Talk To Me

Talk to me.
Tell me your story
Your ragged tale
Of gain and loss.

Show me your wounds
Those angry slashes
On your soul
Untended and unhealed.

What beach sands 
Swallowed your blood?

Into whose arms did you fall
When pelted by stones?

Talk to me
So I understand.

People like us
Are known by our scars.

Pointless

You are in all I write...
Poems of love and passion
Bleeding poems
Poems with meter and rhyme
Lightening poems
Sparking and slashing rumbling skies
Poems that weep like a widow
Draping a stone cross
Poems that grin
With the aroma of morning dew
Poems of satisfied desire
Twisted in crumpled sheets.

You are in all I do...
Breathless August nights
Checks on a calendar
Making tomorrows yesterdays
Easy afternoons
Sweat on my skin like rivets on a hull
Legs pumping
Muscles straining
Heart hammering
Pain surging
Bursting in my chest like rockets
Flaring like napalm on bamboo.

You are in me...
Fastened to my spirit
Inextricably joined
At that magic moment
Where night meets morning
Birds sing
Earth warms its path around the sun
And the universe hums
In sounds unutterable
Beyond melodies.
That is where you are.

It is pointless to ask
Why you've gone.
You are where angels wing
Holding wide the door
Where the light in your eyes
Humbles the stars.

Old Men's Dreams

What is the stuff of old men's dreams?
Those in their fading years
Who burrow in their bed each night
With the sum of all their fears.

My grandfather's father was a soldier
As was his son's son.
Both fought wars and shed men's blood
With battles lost and won.

But when they lay upon their pillows
What machines grind through their dreams?
And when they cry out in their sleep at night
What horrors fuel their screams?

Can anybody tell me what old men dream
When their last barriers burn away?
And can speak of what they see
On the midnight side of day?

From Shiloh through Saint-Mihiel
From Normandy to Khe Sahn
Can anybody tell me what old men dream
And where their sleeping minds have gone?

I stand apart and listen
Wondering at these gallant few
And may only guess at old men's dreams
Upon whom honor falls like dew.

Shiver With the Wolf

The wolf sleeps alone
Too wary
Too cagey to share his den.
He settles into darkness
Willing himself to not shiver
Lest he betray his heart.

We share this, in the helix of our DNA
This dark determination
To conceal our hearts.

We sleep alone
Even when we share our sheets
Careful to hide our hungers.

It is not the apparent that defines us.

We may never be known
Until another understands
What fuels our souls
And feeds our famine...
Until we shiver with the wolf.

Indigo and Emerald

Indigo skies in her emerald eyes
And clouds pregnant with snow
A northern wind and a long-lost friend
Before an evening's fire glow.

Ease into this avenue
Now stretched soul to soul.
Find a place in her smiling face
And her rover's quickened roll.

Settle down before you drown
Sometimes you try too hard.
Take it slow and let it grow
Before the finished work is marred.

Indigo hours and gentle powers
Times of joyful surprise
Will help you win and enter in
Her smiling emerald eyes.

I'm Back!

It's been a difficult month. The hard stuff isn't over, but I'm getting there. Thanks for the good thoughts. I appreciate every one of them. ~ James

I'll Be Back.....

Sorry for my absence and lack of posting. I've been pretty sick, and am recuperating. I'll be back as soon as my body permits my mind to think creatively. I appreciate your well wishes!
~ James

Texas Jack’s

I entered Texas Jack’s
And pulled up a stool
Gazed at the menu
As is the rule.

The ranch hands all chattered
Lively and loud
Hats on their heads
Cocky and proud.

There are dives like this
All across Texas
Cursed by God
And the Devil’s hexes.

This place served fire chili
And homemade sausage
And judging by the smell
They were sending a message.

But being new here
I ordered the house brand
And settled in
To make my last stand.

The counter guy slid
Wax paper before me
Plopped down the sausage
And a dollop of chili.

"The knife and fork," he said
"Are chained by your side
And if someone told you
I’d buss your mess, Pard, they lied.

I’ll bring out a bucket
Of hot water and soap.
It’s your job to wash up.
If you figure I’ll do it. Nope."

So I sat there eating my supper
And drank a lukewarm 7 Up.
And if you guess
I cleaned-up my mess. Yup.

If you’re south of the Red River
And lookin’ for food
Stear clear of Texas Jack’s
And a waiter surly and rude.

But I’m here to tell ya
What’s even worse
Is that their sausage and chili
Is the Devil’s own curse!

I can’t yet sit my pony
Nor ride as I ought
‘Cause that sausage and chili
Still gives me the trots!

Ghosts

I see your smile
After years
Time times time
Your image
Never fades.
It’s indelible on my memory
Your wispy smile
Knowing gaze seeing into my mind
My thoughts.

I believe in ghosts.

You rattle around
In the attic
Of my heart
All the time.

I hear your footsteps
At the foot of the bed
Catch your form
Your spectral image
At the corner of my eye
Smell the fragrance
Of your perfume.
Even your taste lingers
On my tongue.

I believe in ghosts.

These chains binding me
Were forged
In the hottest furnace
And I will never
Be released.
The links of remembered passion
Carve into the bone
And marrow of my heart.

You will haunt me forever
And I welcome it.

I believe in ghosts.

Katie*

I remember you
Katie.
You were a beautiful woman
With a fresh
Pink face
Blond hair
And delicate figure.

I’ll never understand why
Our bodies
Declare war on us
And we die.

And you’re not here
To tell me
Katie.

I remember those trips
To your house.
Every time I saw you
There was a little less
To see.

Your long blond hair
Fell out
And you took to wearing
A bright pink scarf.
Even in it you were beautiful.

I remember your soft voice
Telling me
All would be well
You were sure
You said
You had faith
You said.

But you’re gone
Katie
And all that’s left
Those who loved you
Is a warm space
Just your size.

If I could kill
What killed you
Katie
There would be no place
It may hide.

But for all the killer in me
Katie
I can’t bring to justice
What took you.

* a real woman, a real name, and a real death

Not Really Here

I’m sitting at a
Sidewalk café
A glass of claret
Before me
Resting on a white table cloth
Its edges lifting in the breeze
Off the Seine.

The late afternoon sun
Filters through
High clouds
As I watch pretty girls
Walk by
Their laughter ringing
From ancient shop walls.

A siren screams
And, returned to my senses
I am back in the small office
That encases me
Like a mausoleum.
The October wind kicks
Dust into the air
At the grassless patch
By the bus stop
Beyond my window.

I am not really here
I keep telling myself.
I am in Paris.
I am
I am
Simply not here.

I think of calling your number.
Let’s get out of here
I’d say.
Let’s go to Paris.
Let’s go anywhere
But let’s leave here.

I’ll never call
Because you’d never go.
When the sun rises on Paris
It’ll not shine on me.
Someone else will drink the wine
Watch the pretty girls
Smile in the Parisian light.

I place your number back in my wallet
And force my attention
Back upon
The business at hand.

Empty Arms

My arms are so empty, dear.
Yet I feel your warmth
Beneath my fingertips
Hear your gentle sighs
In my ears
Though years fall away
Like autumn leaves.

I wonder
Do you feel as I?
Sometimes your name
Leaks from my lips
Into the slipstream
And it seems so natural
As though you may answer.

Have you ever spoken my name
Into the dark
Hoping for a reply
An answer in the night?

Last night I saw a woman
Looking much like you.
As we passed in the street
I nearly looked back
But stopped
Afraid I may call out
Your name
And embarrass myself.

I look for you
In every corner shop
Down the avenues
In taxicabs and cars passing.
I wonder
Do you look for me, too?

Are your arms as empty
As mine?

The Old Soldier

The old soldier wept
Sixty years late
For the boy he killed
Outside a burning French
Farmhouse.

I commanded him to stop
The old soldier said
As the boy pushed
A motorcycle
Empty of fuel.

That damned burning house
The old soldier said.
All that noise and crackling.
The boy just kept coming.
Halt!
The old soldier said twice.

No help for it.
And the boy pushing the
Dry motorcycle died
In the lane.

Sixty years!
The old soldier said
And every night I see him
Every night begging him
To stop.

Sixty years is a long nightmare.

The old soldier is now dead
Gone the way of all flesh.
But I am become
The custodian of his nightmare.
I cannot escape the scene
The flames
The boy with the dry motorcycle
Wearing a German uniform
With a machinegun
Strapped across his chest.

Just a boy
My father said.
He was just a boy
And I killed him.

I wonder
Have they yet met
In those Elysian fields
That know
No war?

The Strangest Dream

Last night I had the strangest dream.

The sun scorched my shoulders
And dust choked my throat.
Hot anger surged my veins
And I had murder in my heart.

The weight of a new Colt settled on my hip.
My fingers clenched and relaxed
Clenched and relaxed
Waiting for my foe
To make his appearance.

Time can be as lead
Waiting to die.

I put the sun behind me
To blaze the eyes of the man
I hoped to kill.

Mama said “Don’t go, son.
Let it rest boy.”
But some things are hard to let go.

