First Fruits

The summer before my first car
Thinking myself grown
I walked Lori
Under the fingernail moon
Talking the generalities of life
Trying out my new-found language
Experimenting with its power

Contemplating how to get her
Into the deepest shades of night.

I never was successful.
Not with Lori.

But every rocket
Needs a launching pad
And she was mine.

I gave Lori my heart
Mistaking it for another
Organ.

While vacationing
With my family
I bought her a
Heart-shaped necklace
As testament to my affection
(And adolescent horniness).

Running to her house
As soon as we made it home
I was shocked
Stunned
(Castrated)
To discover
Lori had
Moved.

Without a word of
Farewell
Or forwarding address.

Throwing the necklace in my drawer
It lay beneath my socks
The way her memory
Lay beneath my heart.

I finally threw the necklace away...
A kind of
First fruits
Of things
Lost
When I learned
Love
Is less about what is gained
Than it is
About things
Bundled
In the tangle
Of sock drawers.

Staring at Ghosts

I am never completely detached
From those who have left.

I think I’ve made peace
Closed the chapter
Moved on
Consigned the relationship
To the tomb
Removed it as far as east is from west
Buried it in the deepest of seas
To be remembered no more.

Such is not the case.

Names...
(Unuttered by my lips
Yellowed with the paper
Upon which they are printed)
Linger.

Feelings long thought numb
Lie just under the surface
And with little provocation
Emerge into bright daylight
Leaving me without a clue
On how to handle them.

But I have learned one thing…
It is not necessary to stand around
Staring at ghosts.
They won’t communicate anyway
So there is no margin trying.

Take up smoking.
Have sex.
Read the obituaries.
Rotate your tires.
Mow the lawn.
Do anything, except look heartache in the eye.

Trust me on this.

A Flat Rock

I don’t want a rocker
A lounge chair
Or sofa.

I don’t need
A soft place to sit
Or lay my body down.

I need a good
Flat rock.

A place to sit
Think
Watch the clouds drift
As shadows creep
From blade to blade.

I need a rock
Near a creek
To watch the fish jump
And dragonflies flit.

I want a rock
Born from the womb of deep cauldrons
When mastodons patrolled.

I want to anchor my thoughts
To things earthy
Terrestrial
Formed by the whisper
Of God.

I need connection
To what came before
And will remain.
A rock that seated
A French explorer
A Native American
A frontiersman
A little boy with a cane pole.

I want to sit in the front row
Near the stage
Where everything happened
And is happening still.

If I can find that rock
I bet I can also discover
The most important thing happening
Is within myself.

Eye To the Keyhole

I miss the stars.

Above Chicago
The night sky is a milky wash.

High overhead, landing lights
Of airliners
Form a bright staircase.
But they are no substitute
For the Hunter
The Bear
The Pleiades
Or Seven Sisters.

As a boy In the country
I scanned the skies
With a Sears telescope
Growing familiar with
The Milky Way.

An occasional satellite tracked a path
Across the deep black of space
And I marveled
At the glory above me.

Omega Centauri
Pulsars, Quasars and Black Holes
Tantalized my imagination
And I gave my wonder freedom to roam
My eye to the keyhole of God’s house.

The unclouded moon
Was my pale companion
A source of inspiration
The collecter of wishes.

I memorized creation
The way others charted
Earned Run Averages
And the developing body
Of the girl next door.
I communed with the cosmos
Until mom called me in.

Now, the sweetness
And charm of the celestial
Is dismissed
In the muck of city lights
And little boys are abandoned
To the lights of video games.

I miss the stars.

Mostly

I am hungry
For laughter
The lightness of bearing
Induced not by the comic
But the incredulous.

I need a transplant
A swap
Of that which
Weighs upon me
For that which transcends.

I want to float along the ceiling
Drift with clouds
And clap with the lifting seas.

I have to turn from the tragic
Toward hope
That lilts, sighs and laughs
Like distant pipes
Across green hills.

I want to breech my spirit
With whales, along the California coast
Loop like a bi-plane
Slide into home plate
Spike the ball in the end zone
I want to kiss the homecoming queen
Breathe deeply the rain-washed air
Be the Grand Master of the 4th of July parade
Take a bow at Radio City Music Hall
Feel the awe of the colors of Monet
But mostly….

Mostly, I want to laugh.

The Image

Your bleary eyes shine
From 1941
Your smile a blend
Of booze
And the camaraderie
Of soldiers.

You had yet to hear
The thunder of artillery
The tattoo of gunfire
Or the scream of dying friends.

You would see nights
Strobbed with
Concussive shocks
And fear, bitter
In the back of your throat.

That smile
So freely worn
In your browning image
Would be little used
Until your boots
Again touched Arkansas soil.

You are a decade gone
Yet I still see
Your fatherly grin
Feel your calloused hands
On my boyish shoulders.

But I see in your image
The youthful spirit
Of a man who believed
In the possibility of hope
And the triumph of the spirit.

Booze and camaraderie
Notwithstanding.

Phantom

I thought I’d buried you
Interred you in the clay
Of years
The residue of things
Best left undisturbed.

But you live.

Your image shimmers
Before me
In remembrances
Of seasons
Of warm suns
And falling leaves
In November winds.

I have carried you
Across labyrinthine years
To this lonely place
Where I lay you down
Beside me
To remember
The sacred times.

How amazed I am
You still live
Breath matching breath
Your rosy cheeks alive
With the luster of love.

But I know you are a phantom
Of that which was
And will never again be.

This is a good place
And this a rich soil
That could hold you
In its firm embrace.

Follow me no longer.
Stay on this hill.

But I know I will see you
Beyond the road’s curve
At the far horizon.

You live still.