior All Night Party,
Planned out all very cool.
After an afternoon Graduation,
Our entire class of several hundred
Embarked on a private train,
Eight passenger cars,
An Engine and caboose.
All Just for our use.

As a class officer I was in the entry car,
Handing out handshakes to the guys,
And goodbye kisses to the girls,
(One last chance to flirt.)

Until she, the leggy blond came along.
That kiss was not fleeting, not congratulatory,
If was mutually passionate and assuredly sincere.
It took my breath away, she tasted of lipstick
And honey, sweet as can be.

Minutes later we found ourselves
In a compartment, mostly alone,  
Stayed there though out the,
90 mile train excursion,
Discovering each other as
Young Lovers should.
Nothing seedy,
Nothing inappropriate,
Just kissing until our lips hurt,
And I felt like I might explode.
This beautiful long legged girl,
And I, fogging the windows up,
All Fireworks and night flares,
Like a steamy magic act on the rails.
Other people came and went,
But we hardly took notice of them.
Lost in a little world of our own.

We reached Oakland,
Departed the train,
Went aboard a three level,
Red Line Cruse Boat
And sailed away.
Two bands, music,
And just a little *****,
High on kisses, Royal Crown,
Jack Denials’ Black Label.              
All night on the Bay water,
A little dancing too, as I recall.

Then back at the Pier by six.
Breakfast and return train trip.
Somewhere along the way,
We lost track of each other,
Too many people,
All moving and shoving,
Friends pulling us in different direction,
Too tired to protest I guess.
I found a place to fall asleep and did.
And just like that it was over.

The next day and for years,
It all seemed like a dream.
How does that happen?
What had we both been feeling
For those four school years,
But had never expressed,
To ourselves or each other,
That put us together on that journey,
Of Steel Tracks and Water Adrift?

During those years,
What passions had we stifled,
All for lack of opportunity?
Both dating other people,
Busy moving blindly through adolescents,
As kids will do, with no real clue.   

After the train ride,
That ship on the Bay,
It was off to college,
And new friends with which to play,
Events and time took over, and
We both went our own ways.

For the first time, since that night,
I saw her some weeks ago.
And she still looks the same.
It’s been many years,
But she has not changed.
Lovely as ever and still my friend.
Both of us laughed as we talked,
Fondly recalled that night on the train.
She now a widow and me on my own.

Living 600 miles apart,
We email back and forth,
Pen Pals we tell ourselves,
And each other.

What was I thinking?
Back in those days.
How did I let her get away?
I suppose “Stuff” and something,
Called Life merely got in the way.

Now every day,
The first thing I do,
After I let out the dogs,
And brew a cup of Joe,
Is open my Email files,
To see if she is there.
So pleased when she is,
A little sad when she’s not.

A New York City kind of guy, to Oregon did fly.
He arrived and went to the "Departure" upper
level, rather than the "lower Arrival level,
Where he needed to be and was formally instructed.

Finally making his way down to his waiting ride,
and I, him wearing a sheepish grin and Oregon
Ducks fan cap, as perhaps a shield of safety against
redneck attack. Forsaking his usual Yankees or
Jets fan hat. A sign of respect or ****** concern,
which I am not sure. A nice gesture none the less.

As I suspected an immediate bond was formed,
two older guys with lots to say and endless opinions
to share, eager to engage. Not at all shy in any way.
We droned on for the better part of four days,
covered it all in vivid detail, he being a better
talker than listener. A changer of topics at whim,
keeping me on my toes and off center, but
still up to the challenge and holding my own.

I had filled the fridge full of food, as it turned out
almost none of which he could or would eat. Having
some ridged committed consumption restrictions.
We ate out a lot. Leaving more time to talk and talk,
and laugh out loud. If there was a subject to explore
we covered it, honest direct and in depth. No subject
off limits. No opinion collectively deemed pure *******.
We busted each others ***** a bit as boys and men
tend to do, a sign of fellowship rendered, not cruelty
intended.

By the fourth day our attentions spans and word
formulations were garbled and our minds no doubt
numb from over use. My jaw even a bit painfully
hurt. But our bond was deep veined, gown rich
with shared brotherhood. We saw some country, the
Main City, the Oregon coast and Columbia River Gorge.
Talking more than observing the picturesque scenery
the landscapes merely a moving background for sociable
verbal exchange rather than rapt attention to natures
splendor. All topical subjects and discussions that could
have been performed on my back porch, without
leaving home. We drank a few beers and some Pinot
Red and enjoyed decent food. Joined on some of the
journey by another fine poet friend. Reimer is his
name O.