I waited in the dusty street.
Marked for
A corpse or a legend.
Soon and very soon
I would be one
Or the other.
But legend it was for me
I was sure.

Last night I had the strangest dream.

Pushing through the swinging doors
Of a hard scramble saloon he came
Eyes on me at his first step.
He was heeled with a tie-down holster
And a Remington with ivory grips
The gold of a watch chain
Flashing from his vest.

We faced off not fifteen feet apart
And he seemed not as scared as me.
In fact he seemed bored.

“Go on home boy,” said he
Even as he slapped leather.

How bright the sun is
When you stare right at it
And how dusty the streets
With all that pooling blood.
From where did it all come?
Is dying really so painless
And easy?
And what will mama do now?

Last night I had the strangest dream.

If You See Her

She meant nothing to me.
No feelings were involved.
It was just an encounter.
A thing
If you know what I mean.

I don’t care if I see her again.
It doesn’t matter to me.
She went her way
I mine
And that’s just fine.

I hardly ever think of her.
There’re better things to do.
I keep myself busy
You know?
Now, I’ve really gotta go.

What? Are these tears in my eyes?
You think my eyes are red?
Come on, get serious.
It’s just the rain.
I never feel the pain.

She was just another woman.
To her I was just some guy.
But if you see her
Don’t say
You saw me today.

Let’s just leave it at that
If it’s all the same to you.
I’m having a little trouble
Swallowing.
But no, she didn’t mean a thing.

Fire and Flash

If you’ll throw
A blanket on the ground
And lay back in the night
The entire Milky Way
Will blaze and sparkle
For you.

It’ll dance and shimmer
On a scale so massive
You’ll go a full sixty seconds
Forgetting to breathe.

Look around.

The dewy grass
Begins to sparkle
In bright
Phosphorescence
As fireflies burst
In golden splashes
Of light
Challenging the sky
To a duel of color.

Stars in the sky
And flashes in the grass
Challenge a response to their
Dazzle.

It’s then you realize
Your heart is on fire
And you answer creation
By your own
Ruddy blush.

There is a remedy
In night skies
Fiery grasses
And heart glow.

It’s healing all around.

Splinters

Didja ever getta splinter
Deep down in
Yer skin?
‘Cuz if ya have
Ya un’erstand
How festering begins.

It swolls all up
And fills full
Of pus
An’ creates
A stir
Of caution and fuss.

Ya jab it
With needles
Tweezers and knife
An’ before ya
Know it
Ya b’lieve it’ll take yer life.

Better watch
For them splinters
That dig an’ poke
‘Cuz if’n ya don’t
You’ll fill full'a poison
And croak!

The Prayer of a Dying Man

God
This opening
And closing of files
Is poison
To my soul.
I’m weary of keyboards
Staff meetings
Protocols
And tracking systems.

God
I’m done with
Intake and outtakes
Sick of reports
Endless meetings
And the bleating
Of office sheep.

God
Deliver me
From back stabbers
Credit grabbers
Liars
Thieves and cheats
And the shuffling
Of weary feet.

God
I need some air
In my lungs
Some iron
In my spirit
A place free
Of electronic fences
And pass codes.

God
Enough of
Bull shitters
And nit-pickers.
Enough of
Cubicles
And corporate
Popsicles.

God
I’m not so naive
As to think
There are
Any open prairies
Or homes on the range
Remaining
But if there’s anything
Even close
Please
Oh, God
Please
Take me there.

Breathe Free

It’s been too long
Since I’ve had
A pony
Under my butt
Her mane blowing
In the wind
Tail streaming like a banner.

I miss saddle leather squeaking
Reins slapping
Cool rain in my face.
The clomping of
Hard hooves against
The earth
Open land stretching before me.

If you’ve never known
The muscle
The withers of a horse
You’ve missed
A mystery in motion
A union
Of beauty and brawn.

When a man sits a saddle
He’s at peace within himself.
Talking to his pony
With the nudge
Of a knee
He knows what it is
To breathe free.

Essential

I climb into the shower
Let the water burn
Into my skin
Pour over my shoulders
And soak me
Deep within.

There’s something spiritual
About a shower.
It enlivens me
Invigorates my heart
And helps my soul
To breathe.

I never sing in the shower.
I don’t have
Much of a voice.
But I spend my time
Reflecting.
It’s an easy choice.

Every morning is a ritual
A routine
For each new day.
It’s a necessary kicker
An essential
That’ll never go away.

All Things of the Season

Maple fire
Oak leaf blaze
And autumn’s falling down.
Children shuffle
Through the leaves
As the wind whirls all around.

Jacket weather
Frosty mornings
A steaming mug of coffee
All things
Of the season
Connect the earth to me.

I feel the world
Inside me
The glory of each day
As I settle in
To gather
All I must not throw away.

Close Enough to the Bottom Line

I wanted to go home
Sleep it off
But you saw something I didn't.
Got help.
An hour later
I was fighting for my life.

I admit
Sometimes I wish I’d lost.
But I’ve learned something in the struggle.
When it’s as bad as it can be…

When the wolf has me by the cuff
When the wind’s howling and my blood’s thin
When she says no and I’d die for yes
When my last dollar goes for my last gallon
When nothing’s looking back across the table
When tomorrow's what I need but now’s what I want
When the pain sears like fire and no help’s coming
When the skies are brass
And the water’s rising…

Life is worth the fight.

I’ve learned persistence
To stand when it’s so easy to fall
The urgency to resist
Dig in and wait for morning.

To remain.

Were I to fall
What of those behind me?
If I yield
What of those who cannot fight?
If I say yes
What of those who need me to say no?
If I go
What of those who depend upon me to stay?

I’m not ready to sum my life
But I’m close enough to the bottom line to say this…

Life is good even when it’s bad
Necessary when it seems it isn't
Sweet even when it tastes bitter
Tender when it feels tough
Desirable even when the luster's lost
And life is rarely
So rarely
Almost never
About me.

Dear Enemy*

This is my ground.
I know where the land slopes
Where it rises
Where the sink holes are
Every stand of timber
And rocky outcropping.

I know where the ambushes lay.

There are places on this land
Where sound is muted
And where echoes reverberate.

Like I said
This is my ground.

The surprising thing is you know this
Yet still choose to meet me on ground
I haunt.

You are a very foolish man.

If you survive you will learn about terrain.
You will learn…
Not to fight uphill
That your rear is as exposed as your front
That rapid death comes from the oblique of your flank
That warriors perish from failure to look up
That every step you make is a commitment
That in battle things roll up faster than down
That with your back to a wall you have but two options on a 3D field
That all ground is multi-dimensional
That weather changes terrain in unexpected ways
That failure to adjust to changes insure slaughter
That you should never prepare for what your enemy is able to do
But that for which your enemy is willing to do.

A fierce old cavalry commander once said
Victory goes to the one that
"Gets there the firstest with the mostest."

I'm coming for you.
Now.
With everything.

But don’t worry about anything.
By the time you see me it'll be over.
Keep pretending I'm not around.

You made a mistake
When you violated the woman
I have sworn to protect.

You have chosen hard ground.
How unfortunate.

Dear Enemy
Thank you for coming.

Have a nice day.

(* To the man who assaulted my wife)

Involuntary Fireman

Morning creeps
Along the edges
Of my blind
Around the edges
Of my consciousness.

I push at it
Resisting the inevitable
Not wanting to feel
Pain's carefully scripted
Ambush.

How insistent
Is morning
Refusing to wait
Intruding upon
My need for wellness.

The burn sears
My extremities
Scorching my limbs
Charing more deeply
As alarm bells sound in my brain.

Along the edges
Of the blind
Morning brightens the room
In a rose wash
The color of day.

I cover my face
Screw tight my eyelids
Hoping to retard the demand
That only an involuntary fireman
Could know.

Rockin' From Dusk to Dawn

Ya gotta love a little place
That spills music across the floor
Where windows are smudged with rhythm
And drums pound two to four.

I knew a dive like that
Down by the muddy river
That grabbed me ‘round the lungs
And gave my spleen a shake ‘n shiver.

You’ll love that hole in the wall!
You can breathe in a place like that
Where the tunes play all night long
Every player's a funky cat.

Laughter and music fill the air!
You’ll feel vibes from your hat to your shoe
Every wall pounds with pulse
And the floorboards are worn clear through.

I’m sure it’s still down by the river
Rockin’ from dusk to dawn
But I seem to have lost its address
Since I’ve moved to Saskatchewan.

To find it, turn an ear to the sky
And follow that down ‘n dirty beat.
You’ll soon find yourself at that shack
Where sweet music is the fiery heat!

How Silver Seemed the Rain

Rainwater trickles into the storm sewer
Marking its course
As a small silvery stream
Under the toe of my boot.

Slate skies are unbroken
A solid, dull overcast
Appearing as dirty lace
Through branches and twigs.

My soul sags.
The wet afternoon
And I become the wash
Of skies and gutters.

What was it she said?
That sharp inflection
That penetrated my ribs
To stir the heat at my center?

The moment she jabbed
The rain stopped
The world slowed
And the bleeding began.

