Messengers

They fell on my face
Fastened upon my lashes
A chilled embrace
The softest of kisses
A welcomed grace.

All around
The earth slept
As the white blanket
Settled upon
Yards and sidewalks
Streets and avenues.

They made no sound.
They were messengers
Of silence.
Emissaries of peace.

I paused
Beneath a street lamp.
Its cone of amber light
Seemed to ignite
Each crystal
In its downward journey.

I grew dizzy in the presence
Of the tiny invasion
Of flakes
Parachuting to earth.

Perhaps angels sometime come
In forms unthought
And unexpected
In visitations of serenity
Such as this.

Merry Christmas, Ya'll!

I wish ya'll a very Merry Christmas, and a warm and wonderful New Years! I'll be doing some relaxing through the end of December, and will return refreshed in the New Year, ready to roll. I truly hope ya'll can do the same.

~~ James

ps....a Tender, Merry Christmas, Monarch! (wherever you are)

Splendor

A cup of strong coffee
Fire crackling at my feet
Night falling around me
And a stump for my seat.

The woodlands in slumber
And a hoot owl near
The leaves softly stirring
With the North Star so clear.

A man is no man
Surrounded by walls
Framed in by paintings
Of nature lining his halls.

But let him breathe stars
Spangling the night
Let him make fire
To give him his light

And somewhere within
Deep in his breast
A warmth will begin
And spread through the rest.

I’ve no need for company
There’s communion for me
With this splendored creation
Around me I see.

The Bitter Root

I have quaked before danger
And survived.
Each trembling moment
Fashioned in my breast
A fierceness
A resolve
That is untaught.

Comes a time
When danger darkens
My sill
I greet it
As an old friend.

I know the bitter root
The sulfur
The tang
And heartbreak
Of fear.
I steep it as tea
Strong
Black and unsweetened
By lofty grit.
I drink its dregs
Without shying.

Comes a time
A man laces his boots
And walks to face his enemy
In open ground.

Comes a time
Going out
Doesn’t mean
Coming back.

But it’s the going out
That makes the man.

No Light Thing*

He was a trapper
Taking his pelts to market
In Natchez
When he was waylaid
By bandits
And lay dying
In pools of his crimson
Blood.

His widow eventually
Remarried.
It was from this second
Union
I came.

A man had to die
For me to live.

A frightened soldier
On a frigid Belgium
Night
Shot a young
German soldier
Carrying a
Schmieser.
Had the frightened soldier
Not killed the German
My father told me
He would have been the one
Dying in the snow.

A man had to die
For me to live.

A Savior
Was nailed to a plank
Of rough hewn wood.
He was rudely mocked
And abused
By soldiers
Steeped in the ways
Of grisly death
And scorned by the temple
Elite
Before releasing his spirit
Home to his Father.

A man had to die
For me to live.

My life is the unlikely
Recipient
Of the gift of blood.
What am I to do
With so precious an offering?

The weight of being is ponderous
And the drawing of breath
No light thing.

* To appreciate Christmas you must understand Easter

Days Marked on Paper

The page soon will turn
The numbers will roll
A new year will come
And the former will go.

Just days marked on paper
Seven in each row
None telling the others
The mysteries they know.

It has been so forever
And forever will be
It truly won’t matter
What together they see.

Just days marked on paper
Twelve pages in all.
You may rise tall or sit
You may lay softly or fall.

It is a mistake to think glory
Is fastened to you.
Days come and days go
No matter what you may do.

The Mighty Lightness of Being

I have not seen
The Milky Way
Since I was a boy
Growing up on Illinois’
Grassy prairies.
It stretched like a tent
Horizon to horizon
Across the night sky
Like God
Was having a party
And I was invited.

How I celebrated
Beneath the spangle
And struggled to imagine
The vast enormity of it all.

Life danced for me then
Charmed me
With all its perplexities.

But the universe shank
And the stars dimmed
Lost amid the dust
The mangle and pain.

I loved the banners of light
Joyously suspended
In the cosmos.
I loved the marvel of creation.

Now I shudder
Beneath the stars
Far fewer in number.
I turn from majesty
And retire from joy.

The world is a yawning chasm.
Every step
Is toward its edge.

But I will again
Lift my head
To the star fields
And my voice will rise
As a choir of one
When finally unburdened
Of the mighty
Lightness of being.

Personal Request

Dear Readers,
Over the last week I have been having trouble with severe pain brought on by a traumatic brain injury (TBI) years ago. From time to time it flares and flames. I am, when so effected, restricted from the necessities (like work) and the pleasures (like eating regularly) of life. Most disheartening is the complete lack of ability to think and write creatively. Hopefully, I will soon be out of the grip of this most recent difficulty. In the meantime, if you pray, please pray for me. Pain is a formidable enemy. I do not want to submit to the heavy-duty narcotics prescribed for me, which pushes me into a mental and emotional fog. I would rather be coherent and suffering than under the influence and out of action.
Keep a good thought.
Thanks ~ james

The Drum

The evening air
Is painted blue
A soulful color
Of cheerless hue.