All in all, I believe a fine time was had and shall be
fondly remembered by us all. Friendships formed
on a Social Cyber site can be significant, transcending
merely words typed out on a computer screen and
certainly worth pursuing.

Alone, depressed, in a hospital room bed,
when out in the hall appeared a little
well-dressed elderly woman pushing a
two wheeled cart, upon which set a large,
beautiful orchestral harp, it's burnished wood
gleaming and strings reflecting a golden light.

My door was open, and she paused in the
hall and sat on a stool and began to play.
A haunting classical piece I did not know.
When she was finished, I lightly clapped
my hands together, smiled in appreciation,
She asked, "Another perhaps?"
"Yes, Clair De Luane if you please"

She wheeled her harp a little into
my room. Settled herself and began to
play. After only a few cords the lovely
melody refrain reached deep into me,
and I began to unashamedly weep.

The frustrations of confinement, operation
pain and infection, along with the depressions
of aging and loss of my youthful capabilities
came pouring out.

That little lady, her magical harp and that tune
reached deep into my soul.  I was uplifted
and renewed.

Wisdom is knowing what you need
and what you don't need without
doubt or regret, with no requirement
to apologize to anyone for this hard
earned understanding with yourself.

We had come to see him, the aging Tenor sing.
He was as good as he had always been.
But half way through, a woman appeared,
Moving gracefully in bare feet upon the stage.
Entering the ring of bright spot light near him.
Long blond hair, falling loose around her neck,
Held back both sides by Turtle Shell combs,
Reflecting the light.
Adorned in but a simple, low cut black dress,
Her with a face beautiful as a new spring day.

Held in her left hand an ebony hued violin,
Touched fondly, like a well accustomed old friend.
Her right hand holding a bow, ready and waiting.

The Tenor’s and her eyes met and conveyed a message
Only they understood.  Then starting slow and low,
The full Orchestra commenced. The woman in black
Brought instrument up to her chin, lovingly resting
her face upon it, as if comforted by it's touch to skin.

The fetching violinist, like a graceful reed,
In summer breeze, began to gently sway,
Laid Bow to strings and a transcended beauty,
The voice of both her Instrument and from within she,
Emerged through her fingers, completely filling the hall.
With eyes closed, the slight movements of expression
On her face registering the feelings the musical notes made,
As if those gestures too, guided the bow's musical cords.
Slender precise fingers lovingly caressing the strings.
For nearly a minute, she and her violin played alone.
Her actions of body, hands and head in concert,
To her music, unavoidably hypnotic it could be said.
The Tenor started to sing, and yet my eyes stayed
Locked on her, as if no one else in the room was there.
The blond woman in the black dress owned the stage.

I have no idea how long that piece of music lasted,
I could not attest to what contribution the Tenor made.
Fully my attention and eventually my heart belonged
To that lovely, evocative young woman in the backless,
Little black dress.

It’s true that I may never see or hear her play again,
I know not, even her name.
And yet, I’m sure that I will never forget those
Few minutes mesmerized by her magical spell.
Hopelessly caught in her enchanting web.

With me sitting, third row, isle seat left,
Worshiping as I did, at her so pretty,
Slightly ***** naked feet, the striking
Blond woman in the black dress.

The whole world has PTSD,
brought about by watching
far too much TV.
Normal people becoming
neurotic or psychotic
by all the "Breaking  News".

Talking heads spewing fearful
endless chapters of dread,
all with their own ax to grind
into our heads, day after day
after day until we want to scream.
Real news or fake, impossible
to know the difference.

A political landscape strewn with
landmines of division and hate.
Melting Ice, and adverse weather,
hurricanes and tornadoes devastate
and forest fires burn, as racists and
terrorists abound at every turn,
and crazy's with military weapons
killing us for sport, just to make
the nightly news, as our nation's
infrastructures crumble into ruins,
all "Breaking News day and night",
while we and the world choke and
quiver from an excessive Carb diet
of information overload, trying to
sleep bathed in bad dreams, laced
with too many strong doses of PTSD.

I don't get bigotry, never have.