Keys dangling from my fingers
I didn’t think about the walk to the car.
Suddenly I was pushing the key into the lock
Thinking how silver seemed the rain.

Nobody's Gonna Die

I’m just sitting by my window
Watching people pass
Wondering what it’ll take
To light a fire 'neath my ass.

I have homicide in my heart
And it would be so fine
To get him in my sights
Down the barrel of my nine.

I feel the need for violence
The gouging of his eyes
The rending of his flesh
Or reading him poetry 'til he dies!

I could be the Cheyenne warrior
Who thrilled at counting coup.
Or conjure the Dark Arts
A blend of Haitian Voo Doo.

My rage has been provoked
And I’m capable of harm.
I could rip apart his head
Tear off a leg, or arm.

But we both know the outcome.
I must behave myself.
I'll ice-down my rage
And put it all back on the shelf.

I don't need that kinda judgment
I don't want to go to hell
Nor am I looking to check in
To the old Gray Bar Hotel.

But I do declare there’s days
I feel I’m right out of the Old West
With a Remington on my hip
And a star pinned to my chest.

Ah, hell, who am I kidding?
I’m just an ordinary guy.
And there’s no reason for concern.
Nobody’s gonna die.

But for the fool to whom I'm referring:
Although you haven’t died
When you’re walking down my street
You best stay on the other side.

The Auctioneer’s Tongue

The auctioneer’s tongue truly smokes
Like the barrel of an MG ‘42
And words fly like tracers
To get your wallet away from you.

“I’ll take 500, who’ll gimme 6?”
His flames blaze right outta his throat
And, brother, you gave it all up
In that massive check you wrote.

“I’ve got 6, now who’ll make it 7?
I’ve got 800, let’s make it 9!”
He fairly scorches his hot dollar fire
And Lordy, but don’t he whine!

“Last and final call!” he’ll yell
And he’ll look at every face
Coaxing just one more bid
In his money-grubbing race.

"Going once, and it's going twice!
Now it’s going, going, GONE!"
And I hope you made your best deal
‘Cuz my friend, you’re taking it home!

Arkansas Sweet Tea!

There’s nuthin’ I like better
Than sittin’ in the shade of a tree
And doin’ that very thing
With a big ‘ol jug of Arkansas sweet tea!

There’s sumptin’ ‘bout that taste
Just gets to the heart of me
And nuthin’ is better in life
Than a jar of Arkansas sweet tea.

Oh, gimme a lazy afternoon
Loaded up with thee and me
Together with a big, sweaty jar
Of caramel-colored Arkansas sweet tea.

I really don’ ask for much
‘Cuz nuthin’ much gets next to me
Like you with an ice-cold jar
Of that wonderful Arkansas sweet tea!

Arkansas sweet tea! Arkansas sweet tea!
It’s the codified flavor that be
The essence of the south ‘n Gen’l. Lee!
That heavenly Arkansas sweet tea!

Peace Hope Safety

I have not seen you
Since the world changed
Since the Pale Rider
Galloped
And everything morphed
Into this Salvador Dali.

It’s been so long
And it’s all so different
I hardly remember the way it was
How it used to be.

It’s naive
To think we have not also changed
Along with our world.

When the seas change
Do the creatures of the waters
Not alter with their environment?

When the air pollutes
Does it not transform every flying thing?

Ten years ago
I died.
We all died
On that day.
Yet we live
In a reconstitution
Of our former selves.

Were I to see you again
Would I recognize you?
Or you me?

We cannot go back.
That is simply
Not
Possible.

But I remember you
Who you were
Before our dust was disturbed
By the galloping horse.
You were
Peace
Hope
And safety.

But that was then.
There will never again be a place of
Peace
Or Hope
Or Safety.
So neither you
Nor I
Can offer the other
What no longer exists.

But
I remember who you once were.

And that is the hardest thing of all.

The Run*

There’s no return
From whence I came
And if there were
It wouldn’t be the same.

If I could go back
And do it all again
I wouldn’t change a thing
Not who, what, or when.

I’d let everything happen
The pleasure and the pain
I’d let it all roll
Let it fall like rain.

All that has happened
Has made me who I am
Every tear and laugh
Times I walked, flew or swam.

I’m thankful for the journey
The straight-aways and the twists
The only regret I have
Are the experiences I’ve missed.

On the day I go meet Jesus
In His home up in the sky
I intend to go exhausted
When I come to die.

Every corpuscle and organ
Every finger and every toe
I want to go all used up
When my time has come to go.

I’m going to finish this 'ol rodeo
No matter if I lost, or if I've won
There won't be a whole lot left of me
From my time beneath the sun.
------------------------------------------------

*It should go without saying, but maybe it doesn't...by "Not changing a thing," I do not mean 9/11. I would do anything, give anything, pay any price to change that. This poem is strictly about the horses in my own corral.

Note to My Readers

Writing is such a lonely thing. It's like preparing a meal for a diner you'll never meet. I always wonder if there's too much, or too little seasoning. Is my meal too tepid to be appetizing? I simply put it out there and hope somebody has an appetite.

These poems are small slices of my life. They are, in no sense, a chronological disposition of my experiences. They describe all kinds of sorrows and pleasures, of every stripe and color...just like your life! We have all been loved, been hated, cheated, been cheated on, laughed, cried, lived and died. That's the human experience, and it transcends culture and language. All I'm trying to do is capture my experience and project it onto your screen. I'm just never certain it's in focus.

I selected the name Dashboard Poet not because of a computer "dashboard," but because much of my view of life comes across the dashboard of my truck (or sometimes over the dash of a patrol car. You see a lot of life in 20 years in that kind of transport!). My writing seems to ride a crest between free verse and rhyming poetry. I have little to say about that. It is what it is. I guess what comes "out of the tube" is what's "in the tube." Like toothpaste.

When I wrote for the papers, I knew my readership. I understood what they liked and disliked. When I'm asked to submit an article for a journal, I write to a target audience. I've noticed, according to the stats this blog supplies, I have readers from the UK, Germany, China, Russia, India, Slovenia, Canada, Denmark, Japan and the USA (and that humbles me). I do have one Polish reader...my wife! I don't know if readers just stumble in, and rush to leave as quickly as they can press the ejection switch, or enjoy what time they spend in The Dashboard Poet. I wish I knew what effect my work may have. Whatever the case, writing helps me express my spirit. Everybody needs an outlet; a release. This is mine. If you've read this far...Thank You! I truly hope you'll come back. There's always an empty rocker on my front porch, with your name on it. If you'll do me the favor of leaving a comment on what either pleases you, or displeases you, that'd be great. But if you don't, that's okay too. The rocker's still yours. I'm glad you're here.

~~ James

If Ever I Run*

There are moments
The pain may seize you
And fire the heart
As heat evaporates dew.

There are times
Of severe trial
The going all uphill
And every one an arduous mile.

Bow your neck
When the testing comes
Believe in yourself
Against the beating of the drums.

Find a faithful friend
Who has been this way before
Who knows what it’s like to suffer
And what the enemy has in store.

Commit to the fight
Prepare for the day
Of critical struggle
Come what may.

Meet your friend's gaze
Straight in the eye
And give this instruction
When time comes to die:

“Push me on when I falter
Give help, if I fall to my knee
If I stray, give me guidance
But if ever I run...Shoot Me!"

* The message contained in the last stanza is borrowed from the motto of the French Foreign Legion.

Oh, Mother

I can’t say I miss my mother
Because if I do
I think I’ll cry.
I can’t say I miss my mother
When I didn’t see her die.

That thing I saw in the box
Wasn’t her.
It was just a waxy little thing
And bore only the resemblance
A peasant may bear to a Queen.

I only hope she knew
I loved her
And what she meant to me.
I’m not sure I ever told her
It’s not in my memory.

She was such a gentle woman
With a bold
And indomitable heart.
Every time I think of her
Tears from my eyelids start.

Please rush and tell your mother
You love her
And how much she means to you.
Tell her before it’s too late
To do what you should do.

One day I’ll see my mother.
And she’ll hug me
To her breast
She’ll tussle my hair like she used to
And gather me to my rest.

Oh, mother, if you can hear me
I want you
To know I miss you every day.
And words just don’t do justice
To all I meant to say.

The Box

I took the gun out of the box
And turned gently it in my hands.
It felt smooth and warm to touch.
But I’d not had much use for it
Nor ever handled it that much.

I thumbed a single round
Into the magazine
Then slammed the cartridge home
Jacked the slide back to charge it
When my mind began to roam.

It took me to that night
In Blytheville
Many long years ago
When she said those wicked things
And she needed me to go.

Then I went back to that time
She said she wanted a divorce
And told me it was a mistake
To think
Love was something she could force.

I felt the checkered grips
Beneath my
Clammy, sweaty palm
My finger tensing on the trigger
But my mind focused and calm.

A parade of bitter memories
Filed by, one at a time
Each one worse than the last
And my pulse began to quicken
As each remembrance slithered past.

