THE BEST OF TIMES



The best times is the coming winter

Fall or Autumn it’s called

When the leaves are red, lime green and yellow

And the ancient rolling hills and their pines stand tall in royal splendor

The Feather River is too cold for a swim, just down the road from my house

And the budding writer or rapper has left me again in solitude

Gone with their crazy thoughts that they know everything at 30 or 35

I laugh at them silently

Saying nothing since they already know everything I know

Why waste my breath, pretend I am their teacher

Did I let anyone teach me, no. I knew it all at 18, even wrote my autobiography, Lord have mercy, at 18.

So I took one of those smart-asses to the Amtrak bus to Sacramento, let them be gone.

They did write something—I took a peek and it was indeed something with the potential of greatness, so I did not block, just let them write. A writer need only write, nothing else matters, not even the wisdom of the master.

But they are gone now with a message for the world. Of course, something the world has not heard before. Forget that Solomon said there is nothing new under the sun.



In my solitude I am at peace once again. The hawk is my friend again, the lizard, the bee, even the fly. If they come into my house I escort them out and there is no problem. I do not kill them. They are my friends along with the ghosts of Native Americans who visit my visitors, checking them out.



She said the ghost who came to her had long hair in a ponytail. Of course it was the Native ghosts, checking to see if she was for real. The ghost approved because she wrote in peace and left without harm, although there was some evil in her so the ghost escorted her out the door. We call the evil ones ungrateful bastards, but we feed them for Allah’s pleasure only, we desire from them neither reward nor thanks (Al Qur’an).

--m