On wet grasses
In gentle rain
It soaks me through
In darkening stain.

Let it fall on me
Oh, let it fall
I am determined
To take it all.

When darkness comes
And all is still
I will surrender
To the world’s cruel will.

But until that hour
Let the rains come
And beat on me
Like a sodden drum.

A Bit Sad Today

Dear Readers,
I'm a grown man (a groan man, too)....but I'm an unashamed "Daddy's Boy." My pa was a WWII vet, in the ETO (some will understand), a survivor of the Bulge; a gunner in a half track nicknamed "Climax", assigned to the 2nd Armored, "Hell on Wheels" Division.
After the war, he often worked from dawn to far beyond dark to feed and clothe his small family. I always wanted to be like my dad. I am not. Not even a little. But my dad is my hero. I have one of his dog tags dangling from the mirror of my big, red Ram. My little brother has the other.
This is my dad's 94th birthday, though I lost him in his 80th. His absence pains me even now. I dream of him regularly, though he never talks...just like real life.
So, as the rain weeps beyond my window, I weep beyond his touch. I guess I just needed to release this to the universe today.

Thanks for reading....james

What I Pen

Words are living
And never sleep
They work my heart
And make me weep.

Oh, precious Lord
Look to my soul
Help me write
To let it go.

Be still, my heart
Take a deep breath
That words may live
Long after death.

I cannot know
Nor do I see
How what I pen
Follows me.

Mercy Flows

Burning
Sharp pain
Stabs my body
In morning’s pale light
And I whimper
Into my pillow
Unwilling to set my feet
To the floor.

But I do.

Pressure
Against my sternum
Sucks the breath
From my lungs
And
For a moment
The world tears loose
Spinning and somersaulting.

Pouring a cocktail
Of little pills
Into a palm
I choke them down
Without water
Unwilling
To take time
To travel to the faucet.

I am intimate with pain.
I know I am not alone.
But it is for myself I groan.

I have stopped begging God
For commutation
From this life sentence.
Instead
I acknowledge
The wretched thief, liar
And hypocrite
I am
Struggling toward Golgotha
Knowing mercy flows there.

I Remember

I am dizzy with memory
Of old Arkansas
Its tumble-down dwellings
Where share croppers
Scratched an existence
Beside wives with bursting bellies
And necks scalded
By unrelenting suns.

The St. Francis
Bursts it banks every year
‘Bout this time
Carving its record of loss
In ledgers of vanished cotton
And lives hauled and thrown
Upon the mercy of land owners
And loan officers
Who drank from silver flasks
And grinned at what they would prize
From those who had nothing to pay.

I remember.

Tributaries of water snaked white fields
Bridged by coarse planking
With no rails.
Rattley old sedans
With bald tires
Raised red dust
To stain the blue sky
The way grey cavalry did
A generation ago.

I remember.

Wide front porches
Gave air
To old women
Whose hands split
Snap beans
For supper
With corn bread
And slabs of pork
Gathered from the smoke house.

Yes, I remember.

The preacher is coming to table
Next Sabbath.
The wash is waving in the
Hot wind
The way red battle flags
Slapped the air
With their blue cross
Inset by white stars
And didn’t every home
Set an empty plate
Even now?

I remember.

Concrete walks
Cracked and raised
By the roots of trees
More’n a century old
Line dirt streets.
Four blocks down
The business district lacks
Traffic
In its pull-in parking places
Where the barber
Leans against his stripped pole
His east wall
Featuring a ghost sign
Urging readers
To try Dr. Pepper
At 10, 2 and 4.

Yes, I remember.

I remember the grave yard
With sun-bleached stones dim and tilting
And dad’s stern lecture
To not bury him in a grave
Down where the water pooled
In spring rains.

I remember corner street lights
Charming thousands
Of buzzing and clacking insects
In glaring brilliance.
I remember mosquitoes and june bugs
Splayed across split windscreens
Headlamps and pitted chrome grills
Of dusty cars.
I remember screeching springs
Of front screen doors
And warped floor boards
Of wide porches
Where men whittled
Smoked and lied
While the women did the dishes
Quietly groaning about their men.

I remember I am torn
From this canvas
And part of the joy and pain
Of families riveted
By the blood of generations
Of pride born
From suffering
And weary labor
Of amazing grace
Linked by the desire
To be free
And to drop one’s head
Each night
On clean pillow cases
And suck in the balmy night air
Of old Arkansas.

Yes.
I remember.

The Rider

Something happens to a man
In the shadows.
The hoof beats of generations
Announce themselves
And the leaded quirt
Of taskmasters
Beat the heart and passion
From the breast.