I felt the cold muzzle against my temple
Squeezed my eyes tightly shut
Took the slack up on the trigger
When a single word came from heaven
Something impossible to figure.

It was not a word heard by my ears
But one understood within my heart
That single word was “Don’t!”
I turned my face to God
And softly said, “I won’t.”

I did not really want to do this
I was just so incredibly sad.
I laid the gun down on the floor
And I cried a little while
Feeling heartbroken, weak and poor.

That was a long time ago
And it seems impossible today
I ever was that man
Who forgot how to walk
Much less how to stand.

But God uses time and love
To regenerate the heart.
He understands how to heal
And showed me that running is easy
Only after I’ve learned to kneel.

I still have the gun.
It’s in a case on my closet floor.
But it’s ironic, don’t you see?
It’s in a box forever now
When there was a time it might have been me.

The Sorrowful Man

He stood alone
In a wide, empty plain
Hat in his hand
Hair wet with rain.
His eyes
Were downcast
As though any joy
Were far in the past.

His lips trembled
A prayer
Winging on high
Through the damp air.
He pressed his hat
To his chest
Close to his heart
'Neath his worn vest.

The sorrowful man
Was lost in despair
And seemed to me
To be going no where.
Behind him, his horse
Stomped at the grass
As if to say
“This too shall pass.”

At his feet
I noticed a cross
Just a small thing
Marking his loss.
A tear fell
To the ground
On the turned soil
Without making a sound.

After much time
He spun on his heel
Preparing to go
The half turn of a wheel.
Then mounting his horse
He raked a spur down its side
Caught a fresh wind
And off he did ride.

But wet with the rain
Carved in the wood
He’d etched a name
And forever it stood.
“Amelia, my love”
Is all that it said
“Who parted this life
On the day we were wed.”

Mister

It’s a sorrowful thing
Ain’t it, mister?
To see how life just
Drifts away?

It’s a downright shame
Ain’t it, mister?
To have to go
When you want to stay?

And I was thinkin’
Just now, mister
‘Bout how love
Goes all to hell

When you do the best
You can, mister
Only to see it
All go down the well.

But, that’s how it goes,
Ain’t it, mister?
When you think
You’ve loved so hard and pure

Only to find out
Nothin’ matters, mister
‘Cuz love ain’t certain
Though you thought it was sure.

But I guess
That’s what I get, mister
For trustin’
A woman’s heart.

The crazy thing
About it is, mister
I thought we were
Off to a pretty good start.

I think I’ll just
Go now, mister
And get on
Down the road.

But it’s really
A damn shame, mister
‘Cuz a broken heart
Is a frightful load.

Softly Walk Away

I’ve got bruises
You don’t know about
And scars
You’ll never see.

I’ve got fears
I don’t talk about
From things that
Got past me.

I’ve got losses
I haven’t figured yet
Things that scare me
In the dark.

I’ve got memories
I can’t let go
That flames
Like gas burst by a spark.

I’ve got pains
That pills can’t touch
Sheer torment
In my soul.

And I’ve got pills
For every complaint
That push me
Deeper in my hole.

I’ve got demons
That shriek out loud
Driving me crazy
In my brain.

I’ve got enemies
You don’t know
That press me
Like a driving rain.

If you ever
Got to know me
I doubt
You’d stay for long.

Because if you
Really got to know me
It might cut the rhythm
From your song.

So thanks
For slowing down a bit
And sharing the time
Of day.

But for the sake
Of your own good soul
It’s best to softly
Walk away.

I'm Just a Memory, Baby

I tried so hard
To be your everything
Not just a shadow on your wall.
I meant to be more to you
But you never think of me at all.

I’m just a memory, baby
And you’re another night
Spent in the rain

Tonight I meant to shine for you
So, I thought I’d take a chance.
But I was just another grin
Another misstep in the dance
And your favorite little sin.

I’m just a memory, baby
And you’re another night
Spent in the rain.

Why is love so hard now, darlin’?
I really need to know.
I’m confused, and I’m in pain
But I’m just a memory, baby
And you’re another night spent in the rain.

I’m just a memory, baby
And you’re another night
Spent in the rain.

Taking a Breather

The nearer the crest
The thinner the air.

My lungs burn
Squeezing as much life
As possible
From what little’s available.

I need to slow down
And take a breather.

The closer the top
The looser the rock.

I’ve tumbled some
And dodged what loose shale I could
But I’ve taken a hit or two.
My body has the marks
As proof of struggles I’ve had.

The nearer the summit
The better the view.

Scanning the landscape
I see the rivers
Valley fog
And circling hawk.
I can see home from here.

Before I gain the peak
I think I’ll settle in
Drink some air
Tend my wounds
And enjoy the scenery.

It’s been a hard climb
But I’ve got time
Before dark falls.
I think I’ll hold on
Appreciate what it's taken
To get this far.

I'm taking a breather.

Are You Leaving?

Will I forget you
As my body stiffens
With age
As my fingers
Which once stroked your face
Bulge at their joints?

Will your memory dim
Along with my eyes
And the gleam of the sun recedes
As the glow of the moon fades
Will you leave
Along with light and shadow?

Will I lose you, too?
When my arteries harden
Will thoughts of you crust and break?
When I can no longer stand
Will your dear memory
Lay amid the clutter?

When taste becomes dust
Will I forget your sweetness
The ripe fruit of spring
Like jam on my tongue
Tart and dulcet
In my mouth?

Must I lose your voice
When my ears grow dull
When music ceases to please me
And the song of morning flies
And the droning cicadas die in the trees
Will the tintinnabulation of your voice leave?

Will you become a stranger
From whom I hide
In the shadows of alleys
And recessed doorways?
Will the knowledge of you
Chase me down dreams of foreboding streets?

Tell me, dear
Will I lose you, too?
Are you going
The way of autumn leaves
Along with the fire’s embers in my hearth?
I must know.

Are you leaving, too?

Nine Eleven -- Time Plus Distance*

This post colors outside the lines for which this site was created. It is neither poetry nor prose. It is an artcle I was asked to write by Dr. Olivia Johnson, editor of a law enforcement journal, based near St. Louis. As a 20 year veteran of law enforcement I have often been tapped to provide either commentary or personal presentation on topics near and dear to the hearts of officers and citizens. What follows is the content of my submission to the journal. The format prohibits proper indentation, and that's frustrating. I hope you'll overlook that. Its focus is the 10th anniversary of the attacks on our country on September 11, 2001. I pray our country be granted victory over the evils of terrorism. I pray we be consoled in our national grief. I further pray we return to that image of a nation long-ago cast for us by our founding fathers. My article speaks for itself, and beside it I firmly stand.
~ James Woods