I don't get born again Christians,
Weren't they born once already?
I don't get do nothing Tea Party Republicans,
Who as it turns out are mostly the same
Born Again people.

I don't get any fake *** politicians,
They aren't people they're a product.
Manufactured and packaged to please
the tastes of the gullible public.

I don't get why super rich people would
want to go to Washington and take
(For them) a low paying job in Congress
and then sit on their hands and do nothing?
With their money they could go buy a lush
Island in the sun and lay about and really
do nothing while drinking a ice cold beer.
Which sounds like lots more fun.  

I don't get bad wars fought for bad reasons.

I don't get people that **** other people
of the same religion for no discernible reason.
While yelling "God Is Good or Great!" or what ever.
I don't get why they'd think "God" would even
appreciate that.

But then, I don't get people that **** people.
Or insanity, religious insanity is even worse.

I don't get still using oil to power things
while we know **** well there are good
viable alternatives.

I don't get the rabid Right To Lifers,
who want to dictate to all woman
their "One And Only Solution".

I guess I don't get why
People tell you they love you,
Then later change their minds.

I don't get kids killing kids
on school yards with guns.
Or the fools that do not lock
up their guns that their kids
find and use to **** other kids
on school yards.

I don't get why so many people
want things to stand still,
just because they can't keep up.

I don't get those folks that swear
that global warming is not a reality,
while every day the oceans rise
a little more.

I don't get why we little people let the
one per centers run our country and lives.

I don't get why we allow Big Business
to out source millions of jobs to other lands
when people here at home are unemployed.

I get "Humanitarian Aid" but why do we send
billions of dollars to countries that hate us?

I don't get why we need a dozen TV channels
of 24 hour news, (Some of which distort the truth
to fit their political leanings) news repeated and
repeated until we are scared and numb and
don't know truth from pure old *******.

I don't get where honest "News Men" like
Mr. Cronkite and his breed, guys that made
sure of their facts and would only dispense
the truth, went and why there are no more
of them?

I don't get why Bush and Cheney are not
in the slammer for their many lies and
outright Treason! Starting wars that never
end and shouting WMDs when none existed.

The simple answer to all this,
"these things that I do not get", is,
"It's all ******* and It's Bad For Ya' ."

It was my birthday,
Sixty Five years turned to grey hair.
My love and I, and two old school
friends on a breezy Fall day.

Over Tea and a lovely frosted
three layer cake, we cajoled
and joked about our age,
all turned senior citizens that year.
And yet in truth, we all agreed,
none of us had ever been as happy as then.

The cake was sliced onto china plates,
Each piece served flat on it's cut side.
I noticed something then as we all
took our first bites.

Our forks all started at the thinnest corner,
on the bottom layer's side, gradually
excavating the two lower levels of fluffy
cake, saving the best for last, the top layer
where all the sweet frosting remained.

It occurred to me then that indeed life
is like a three layer cake, the last top layer
can indeed contain the sweetest bites.
That rather than gobbling life hurriedly whole
it should be savored more like patiently eating
and enjoying a three layer cake.

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.

Amen to that, be gone you fool,
back to your ivory, gold plated,
tacky palace condo in the sky,
with your iron curtain mail order
bride, dumb and dumber sons
and the allegedly quite embarrassed
by their father, attractive daughters.

The wrongly booted former
head of the FBI, Sir James
may hold the iron truncheon needed
to batter down the House Of Trump.
Sir James the hero deserving of our
respect and lasting admiration,
the man that may free our nation,
from the fool that would be King,
the imposter sitting on the throne
of the Kingdom of America,
a clown not fit to rule, more fittingly
cast as the lowly Court Jester.

The wheels of reason and justice
will be slow to turn and no doubt
Trump will do a good deal more
tap dancing on his own male member,
to shock and amuse us and of course
continue to scare the living hell out
of the entire world.

While giving the press field days of
never ending "Special Breaking News
Reports" to frighten and blow our minds.

Yes indeed, the Circus has truly come
to town, and the petulant corpulent clown
with the orange fright wig and baggy suits,
he's the star attraction in the center ring.
He lacks a funny repertoire of "Clown Stuff"
but he sure can lie, and his slight of hand
and patented brand and ******* walk and
talk is completely beyond historical compare.

Hurry, hurry, hurry folks, step right up
and get your ticket, the Circus is in town
and sadly in full public view.

