In Honor of Eternal Friendship - For Rich C. Vietnam 1969-1972

With startling abruptness I lost contact with a dear friend who owns and lives on a ranch in Washington State. I've tried finding him on line, without success. This poem is in honor of our dear friendship, written with the desire to send it across the vast expanse of space, hoping that it somehow lands within his view. This one's for you, dearest sweet Rich.

A Poem in Honor of Eternal Friendship


Keeper of the Gate

The world around me accedes
to and welcomes darkness
and sleeps while I
remain awake, as the
Keeper of the Gate, content
to feel the earth breathe
and softly moan. The stars
that dot the sky with
pin points of flame makes
me believe you are still
out there, somewhere,
as I stand here, the
Keeper of the Gate, while
the herd of wild Mustangs
snuffle softly in their corral.
Birds, in the wee hours
of the morn, sing for awhile
with quiet little chirrups,
sensing my mood, as
Keeper of the Gate; they
beg me to cheer up too. Llamas,
Llola, spelled with two Ls
in honor of her species.
move and rest within their
pen and the Great Pyrenees dogs
are like me, the Keeper of the
Gate, as they protect the flocks,
the goats, whose kids stumble,
sliding across the floors of your
house, making themselves at
home and the sheep whose
lambs frolic and play beside
the kids, the stray cats and mutts,
the brood of hens that lay their
eggs and the old leghorn rooster
who gloats about the time.
Crickets have not yet gone to
rest; the katydids make a scratchy
tune – the nocturnal singing
insects sharing their hypnotic
musical songs of night in a
great musical fest. In the somnolence
of night, I, Keeper of the Gate,
imagine that I could be Nox, that
ancient Roman Goddess of Night.
I close my eyes, but not in sleep;
it is to see to the far Northwest,
and nearly three thousand miles
away, the Northern Lights. I
can also see Vietnam and re-read
the stories written but never
told. The bartender in Denver,
an airport cocktail lounge on
one leg of a route between Arkansas
and Washington, who charged
four bucks for a drink, was given
a twenty and then gave in return
change in a ten, a five and five
ones, tapped a hat that said Vietnam
1969-1972 and said, “Thank you.”
A house without a wife, but two
sons, traveling the god-awful
Sonoran Desert in a van called
home. The forty-two men who died
and another wished he had – face
crushed by the windshield of an
M60. These memories kept by
the Keeper of the Gate. A Time
Capsule, the custodian of precious
remembrance. The Moon is brilliant;
even I can see tonight’s rings that
shine around the sphere of night.
The Earth has a succulent odor
of its own, the nectar of sunset;
deeply I breathe and my chest rises,
as does my spirit, to soar far, far
away, hoping to find out where
you are, the roots of our friendship
reaching out across the air, like
the roots of the Banyan Tree,
searching for life, a place to grow, a
locality to live. Another’s presence
is sensed and the Keeper of the Gate
must leave, giving way to Aurora the
Goddess of Dawn; I hope that you
are out there somewhere and, wherever
that may be, you have felt the gentle
touch of a friend, one who has always
cared, one who is now the
faithful Keeper of the Gate.

For Rich, wherever he may be.