Nine Eleven
Time Plus Distance

A melon sun rises beyond the apron at Dover Air Force Base. A hushed detail somberly lifts a flag draped casket from a C-17 Globemaster. Silent salutes honor the slain warrior. The body is on its stateside journey to a devastated family. The detail does an about face and returns into the cavern of the C-17 for another casket. And another. And another.
America slogs through its longest war. It’s so long, fifth grade students don’t remember a time we were not at war. Nearly 4,500 Americans have died as a result of our action in the Middle East. The ally who has suffered the second most battle deaths is the UK, who’ve lost under 200. Each loss has a common genesis.
September 11, 2001 is engraved on the American soul. We all remember where we were when the jets struck the Towers. We viewed endless replays of our buildings collapsing in smoke and dust. We’ve seen that slash in the Pennsylvania soil, caused by the heroic tumble of United Flight 93. Our Pentagon was in flames, our people dead. We knew, instantly, we were at war. Nobody had to tell us. There was no “day that will live in infamy” speech. Our families huddled and wept. We joined in religious services and prayed. We fixed flags to our cars. We sang “God Bless America,” a bit more loudly than before. We sent our sons and daughters to places so strange our American tongues had difficulty pronouncing the names. We smiled at “Shock and Awe,” and distantly felt the thunder of our bombs and rockets lighting the skies over Baghdad. We cheered when an American soldier hung our flag from the stony statue of Saddam Hussein. There was no pretending. This was payback. Revenge. And it felt sweet. It was sweet…until that C-17 landed with a box for you. Then it was bitter and terrible. But we still believe.
When the sun set on September 11, I was in uniform, standing before hundreds of citizens from my city. The mayor asked me to pray and say some encouraging words. It’s been ten years. I don’t remember what I said. When I finished, a sea of small candles winked to life, in the hands of those standing along both banks of the DuPage River. Somebody started to sing “God Bless America.” The tune was joined by a swell of many voices. When the song ended, there came a hush. A holy hush.
A little boy walked up to me. Tugging my pant leg, his little face looked into mine. I bowed to hear him. He said, “Thank you for protecting us.” I had nothing to say. I am paid to say things, but there was nothing to say. Eventually I choked out, “You’re welcome.” He smiled, and trotted back to his mom.
I drove home in silence that night. I kept hearing the little boy. “Thank you for protecting us.” And I understood what I still understand. There is little I can do to protect anyone. Not because I’m a chaplain, and don’t wear a weapon. But because there is always evil out there, determined to destroy what is good and pure. We can fight. We send our most precious to stand in the breech, to protect us. And they do. But the fingers of evil are rough and strong. Insistent. We may protect our way of life, but always at an enormous cost.
I fear for my country. Not because of what the enemy may do, but because of what we are doing to ourselves. When I look out my window, I no longer see a country at war. I see a country at ease. Cars no longer fly flags on the antennae. Nobody cheers our colors. At parades, when the honor guard passes, and our flag flutters in the breeze, crowds remain seated on the curb. Hands no longer move to cover hearts. A few old men stand to salute, and I firmly believe every one of them are vets, who’ve been to war. They know the price demanded to give those seated on their collective butts the freedom to do so.
Nine Eleven. Those words changed us forever. It’s outrageous what four syllables are capable of doing. I have been at nine memorial services, and soon it will be ten. We are accustomed to think in blocks of ten. The tenth, for whatever reason, seems to carry more weight than the ninth, or any previous number. There will be more dignitaries this year wanting podium time to make their remarks. More banners than last year. More flags. But less emotion. The further from a tragedy the less we feel the pain. The old saying is that “Time plus distance equals comedy.” We now make jokes like, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?” Time plus distance. Someday, in the far future, a late night host will take a crack at 9/11. We won’t be around to hear it, but it’ll happen. I remember a song from my early years that whined, “Please Mr. Custer, I don’t wanna go!” followed by the thwack of an arrow. Time plus distance.
Last week I attended a funeral. Among the mourners was a young soldier awaiting his second deployment. He looked sharp in his army blues. Later, he sat across from me at dinner. A few old Vietnam vets were in the restaurant, at a table behind ours. Before they left each of them approached the young soldier, saying “Good luck son, and thank you for your service.” I noticed that no one other than those vets did the same. But I’m not surprised. They were the few who understood we are still at war. For the rest, time is becoming distance. What will it be like at nine eleven’s twentieth anniversary? By the thirtieth or fortieth there will be few to no memorial services. A news commentator will note the date’s passing in his newscast. And for many, that ambivalence is already here.
But the C-17’s are still coming. And for as long as they come, and maybe longer, America is at war. I despise that footage showing bright yellow and orange flame blossoming from the top of the World Trade Center. It grieves me and aggravates some deep place in my soul. It angers me. I am a chaplain. I’m supposed to be a man of God, but that footage makes me want to grab a weapon and take my place at the wall. Of course, there is no real wall at which I may take my place. And there’s no gun big enough to rewind time and make it all go away. What’s left me is to do the best I can for my fellow citizens, and my country, every day. It’s the small steps that make the journey. It’s the single brick that makes the wall. It’s vigilance and determination that wins the war.
On September 11 I will put on my uniform and join my city as we commemorate the anniversary of the attacks. We will bow our heads and pray. We will sing patriotic songs, and salute the flag. In our city lives the family of a naval officer who lost his life in the Pentagon. They will be there to honor their husband, father and son. While there, I will scan the crowd for the young boy that thanked me for keeping him safe. But I won’t find him. He’s ten years older now. He may be in uniform protecting me. I just hope to God he isn’t on a C-17.

* Two days following the writing of this article a Chinook helicopter, with its crew, and servicemen including a compliment of Navy SEALS was shot down by Taliban insurgents in Afghanistan, as they came to the assistance of Army Rangers, who were taking fire. It is to their memory, and faithful service this article is dedicated. May God comfort their families, and their memory ever live among us in honored glory.

Her Target

My ex used to laugh
At my walk
Saying I wobbled
As much side-to-side
As straight.

She said I was so un-cool
I set a new standard.

She said it was impossible
To love me
Because I loved myself so much.

I remained motionless
Allowing her to use me
As target for her scorn.

She was a haunted woman
Pursued by wanton ghosts
Down labyrinthine ways.

I knew she would exhaust herself
Eventually.

And so she did.

The un-doing of those I once loved
Brings no pleasure
No portion of glory.

It is tragic
Watching the implosion
Of one who once held my heart.

And, she was right.
I do walk funny.
I am un-cool.
And I love myself.

If I don’t who will?

Ink Stain

Rubbing only smears it.
Dabbing is ineffective.
The more I try to eradicate it
The more obvious it becomes.

There is no soap so powerful
No bleach
No combination of chemicals
Effective in restoration
And I now sorrow
At the damage done.

It has bled into the fabric
And I fear my garment
Is ruined.

How could I have been so
Careless?
So without caution?

If only I could have a
“Do Over”
The way we did
When we were children.
Then I would take more care
Not have behaved so
Recklessly.

But now I must wear this badge
Of rash action.

Had I not let you
Touch me
I would be better
In appearance.

But I let you in
You marred me
Stained me
And I must evermore
Show evidence
Of a blemished heart

Your ink stain.

The Hush

Silence attends me
Walks at my side
A veil of wispy peace
A cove of solitude
In a riotous land.

Extinguish the racket of traffic
Cacophony of conversation
And blare of discordant clamor.

Cut free
The din
Of city sound.
Step into the tranquil.

Silence is not a condition
It is a habitation
A residence
An abode
Of the serene.

Disconnect.
Close your ears.
Let silence lift you.

Like the wind
That sifts grasslands
Like rains
That pepper the surf
Let silence prevail
Cover you in calm
And renew your soul.

Shelter yourself in quiet.

A Wild Garden

She is a wild garden
A blend of the carefully tended
And untamed
A fusion of nature.

In morning’s glow
She will share
Your tea
Discuss poetry and song
A demure creature
A fawn in the glade.

When darkness veils her
She will take your flesh
As a consuming fire
Combusting
And you cannot
Extinguish the blaze.

Her eyes gleam in innocence
And smolder in sensuality.
Her fingers caress in dewy calm
And rake in fiery insistence.
Her body glides in swan-like elegance
And undulates in passion.

She walks in grace
In easy communion with nature
But dances like a gypsy
Throwing shadows
And incantations
The way flint throws sparks.

She is a wild garden
A mixture of holy, gentle charm
And feral want.

She is a wild garden.

A Bitter Truth

Had she dreamed of kingdoms
I would have conquered
Realms.

Nothing would I have withheld.

Diamonds
Pressed from fiery coals
Riches
From the coffer of kings
Luster
From spangling stars.

For her I would rob
Roses
Of their scent
Night
Of its moon glow
Wine
Of its blush.

For her I would separate
The chill from winter
The lush from spring
The sweat from summer
The tint from autumn.

I gave her
The beat of my heart
Gleam of my eyes
Softness of my touch.

But she taught me a bitter truth.

Love is not about
What one might give
As much as it is about
What two might share.

And two cannot share
When one cannot give.

Resistance is Key

The dark liquid
Trickles a shallow thread
Down the back of my throat.
I am a man parched
Long without the cool draught
So now welcomed.

I am tempted to gulp the refreshment
In an effort to satisfy my thirst
To quench the need.

But resistance is key.

Better to
Enjoy the burn
Of slow satisfaction.

Were you here
My flesh would cry
For fulfillment.

How I would battle
Not to take you
In one long pull
Absorbing you into my very skin.

I fear I would drink you to the full
And there would be nothing of you
Remaining.

No, darling.
Resistance is key.

Better to sip your nectar
Take your sweetness
Slowly
Like a brook
Not a river
Like a shower
Not a storm.

But that is easy to say
In this drought.

Were you in my arms
I know what I would do.

I would greedily draw your love
Like a man dying
For the want of you.

But you are not here.

I guess
For you, too
Resistance is key.

On the Leeward Side

I recall how sweetly
You’d tuck your head
Against the hollow of my throat
Push like you wanted inside.
You would retreat into my heart
Lock the door
Against all outside
And there release your pressures.

You’d remain the longest
And return to the world
With reluctance.

My heart is yours still.

I would caress you
Hold you as firmly as
A sailor holds the wheel
Against the surging storm
Your long auburn hair
Spilling over my arms
Like decks awash
In a shimmering crest.

I drank the intoxication
Of your scent
Felt your heartbeat
Against my chest
The thrumming of your engine.

I closed my eyes
And begged God you’d stay.

But you did not.

So I wonder
Who holds you now
Comforts you
Assures you
There will always be a place
A home in the heart
A harbor against the storm.

Storms come.
They blow unexpectedly
And we gallantly battle the inevitable.

But there’s room for you
Protection too
A cove
On the leeward side
Of the storm.

The Long Cold Tumble

At five thousand feet
The pilot cut the engine
And pushed the little Cessna
Onto its starboard wing.

We fell into a sweeping spin.

Farms
Fields and freeways
Rushed steadily
Toward our fragile little cockpit.

As our propeller windmilled
My heart was pounding
With the panic
Of a rabbit at the maw of a wolf.

The pilot laughed.

At the last possible moment
The engine sputtered and caught.
We clutched air
Like a mountain climber
Grabbing shale.

I could not wait to land
Anticipating the joy
Of shoving my fist
Through the pilot’s teeth.

But I did not.

I thanked him for the thrill
And waited until
I was alone
Before throwing up.