Way back in my youth,
I looked at "Time" as my friend,
Now, I'm not so sure.

Next to my computer desk, a battery
driven wall clock audibly ticks away each
expired second, "Tick Tock, Tick Tock,"
In the silence of the room, it's every measure
clicking like muffled somber drumbeats.
Sitting today the clock a foot from my ear,
I placed my fingers on my neck and found
a perfectly matching heart pulse beating
"Thump-Thump, Thump-Thump repeated.
Clock and Heart together paired in perfect
synchronization, an inescapable reminder
of the fleeting precious time that remains.

Each second, minute, hour and day a
cherished gift.

It's a time out I seek,
too many words and poems
read and said,
Too many feelings flow
through my head,
I'm dizzy with it,
Not at all fed up,
That's something else again.

I love my HP friends,
The exchanges,
The encouragement.
The world of computer companionship,
The joy of all the written words.

Yet for now as to this,
Our shared passion,
I do for a time relent.

Pay more attention
to my woman and kids,
Take the dogs for a walk
down by the river bridge.
Seek some sun
and hurry the Spring.
Shoot some photographs,
That do so please.
Rest assured I shall return.

So good friends for a time,
if I do not reply,
That would be the reason why.
Not sick, not dead, just resting.

Humans are by our natures
nurturers, we thrive when
giving, we take in stray animals
raise and love them like our own
children, if they by their natures
eat our sofa, crap on our carpet
we readily with charity forgive
them, clean up their mess and go on.

Is it not sad that we cannot always
extend or receive that same charity
of tolerance to or from the humans
in our lives?

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

There is no finer fresh breeze
to be had then those mingled
tropical scents of open seas,
coconut palms, flowering plants,
clean white sands and fresh caught
fish frying over an open fire, while
reclined upon a near deserted
pristine island beach with new
convivial friends recently met.

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.

My father and my uncle
grew up on the streets
of Chicago, tough streets
for kids to roam.

Uncle Sal was a lanky guy,
with a Pork Pie hat and an
attitude, he took no ****,
but had a heart that was pure.

At nineteen Uncle Sal
died in Korea before he
lived for real. I still have the
Bronze Star they gave him.
A **** poor exchange for
a life unlived.

I never got to know Uncle Sal,
but I sure wish I had, maybe
even just a little bit.

I open my eyes and there he'd be,
Sitting at the edge of the bed,
Staring right up at me.
I swear his eyes and expression
Have love written all over them.
A silent message impossible not to see.

I pat the bed and up he comes,
Flops down beside me and
nestles his head upon my chest,
A big contented sigh his only utterance.
This our ritual of the morn,
He always waits, never jumps the gun.
Waits for permission like any good son.

What do they think I wonder,
What drives their loyal companionship,
Their unconditional love for we human beings?

Truly did we ever have a better friend?
A shadow, follow us anywhere,
Willing to take a bullet to protect us,
Cries when we leave them,
Always overjoyed to see us even if it's only
been minutes since we left their sight?

What other living creature is so willing to
overlook our failures, our unintentional abuse,
And never guilt us for these our all too human mistakes.

I wish I only knew more people,
That had the loving, steadfast
Nobel character of a faithful dog.
Oh, what a better world this would be
if only we acquired some simple animal behavior.

Once I was young and strong,
Consumed with compelling
desires of Horizon Lust,
traveling forth wide and far.

Time and age has intervened,
now I stand alone and wait
high above on the city gate,
Silent sentry to all of those young
lives that venture forth to explore
horizons of their own, and those
weather beat ones like me
returning to rest and remain.

Accepting as I must, that I shall
never again roam too far afield  
from my place upon the gate,
Content with a life well lived,
to languish now upon this place.

Horizon Lust is for the young.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

What is this thing,
This change in me,
What is this feeling,
That is happening to me?
This possessing of my spirit.
This seemingly lack of control,
That was not always so.

That a concerto slow turn,
Played and heard,
Renders me weak in the knees,
A sweet moment of human joy,
Or actual real grief,
Even viewed on a movie screen
Can tug at my heart so.

So too, a child’s sweet song,
Though sung off key.
A blazing sunset,
Orange and red,
A thrilling thing to behold.
Nature always a motivator,
All of these and more,
Pluck cords of my emotions,
Like the strings of a harp,
So easily reduce me to tears.
Not body shaking sobs mind you,
Just a slow gentle stream,
Nothing my sleeve can't deal with.  

