As I Looked Across The Bay

As I looked across at

A most beautiful body,

Nothing about it

Declared it was ever shoddy.

Various shades of green

To the eyes a rich bounty,

A most hypnotizing scene

One of the best in Marin County.

Lines eagerly suggesting

An enticing body of age,

Graced by gentle curves

Not wrinkles from rage.

Lines so suggestive

As those of breasts and hips,

Begging me to explore

And put a smile on my lips.

The rises and falls

The dimples and rounds,

Such a joy to the senses

As my mind danced to the sounds.

Then in a snap

My imagination shut down,

I laughingly remembered

It was only bushes, trees and ground.

But at the end of the ride

The awe of it remains,

The art of Mother Nature

Has a firm grip on the reins.

This stretch of land

Known well as Pt. Reyes,

Still strongly resists

Man and the passing days.

So grateful am I for

An idea began from a start,

To those many wise people

Who fought to make it a National Park.

To those who follow

To venture onto this soil,

Enjoy this land and all it gives

But remember not to spoil.

As this day ends

Scattered clouds in the sky,

My soul peeks out not

Knowing if to sigh or cry.

Calls of distant birds

Gentle caresses of light breeze,

Warmth of the setting sun

This moment my spirit must seize.

I must embrace what is here

And wear it like a glove,

Fighting to put a hold

On my quest for a new love.

Pt. Reyes National Seashore Park

Gary R. Cramer

December 22, 2012

Sea Mist

All Good Things

All the good things

in my past are gone,

there is no music

no longer a song.

The future is a void

so empty to me,

too tired to fight

too lost to flee.

No hopes or dreams

like I’m dead inside,

slowly getting weaker

like an outgoing tide.

Looking to the future

I don’t see a light,

just dark emptiness

losing life’s sight.

The fear runs deep

of me dying alone,

mind and body waning

with no vital tone.

My past hides there

in shadows haunting,

effecting each moment

so very undaunting.

Spinning out of control

what do I do,

trying to stop it

wanting to renew.

The holidays are here

little to celebrate,

one day like the rest

just another to hate.

I was recently told

I like how I am,

not a chance in Hell

that’s a real sham.

Accused of the fact

that I like the attention,

what demented soul

would crave such tension?

I’ve been told

I’m in a dark hole,

resisting a ladder

to attain a new goal.

Believing it’s not true

what I do accept,

I lack the technique

to find the right step.

I’ve tried to show

I have a full plate,

but some proclaim

that’s a false state.

Where do I turn

what should I do,

to find the right path

happiness to pursue.

Wanting to be happy

laughs and smiles,

to have a partner

to walk remaining miles.

All the good things

in my past are gone,

there is no music

no longer a song.

Gary R. Cramer

November 27, 2019

Endless Days and Nights

Endless days and nights

surviving jungle fights.

Boys trying to be men

hearts whispering amen.

The ever constant beat

of low flying choppers.

All too often trailed

by Agent Orange mists

The ever present smell

of pungent diesel fuel.

That ever annoying growl

of emergency generators.

Day and night a damp smell

trying not to stay in hell.

Back from patrols covered in blood

mixed and caked in evil mud.

Gathered together around a fire

some in ripped and torn attire.

Amongst them there stood

upended rifles topped with helmets.

Some were silent and some cried

for their comrades who had died.

As more beers were downed

they stared blankly at the ground.

Shared times good and bad

now over ridden and sad.

Each reflecting on the next day

will they survive in some way.

Survivors guilt is so real

it’s hard to learn how to deal.

Some nights the sky lights up

star-shells exploding and abrupt.

Illuminated by the drifting parachutes

soldiers scramble for their rifles.

So many muzzle flashes

it looks like fireflies.

Intermittent streaks trail

from tracer rounds.

Fueling future nightmares

now familiar war sounds.

Terrorized calls for Corpsmen and Medics

mostly shadowed by screams of pain.

The next night comes

the gathering smaller

Replaced again by new

upended rifles topped with helmets.

Throughout day and night

hoping no children to sight.

So many are seriously thin

to be that hungry a sin.

We can’t allow them too close

they sometimes have a grenade.

They would approach in

a tiny wooden bowl boat.

Leaving you to wonder

how can that even float.

Even when a rifle was pointed

they would smile and wave.

So little we knew

when we signed our names.

Who was the maniac

who coined, “War Games”?

Endless days and nights

surviving jungle fights.

Boys trying to be men

hearts whispering amen

Gary R. Cramer

March 11, 2022