I’ve learned to defer fear
Shoving the acidic panic
Into my gut
Buying time
Acting on the moment
Before me.

There'll be time later to shiver
Plenty of time to quiver.

Feel the long
Cold tumble from the sky.

Learn that death is easy.
Dying is hard.

Mama!*

Mama made me eat liver
And mama made me eat fish
And mama made me eat green beans
And eat everything on my dish.

Mama made me take baths
And mama made me clean my room.
Mama made me make my bed
And do my floor with a broom.

Mama made me say my prayers
Mama made me cut the grass
And mama made me wash my ears
Or mama would spank my…bottom.

Mama told me about bad girls
Mama said I should not kiss ‘em
And mama told me to stay away
But I just wouldn’t listen.

So here I sit still eatin’ liver
And here I sit eatin’ fish
And I'm still eatin’ green beans
And all the slop on my dish.

I didn’t do one thing ma told me
And I did everything she said don’t.
Now everything I wanna do I can’t
And things I should do I won’t.

Oh, can’t you come back, sweet mama?
I won’t gripe about liver or fish
And I promise to eat all my green beans
And clean everything on my dish!

I’ll stay away from those bad girls.
They just make a guy shell out and pay
Then when they get their claws in you
They’ll make you wish you’d run away.

I’ve been a very bad boy, ma
And I don’t know what to do.
But if’n you’ll help me sweet mama
I’ll do all you say to.

I’ll give up runnin’ and chasin’
Kissin’ bad girls, and such.
On the other hand, sweet mama...
I guess it ain’t cost me that much!

(* Sometimes poetry is just for fun. Lighten up!)

Corporal Burwell

You were
Some mother’s boy
Some lover’s man.

It’s lost
How tall you stood
Even the color of your eyes
Is no longer known.

All that is known
Is you died
September 20, 1863
Near a creek
Called Chickamauga
In far-away Tennessee
One among thousands
That gave up the ghost
That dreadful Sunday.

You perished
In a sheet of flame
And a buzz saw of musketry
As much a victim of incompetent leadership
As enemy action.
But that's just my opinion, Corporal.

You must have been well loved
To have been wrapped
In a sheet
And shipped to your home
Hundreds of miles north.

Most were buried where they fell.
But not you
Corporal Burwell.

How your poor mother wept
Your lost lover sobbed
And your town clicked their tongues
Saying
Isn’t it a shame about the Burwell boy?

Now you lay beneath
The slab your father set
Upon which your mother cried
Embraced by your broken lover
Before which I stand
Remembering a soldier
I never knew.

I come to see you
Once a year
To stand at your feet
Wondering about you.
If the truth can’t be known
It’s my duty
To make it up.
You deserve that much.
And I’ve done a fine job, I think.

You were young
Proud and noble.
But not too proud
Nor too noble.
You were enthusiastic and brave.
But not too enthusiastic
Nor too brave.
You did what you came to do.
But you did not want to die.
You wanted to kiss your mama
Marry your girlfriend
Have babies
And watch them grow
To honorable adulthood
Around you.
And you wanted grandbabies
on your knee.

You wanted to
Learn piano
Find a trade
Make love
Fish with a buddy
Tell tall tales
Watch the sunset
Worship at your church
See a bit of the world
You wanted this and more.

But you early stopped a bullet.

Now I stand before you
Corporal Burwell
Once again
And place another small flag
Before your stone.
You’d be surprised
At the number of stars
In its blue field.

My beard has gone white
Since I began
Visiting you.
As white as the harvest
Through which you marched
The morning you died.
As white as muzzle flame.
As white as the sheet
In which they bound your body.
As white as the shoulders
Of the lass you would never marry.
As white as your bloodless body
And white as your bones.

Thank you, Corporal Burwell
Although that seems a small thing to offer
Before such a sacrifice.
Sleep on, Corporal.
Rest.

If my own death
Prevents my return
I am confident another will remember.
That's the way it is
In the land for which you died.

Note to Self

I rode a horse named Fantasy
Into a vast
High desert
Snow to the west
Sage behind me
Littered with ancient campfires
And faces of the lost within.

Days stream together
Riding Fantasy.
You lose track of time.
What does it matter
That Sunday feels like
Wednesday?

Fantasy is a good horse
Broke to the saddle
And takes her head
Keeping south of the storms.

But Fantasy never looks back
Wondering if I’m well
Or there at all.
Nothing matters to Fantasy
Except she has food
At day’s end.
If you fail to feed Fantasy
She gets testy.

She will kick you to death
And leave your carcass to the
Ever-present vultures
Circling overhead
Waiting for carrion.

Note to self:
Never ride a horse that never looks back.

Little Difference

I danced with the devil
On a slender thread.
We balanced on air
As if it had substance.

The devil is a woman
With eyes like autumn
Hair of pale moon
And the kiss
Of nightshade.

The devil is scented
In lavender
Has the touch of
Sweet flame
Searing the soul
Burning the nerve root
Until you cannot
Feel yourself dying.

How tender her kiss!

Her charms
Embrace desert winds
Filling your heart
With sand
And you think you’re dancing.

But there’s little difference between
Dancing
And writhing.

Lots of Ways to Kill a Man

There are many ways
To kill a man
There are lots of ways
To die.

You can kill him
Lying or standing
Kneeling
Or sleeping.

There are as many ways
To kill a man
As there are men
To kill.

Line him in your site
They told me
To the center
Of your blade
Take two shots
They told me
And if he’s still moving
Take two more.

But there are lots of ways
To kill a man.

You learned your lesson well.

You caught me sleeping
When I was most vulnerable
When I trusted you
Believed you my friend.

You lulled me
With your fable
Of happily ever after
And I believed you.

That was the night
You put your lips
To my chest
And pulled the trigger.

False Light

The desert moon
Bathes the canyon
In the palest of light
Misty blue
Cast over
Sienna and silver.

Nothing can be seen
By looking directly at it.
You must not look
At a thing
In this false light
To note its place.

How like this desolation
Are you
Sweet lover!

You are lost to my gaze.

Though I seek you
You are past finding.

When I’m not
Looking for you
There you are.

The woman at the bus stop
Had your smile
A child with a rag doll
Your innocence.

I bought a cup of coffee
From a woman
Who had your hands
Your bright red nails.

I see you
When I’m not looking.
When I’m not looking
You are everywhere.

A woman at the café
Laughed like you.
I laughed too
Just to remember how it felt.

I turned the corner
Into the parking lot
And was surprised
By a cool, fresh breeze
Playing at my temples
Cupping my face
Kissing my joyless lips.

I swallowed hard.
The wind rushed my throat
Tumbling into my belly.
You were there.
You were the wind.

You’re there when I’m not looking.

The Dead Sing

I heard someone singing
In the night
A sweet
Disembodied voice
Ageless and gentle
Hardly a breath
Merely a whisper
But a sad
Forlorn song
Rolling from the hills
From deep valleys
Of Atlantic waves
Tossing again its white hair
Moaning like a grieving lover
At the stone of her despair
But a song
A melody as silver
As a fingernail moon
The ensign of the bewitched
Rattling the chords of a solitary wolf
The staccato of owl wings
The vesper of a priest
A song as gentle as shadow
Tucked under the darkness
Beneath the flicker of a candle.

It was a song
Without a singer
An apple without a peel
A speech with no words
Love without passion.

Then it resolved
And has never repeated
I know will never come again.

The dead sing
I know they do
But only once
And without conviction.

Sky Terrors*

Blood smells like copper
Death smells like wine
But there’s no smell like sorrow
Growing on vines.

It pierces my heart
Squeezes my breath
Stifles my cry
And shrouds me in death.

Gone are the children
That played on this street
Gone are the families
Gone, head, heart and feet.

Swept are their hopes
Banished their dreams
Cast off all the plans
Ripped bolts, nails and seams.

The homes are all gone
Churches gone too.
The wounded stumble about
Not knowing what to do.

Tuscaloosa and Joplin
They’re so far away.
What does it mean
At the end of the day?

The death of anyone
Diminishes me.
Our poor, ruined cities
Become a mortuary.

* This poem was originally published in May, 2011, as
Tuscaloosa and Joplin. I now update that work under this title,
following the horror that occurred in and around Moore, OK.
Having survived two relatively minor tornadoes, I cannot imagine
the fright and loss after an EF 4, or 5 tornado. My heart and
prayers go out to the people in our heartland. May a merciful,
loving God wrap them in His compassionate arms. This fallen
world subjects us all to such disasters.

A Few Loose Ends

Wait for me there
At the great Pearly Gate
Wait for me there
I will not be late.

Just a few loose ends
I need to tie
Just a few more tasks
Before I lay down to die.

The night will soon pass
And the sweet morning light
Will show me the way
And I’ll give up this fight.

Won’t you wait for me there?
Time passes slow
Though I’ve made up my mind
And I’m ready to go.

Swept and Gone

How many days
How many nights
Have passed, lover
Since last I held you?

In time
We both stop counting.
Passing days
Fade
Into a dull ache
A spinning
In the back of our skulls.