"Men don’t cry",
"Sensitivity is only for women",
Or so I have always been told.
Well it’s taken me a long time,
But I have concluded this bias,
Is a load of unadulterated *******!
‘Cause as it turns out,
I actually enjoy it.
And see no reason I shouldn't.

Not to mention,
It keeps my tear ducts open,
And free flowing.
In touch as I am with my feelings.

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.

Few memories remain
from when I was Five.
One that does, is still alive.

Her name was Penny,
a copper colored,
old Cocker Spaniel Dog.
Mostly blind, moved only slowly
deep into her last few years.

We lived across the street about
a block from my Grade School.
How she did it I will never know,
but every day when the dismissal bell rang
at 3:00, just outside my class room door,
There all alone, Penny would be,
Her old Sweet face waiting for me.

Like clock work as if she knew
the exact time of day,
she crossed the busy avenue  
walked up the street and went
straight to my class room.
After greeting me with a lick or two,
she dutifully walked me home from school.

If a person thinks that a dog
has no real love to give,
I would politely, advisedly say
"Sadly, in this one fact, you are
greatly mistaken."

At 18, in college I was a slacker.
A **** that refused to attend
a class much before eleven.
My thoughts not extending
far beyond tomorrow’s game.
Still a little groggy from
Too much beer the night before,
Eyes reluctantly barely open,
I found and took my seat.

The class was in a Lecture Hall,
Theater seating for a hundred.
A class filled to near capacity,
For a Professor everyone loved.
“American History One O One”,
Taught by Doctor Weatherspoon,
A very cool Professor.

He was a very exacting man,
Always prompt and to the point,
A wonderful Lecturer and Historian.
Leaving out most of the trivial ****.

And yet on this morn,
It appeared he was late.
The clock on the wall
Informed eighteen minutes
Past Eleven and counting.
A highly unuseal event.
Lateness was not in
This Educator’s play book.

The seated students were growing
Ever more restless with chatter.
No teacher in class after twenty minutes,
Meant the students were free to leave.
One or two kids were already getting up,
to do just that, make a clean escape.

The side door to the raised stage opened,
Doctor W.  appeared, standing alone.
This enlightener of young lives, he
Who brought insight to our minds you see,
was himself quite blind, couldn't see a thing.

He was nearly always in the company of
A teacher’s aid, his hand upon her arm.
A human “Seeing Eye Dog” of his very own.
That day there was no aid present,
He was alone, standing in the doorway,
Only a solemn expression showing,
His ever present dark glasses slightly,
Askew upon his serious, ashen face.

Slowly, hesitantly he edged forward
Appearing unsure of himself,
even slightly confused.
When he thought he must be near
the center-front of the stage stopped,
slowly turned to his right,
Facing the room filled with his students,
We, who had fallen by then nearly, mute.
To silly kids that seldom took anything seriously,
All at once, nothing in that room seemed humorous.

In a flat halting, chocked up voice he announced,
“The President has been shot.
Down in Dallas.
I regret to inform you,
our President is dead.”

An audible gasp,
a collective sigh of shock was heard,
someone cried out; “Oh my God no!”
He held up his right hand, palm out and
Gently moved it right to left, a slow Parade
Wave it seemed. Beseeching us for calm.
The room went instantly silent again.

In a broken voice he continued,
“I think we should all adjourn for the day,
Yes, no class today. Perhaps no other classes at all.
Yes, you should go home now, be with your families.”
He began to softly cry, took off his dark glasses,
Took a white linen hanky from his suite pocket,
Dabbing it at his sunken, sightless eyes.
We had never seen him without his dark glasses,
Looking for the first time, upon his naked human face.

“Yes, it’s best you go on home now,
I’m so sorry; I don’t know what else to say.”

Then in a moment of stress and confusion,
He turned, did a 180,
facing about, the wrong way.
Slowly he began to walk forward,
hands outstretched before him,
towards the solid, rear brick wall,
of the stage. Headed for disaster.

A football teammate of mine,
jumped up on the stage and
Raced to catch the Professor.
Gently taking him by the arm,
ending his error in navigation.
Then my friend guided our Mentor
to the exit door.

All of us, nearly 100 remained seated,
a strange compelling hush,
weighing heavily upon us.
A stunned silence for sure,
that I shall never forget.