We know what it is
But we never say.
It must never come
From our lips.
We swallow it back
Bitter in our throats
But we know what it is.

Beyond the horizon
Your feet pad soft in the grass.
You water your azaleas
And watch a monarch butterfly
Dance on the morning air.

You are not far away
Though you live
In the dark of the moon
Between the rings of Saturn.

It saddens me
I will never see you again.
My shadow weeps in the knowledge
It will nevermore twine with yours.

I can't know what you think
Of me
Though memories of you
Swirl like puffs of milkweed
Along the rails of the Burlington.

They are swept and gone
In the rattle and hum
Of the passing beast
And setting sun.

Swept and gone.

You Show Me Yours

When I was a kid
I wanted
A scar.

It would be
A purple slice
Extending from eye
To chin.

I would say
It was a saber slash
From a battle
Brilliantly fought
Nobley won.

Back in the day
Scars were cool.
They were autobiography.

But like the Apostle
When I became a man
I put away childish things.

These days
I make great effort
To hide my scars.
They hurt.
They are butcher marks
Unglamorous
From stories in which
I am the loser.

I don’t want you to see them.
They betray my secrets
Expose my weakness.

Most are invisible
Nevertheless real.
They crisscross my heart
The way the foreman’s whip
Rends the flesh of the field slave.

You’ll never see my scars.
I’ll never show you.

Unless you have scars too.

Tell you what…
You show me yours
I’ll show you mine.

Ironic, Isn’t It?

For the first time
In my life
I don’t know the man
Pacing me
In the glass storefronts
Along the avenue.

I’ve let my hair grow long
And my beard came in white.
I wear clothes I like
And not the uniform of society.
I’ve swapped my ball cap
For a battered Charlie 1 Horse.

The old Chevy truck I pilot
Suits me fine.
I don’t need an onboard computer
To tell me where I am
When what I really want
Is to get lost.

In contrast to convention
And the dogma of the day
A Swisher Sweet is sometime
Exactly what I require.

This is far from
Midlife crisis
Because I’m way on
The far horizon
From midlife.

What this is
Is
A purging
A slicing and dicing
An adventure in loss
A reduction in force
A right-sizing.

The freedom I want
Is the liberty I long ago enjoyed.

Ironic
Isn’t it
That as a man ages
He eventually returns
To the same point
From which he began?

But this time
I'll take fries with that.

I Am Not a Brave Man

Death stood on the staircase
With arms crossed
Daring me to pass.

I am not a brave man.
I felt the chill settle in my spine.
I am not a brave man.

I took a step toward him.
His frame tensed
Ready for me.

I am not a brave man.

I mulled the consequences
And took a second step.

I am not a brave man.

Death leaned in
Towering over me
At the top of the staircase.

I am not a brave man.

But he is a tenant in this building
Not the owner.
So I passed him by.

I am not a brave man.

But I am the son of the Owner.

Kindness *

Pain inflicted days grow in frequency
And the intensity of the burn increases
Driving me to my knees.

But we are all in pain.
The degree of pain is relative
To the sufferer.

Pain has been a cruel companion
But a wonderful schoolmaster.
I have learned kindness from pain.

Kindness
Impacts both the giver and getter.
It’s worth more than the medications I take
If I will simply listen to another’s pain story.

Kindness
Extends the hand of God to the sufferer
Soothes the burn
Eases the ache.

Kindness
Encourages those yearning for relief
To endure one more hour
One more day.

Kindness
Is not trumping the pain of another
Just to demonstrate I am in greater pain
Or have suffered longer.

Kindness
May mean saying nothing of my own pain
But allowing another to bleed
Into the bandage of my concern.

Kindness
Is love with shoes on
Willing to go where the pain is great
Though I carry my own burden.

Kindness
Is later returned to me
In unexpected ways
And in great degree
From hands pained with the print
Of nail scars.

*(This message is greater than the vehicle that bears it. We are all in pain. If not the flesh, it's the spirit that cries for relief. I am encouraged that, in the Revelation of St. John, he writes there is no longer any pain in the new heaven, the new earth, or the new Jerusalem. I'm very ready to go. I hope you are as well.)

Swallowed*

I look into the mirror
To gaze at my own face
And behold within a sadness
That seems devoid of grace.

Here in that aging visage
There appears to me
An aching haunt most awful
In mine own eyes to see.

I wonder whether others
Who look into my eyes
See in them what I do
And are taken by surprise.

If you ask me I may tell you
The reason for the pain
But it’s better to be quiet
As the hush that follows rain.

Let come what ‘ere may come
And let be what ‘ere may be
Let blindness overtake me
By these eyes too dull to see.

Years will come as swelling tide
And I will lay me down in sorrow
But look no longer in my face
When I am swallowed by the morrow.

*(Some poems insist on being penned in Victorian English)

Sheer Stupidity*

He might have had a knife.
He might have had a gun.
He could have opened my belly
To the flashing morning sun.

But I stood my ground
And stared him in the eye
And never let it move me
That I was about to die.

The rage I kept in check
Surged within my heart
And I knew the fight was on
And this was the place to start.

I had him by ten pounds
But he clearly had the trigger
And the way that this could go
Was not too difficult to figure.

In for a dime, in for a dollar
So I decided to up the ante
And I told him I'd rip his guts out
And stuff them down his panty.

That clearly jacked him up.
He turned red and began to sputter.
I realized this may work out
If I could reduce this guy to butter.

He said I better watch my back
‘Cuz he was one dangerous dude.
So I told him that was impolite
And he was downright rude.

I offered my home address
Encouraged him to write it down
And said something about his mother
Then called him a goofy clown.

That’s when the amazing happened.
He turned and walked away.
I played poker and won
And lived to fight another day.

But in terms of sheer stupidity
This was the dumbest thing I’d done.
Just because you walk away
Doesn’t mean you’ve really won.

*(Yeah. True story. My stupidity is boundless)

The Rain and the Pain

A slow rain fell.

The cool liquid’s
Dampening brace
Worked into me
As do memories of you.

Those memories
Hurt.

A friend asked
That weary question:
Isn’t it better to have loved and lost
Than never to have
Loved at all?

I lied.
I told him it was.

But damn, Girl
The pain is still so raw
It stuns me.

Even the simplest memory
Sends tears
Down my cheeks.

I drifted into the rain
The way a discarded sales bill
Somersaults the curb.

Lifting my face
I let the tears roll.
Nobody watching cared.
I was just an old fool
Without sense to come out of the rain.

But time, place and person are irrelevant.
Pain leaks into the heart’s crevices
Seeking an exposed nerve
Like rain works between brick and mortar
Breaking the two apart.

It’s unavoidable.
Let the rain and the pain come.
Let the memories roll.
They are my only connection to you.

Keeping the Wolf at Bay

His embarrassment was painful
To see.
Were I able I would have
Smoothed the lines
From his face
Would have given him some hope.

But his trouble exceeded
My magic.

It did not require a seer
To read his thoughts.

“How am I going to tell my wife
My kids
I can’t keep the wolf at bay?”

Sometimes the only thing to do
Is do nothing at all.
I gave him time
To embrace his despair.

Sometimes a man needs
Someone to stand with him
And watch his world crumble.

Soon I will sit on his side of the desk.
When that time comes
I hope the one sitting where I now sit
Has the compassion and the sense
To stay quiet
While my life implodes.

He rose to his feet
Shook my hand
And thanked me.

He thanked me.

I avoided his eyes
Because in them I knew
I would see myself
Looking back, saying
“You’re welcome.”

It Doesn’t Matter

Times slows
Seems to stop.
There is no traffic
No chatter from pedestrians.
Even birds hush
As I focus on that which
Fastens my attention.

The cool breeze
Is just enough
To lift your hair
Like ribbons
Golden brown
Waving in the flashing
Afternoon sun.

You’ve turned your head
Toward whatever caught your eye
Then see me
Watching you.

And you smile.

“What?” you ask.
But how can I explain
My thoughts?
Why is it I think better
In verse
Than my tongue can express?
But it doesn’t matter.
You already know.
You read it in my eyes
See it in my face
Feel my heart
Know my mind.

I smile
And you smile back.

“I love you,” I say.
You lay your head on my shoulder.

And the world moves again.

Everything

I listened carefully to every
Nearly imperceptible
Treasure.

The slow
Steady increase
In your breathing.

The soft click
Of your tongue
At the back of your throat.

The sandy slide
Of your hand
Moving up my arm.

The airy sigh
Of your hair
Spreading over your pillow.

The silky glide
Of your lips
Tender on mine.

The fleshy union
Of our bodies
Joining together.

Everything resonated
Made perfect sense
Filtering into my heart.

I heard it all
And I hear it still.
All of it.

Everything.

Something Spiritual

There is something spiritual
About the rain.

Clouds close above
Like the Temple veil
Separating the congregation
From the Holy One.

Ozone refreshes the air
As incense
Fragrances the sanctuary.

Lightening flashes
Sizzles and bursts
Like pure Presence
Flowing from the Throne.

Thunder rolls
Echoing from hill to hill
Across the plaines
Even to the valleys
Like the voice
Of One whose
Name
Is hushed from lips of clay.

Liquid sky
Flows in small rivers
Down my face.
I open my arms
Receiving the gift
As renewal of my soul.

In the streams I stand
As one baptized
In the River of Life.

Rainfall is in part
What is coming
As the whole.

There is something spiritual
About the rain.

Behind Me*

The jangle of
The Blues
The rhythm
Of the beat
The blend of rum
And Coke
Makes the sadness sweet.

The dim and smoky air
The smell
Of booze
And sweat
Makes a man
Feel his loss
And dwell on what he can’t forget.

What happened
To the sun?
When did it start
To rain?
Where did
Yesterday go?
And why am I in this pain?

It’s better to
Walk away.
Some questions are
Best not asked.
Tomorrow’s beyond
That door
And behind me is the past.

(*This poem comes from the experience of the most difficult time in my life, eleven years ago. I am no longer this man, but I am the construct of the pain and redemption of my path. We all are.)

A Stone Wall

There is a void in the air
An empty pocket
In which nothing stirs
Neither dust nor debris.

Shadows enter
But do not exit
Sound is muted
Everything stills to nothing.

The emptiness
Has your form
And hovers about me
Everywhere I go.

I utter words
But they bounce back
As though opposed
By a stone wall.

How cold, this emptiness!
My breath rises in vapor
My flesh chills and blues
In its presence.

Nobody sees it but me.
It is palpable
Presses me
Is always there.

It is an unblinking stare
Like snow blindness
A piercing gaze
Seeing beyond my soul.

It took your place the instant
You left
And will remain
Until you return.

Event Horizon

I remember
Your eyes
Searching mine
The passing of an
Unseen marker
That signified the changing
Of everything.

My chest
Is still warm
Flushed
Where your open palm
Tattooed my heart.

I remember
The softness
Of your lips
The desire
In your kiss.

I remember
Insistent hands
Welcome me
Your body
Responding to mine.

We pledged our love
Planting our lives
Each in the soil
Of the other.

I remember
Your breath moist
Against my throat
Your sigh soft
In my ears.

Your relentless desire
Stays with me still
Your laughing joy
Searching gaze.

I know you
The way men know
The geography of frontiers
Astronomers the vastness
Of star systems
I know you
The way hawks know
Grasslands
The way sailors know
Seas
Priests know
The Host.

I know you.

Do not mistake me.

You are not
A treasured experience
Thrilling memory
Or turning point
In my life.

No, my love.

You are the
Event Horizon.
The only one
In my life.

Clutter

It’s hard to find me
In the clutter.

Look carefully
At what I do
And yearn to do.

But that is not me.

Search for me
In my poetry and prose
But all you’ll map is
The imprint of my soul.

I am not my
Logic
Or IQ.

Not in my laughter
Smile
Or tears.

Not in my speech
Heartbeat
Or fears.

I am undiscovered in
Physical or
Emotional
Wounds.

I am not merely flesh
Nor spirit.

I am not whole in my thoughts
Nor complete in my expressions.

You cannot fully know me
By those who love
Or fear me.

All this is
Clutter.

I know this
To be true…

Because I’ve been
In the hunt
All my life.

Will You Sing For Me?

Will you sing for me?

Let the wind
Sift your hair
The fair sun
Warm your shoulders
Around which
I draped my arms
On days innocent
And new.

Will you sing?

Waters warm and fresh
Bathed us
In earthen pools
Cleansed us
Held us
As the womb holds life
Birthing
Hope for what might be.

But will you sing?

Fire lit our loving
Warmed us
Twined into the other
Its crackle masking
Our joy
In yellow-amber shadows
Dancing
Decorating the walls around.

Won’t you sing?

My breath is yet in my throat
Heart in mid-beat
Fingers half-closed
Eyes half-opened
Waiting
Waiting…

For your song.

Waiting Patiently

There’s a plot of land
Somewhere
Just three feet wide
Seven long
Six deep
Waiting to embrace me.

Populated by weeds
And earthworms
The loam is damp
And cold
Black as eternal night
Firm as the hope of heaven.

Let it be on a hill
Looking over a river
Within the call
Of a coal train
Beneath the patrol
Of a brown hawk.

Let it be near
Leaning stones
Marking the bones
Of those
Who went before
Able to point the way.

Let the wind sigh above me
That I might mistake it
For grieving moans
For the wail
Of a lover’s lonesome
Call.

It’s been waiting for me
Patiently.
Knows I am coming
Slowly, reluctantly
But surely
Moving into its grasp.

Jackson

I remember Jackson.

The bitter
Long goodbye
That look
In your eye
When you
Promised what was
Beyond your power
To give.

How could you love me
Yet betray me
As easily
As a butcher
Dispatches a calf?

I hardly expected a
Judas kiss
To taste of salt and lime.

I remember Jackson.

The heat on my shoulders
Grit under my boots
Sweat streaming my eyes
The dull ache
Beneath my sternum
The way you turned your face from me
When I drove the question into you
The way a man drives a fence post
Into clay
Into your eyes
“Did you?”

It took time to hate you.

But it began
There
The ignition sparked the fury
There.

Oh, yes…
I remember Jackson.

Looped

I can’t let go.
I’m looped into
The current of
Electricity
Jangled
Burned
Helpless.

Were it
A matter of choice
I would have
Let you go
When you slipped
Your hand from mine
When you
Turned away.

But it’s not that
Easy.

If it were
I’d have let go
By now.

I can’t.

I am
Looped in.

How Swift the Arrow

You have no idea
How swift the arrow flies.
You think there’s time
To do what you’ve
Always intended.

The lie is
There’s time.

Wait to caress her
Take in
Her scent
Count the freckles
Across her breasts
Feel the ivory
Of her skin
The delicate shell
Of her ear
The way the pupil
Of her eye
Contracts with light
Feel
The blades of her shoulders
Working under her flesh
The sinew of her
Body and soul.

...Wait...

There’s yet time
To lie in the dark
Listening to her
Breathe.

...Wait...

Plenty of time
To learn her
Rhythm
Her shudder and gasp.

Just do what you feel.
There’s yet time
For tender.

Plenty of time.

But what you don’t understand
Is how swift the arrow flies.

Debris

Strange how shifting light
Alters the world
And it’s never the same.
Every moment
Presents a new observation
On an old theme.

Subtle refractions
Of light
And shadow
Change everything.

If you’re not looking
You’ll miss it.

You handed me coffee
This morning
Smiling
But the slightest curl
On your lip
Was a new take
On an old message.

I saw it.

How many things
Of great importance
Have I missed
Because I wasn’t looking?

Light falls across me
Constantly
Changing everything
From my environment
To matters of the heart.

I miss
What I swore I never would.

When all’s
Said and done
The whole parade will have
Passed
While I was looking at
Debris
In the gutter.

Hard Hours

Hard hours find me
Bent like an apostrophe
Doubled in pain
Wanting nothing more
Than whatever it takes
To take me away
Rip me from
Consciousness
Anything
To sever my neural receptors
From the transmission
Of agony.

It is not possible
To describe pain
Except to say
It is the enemy
Of kindness
And grace
The antithesis
Of mercy.

It is far easier
To say what it is not
Than what it is.

But in those moments
When pain is all I feel
All I know
Or understand
The most frightening reality
Is not the pain.

It’s what I’m willing to do
To be out of it.

Single-Space

I’m a single-space
Kinda guy.

I want you
Right up next to me
Close and intimate
Tied together
Like space between the lines
Of this stanza.

Not over there
Or there
Or anywhere else.

Right here.

When I’m in bed
It’s your heat I need.
You warm me.
It’s your scent
I desire
Your taste
I crave.

I want your name
On my tongue
Your body
Beneath my fingertips.

I want your hair
Splayed across my pillow.

I want to hear you
Hum in the dark
And sing in the shower.
I’ll soap your back
Wash your hair
Then towel you dry.

I’m a single-space
Kinda guy.

Double-space people
Annoy me.
The kind that
Are self-contained
Who want a lover
On their terms
When they’re ready
When it’s convenient
To them
When their desire is triggered.

Sweetheart
I’m a single-space
Kinda guy.

I want you near
When the time’s not right
When things
Turn inside-out
And everything’s coming apart
When I feel terrible
Or you feel rotten
When the kids are puking
When the bank’s busted
And the socks need sorting
When the sky’s falling
On Chicken Little’s head
And Humpty Dumpty’s
Shattered on the ground.

I want you
When the time’s not right
Just as much
As when it is.
I’ll pitch in
Work hard
To make it right again.

Am I being clear, dear?

I’m a single-space
Kinda guy.

Point of No Return

What was I thinking
When I thought better
Of you?

Was I confused
By passions exchanged
In seasons
Of the heart?

Funny
How you soared away
At stellar speed.

When did you pass
The point of no return?
Was it gradual
Or like markers on a highway
Did you cross the line
At a specific point?

You changed.

I am who
You knew me to be.
My heart
Is the same.
My mind
Is the same.

But what was I thinking
When I thought better
Of you?