Our respected teacher’s emotional,
Confused response only deepening
our own feelings, of loss and dread.
Then we were left alone, together
to ponder what it all meant.

No cell phones, no instant news
Abounding, like birds on the wing,
Filling the air, here there and everywhere
to see and hear. Home was where we
Saw and heard things of import back then,
Home is where we should be.
And that is where most of us went.

Gradually over the next few minutes,
One by one, students rose and silently,
Slowly, reverently walked from the room
As if they were walking from a Church,
after some emotionally wrenching occasion.
A few and not just females were openly weeping.

There is no way to explain all this any better,
There is no real way for you to fully understand,
How it was, how it felt, unless you, yourself were there.
I dare say that anyone over the age of ten on that day,
November 22, 1963 will ever forget where they were,
What they were doing, when they first heard the news
Of the assignation of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

A year and a half later I was in the Military,
doing what I thought I should.  
In part perhaps, as JFK had inspired.
“Ask not what your country can do for you.
Ask what you can do for your country.”
My older brother joined the Peace Corps,
I joined the Marine Corps, both answering the call,
As we saw fit.

On that day in November ’63 the entire country
went into a profound and deep National mourning
that lasted for weeks.  

That has over time turned into a National Haunting,
That still to this day, half a century later, persists.

Some things, some events, truly are unforgettable

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

“Who Am I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are here to love one another,
To procreate, love, teach, protect
and raise our progenies to be decent,
loving human beings.

All else is merely a distraction,
to our very purpose for existence.

Pinecone, to seed, to sapling, to tree.
Egg, to chick, to bird of wing,
Seeks to mate and all repeat.
Pinecone, to seed, to sapling, to tree.

All living things on Earth it seems,
Do propagate in a continuous cycle of life.
Beyond our human ability to over think
everything, are we really any different?
Does thought merely confuse the issue?

Perhaps we be, too smart for our own good.

The blowing winds
build eccentric artful
geometric patterns upon
the beach dunes, Natures
crafty masterpieces forever
shifting changing into delicate
natural never repeated beauty,
Original artwork like no other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winter chills have come a little early,
the Cascade mountains to the east
covered with fresh 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.

It's getting on to 4, the sun has not shown itself
all day, the snow is melting, some bare spots of
grass appearing here and there, it's 34 degrees.
The little piles of bird seed I put out at noon on
the walkways have all but disappeared, gangs
of birds have mostly consumed it all, pretty little
ground feeders, of one kind or another. My inside
fat cat has had his nose pressed to the window all
day observing them with wide eyed interest and
quivering jaw, maybe licking his predatory lips.
Even though he has never eaten anything that did
not come out of a bag or can.

I too have enjoyed watching them busily hopping
around feasting, I always wonder where they go
when they disappear. Maybe just passing through
headed south for warmer pastures? Or are they year
round locals? Do they have any idea who put out
the feast, and how does the word get spread, do
they have scouts or lookouts, or some kind of aerial
bird only telegraph system.

At least the freezing weather kept our Barn Cats all
snugged up and off the street, at one point I quick
counted between 40 to 50 winged visiting diners
out there. The cats never even knew they were here.

Watching them feed was almost as much of a treat
for me as it was for them. It made me feel useful,
and that does not happen very often these days.
When we get old it is these little things that matter
and sustain us.

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

At times I wish I was a
dolphin free swimming
and frolicking in the sea,
in the convivial company
of others just like me.
Free of debt or strife,
wars and the endless prattle
of human beings, who think
themselves so very supreme
over all other living things.

If only wishes could come true.

Self Worthlessness is a completely,
temporary phase of human maturation.
It persists within the passing ignorance of youth,
And fades with the realization of eventual
adult wisdom gained over time.

The suffering within the journey,
Builds character and worth.
It's earned, not a birthright.

Dads are people sons never
forget, for good or bad and
when the son is gone there
is no one to remember the
father. Say for some fading
black and white photos in a
scrap book: "That was your
great grandfather. He fought
in the war. People called him
Bud, but his real name was
Wyett with an E. He taught
me to cast a fly in a mountain
stream and tune the engine
in my first car, and not to lie."

My grandsons almost grown
are good and loving chaps, but
never ask me about their Great
Grandfather. Out of sight, out of
mind, I guess. Maybe I am the last
to remember or care. Our touchstones
to the past are frail at best.