Even darkness cannot cover
The tears of centuries.
Moral breeding
Calls a man to arise
And see beyond the neon truths
The ad mans’ lies
And smiling bait.

Halting in the shadowed road
Is the rider
Demanding answer.

For whom do ye ride?
Upon what business are ye?
He calls for reply.
Time for reflection is done.
Answer must be timely and true.

I ride for honesty
And my business is posterity.

The rider emerges
From the shadows
Eyes burning
His boots anchored
In brass stirrups
The mane of his horse
Flashing lightening
Whose nostrils snort thunder.

Ye best be, boy
Says he.
Ye best be.

I tremble in my shoes.
Even night shade cannot hide
The issues of the heart.

The Air Tonight

Tonight the air is fragile
As though I might shatter
All the tiny floating ice crystals
With a whispered word
The fragments falling as shards
At my feet
Small bits of vocabulary.

There is a bright sheen
In the air tonight.
It feels clean and brilliant
Like there were never curses uttered
To soil this atmosphere
And I wonder
Was the air of Eden
This sweet?

Tonight my breath
Joins the exhalation of the earth
And I feel bonded
To that which continues
Extends beyond the moment
Past this beat of my heart.

There is peace in the air tonight
As though every human hope
And expectation
Has already been met
And there is nothing remaining
But joy
Nothing left but hope.

I want to drink this air
As the breath of life
Sip this air
Like the sweetest wine
And let it work its glow in me.

Affliction

The stars tonight
Are impossibly distant
Like pin pricks of alarm.

Even the moon appears
Bleached and sterile.
The universe is lifeless tonight.

But this is affliction.

Jags of apprehension
Weigh upon me.
Through these lenses
Life is not warm
Attractive and seductive.

I have learned measures
Of survival.
I tuck my head
Not looking to the stars
That on other occasions
Charm me
With kind pleasure.

Tonight I bridle my horizons
And bundle
In the familiar.

I quiet myself
Restrain discourse and company.
I content myself
With rudimentary pleasures.
Tender breath
Delights
On nights of burden.

The stars must keep their counsel
And I will keep mine.

There will be better nights
Once I loose my horizons
To gather the light
I now lock tight.

Chalky

The moon rose
Last night
A pale orange
Above fields
Corduroyed
By harvest
The barren
Earth
Then turned under
By plow.

I watched the blemished orb rise
Seemingly smaller
And chalky
As it slowly climbed
For altitude.

Leaning against cold brick
I thought how I’d become
More distant
Chalky
In her memory.

I swallowed a pain pill
Waiting for its warmth
And artificial sense
Of well-being
To settle me
Center me
In the moment I was in
Giving my pain
To the night.

Before long
All the time
I was with her
Grew increasingly remote
Chalky
And I began to see my life
As fields, harvested
Turned by the plow
Waiting for a season
Of planting
When winter is done.

There Comes a Time

There comes a time
When the memory of a love
Is no longer as strong
Or alluring.

A time
When the color
Of a lover’s eyes
Fade in their gleam.

A time
When a lover’s hair
Is neither as fragrant
Or shimmering.

A time
When a lover’s kiss
Is no longer remembered
For its fire and sizzle.

A time
When a lover’s body
Is no longer remembered
For its mysteries and pleasures.

But when that may happen
My dear, I cannot know.
Because time has failed to dilute
The memory of you.

A Bright Dawn

Were the past something
I could sever
Or remove
As a threadbare coat
I would.

But the past is never past.
Indeed
The past is ever present.

I remain attached
To the most painful
The most toxic part
Of my inner being.

So I war with myself
Trying always
And fervently
To not be known
For my most ignoble
Moment.

I bear my guilt
Like a corpse
Lashed to my back.

I speak grandly
Of fidelity
Integrity
Loyalty
But my old man within
Bears testimony
Against me.

Oh, were I able
To distance myself
From myself
I would think this life
Gracious and kind.
But I stand a prisoner
In a universe of prisoners
All talking nobly of freedom
No one
Ever
Having been
Free.

Yet
There may be hope
For the leery and the weary
On a bright dawn
Of a new day
When the truth
Shall set us free.

Night Road

Hours were ours
On that night road
To Atlanta.

You weren’t aware
Of my fascination
With the play of light
Over your face
Like moonwash
Teasing a lake.

Street lamps at crossings
Back lit your hair golden
Railroad signals
Blazed your face scarlet
Starlight whispered
Through wisps
At your temples
While we spoke of things
Low and mighty
Or sang along with
Distant AM signals.

The whole night
I was mapping your face
By the luminous array
Of dashboard lights.

When we finally approached
Sherman’s tinderbox
The east was awakening
To a rosy patina
That dawned first
Across your forehead
Brightening your eyes
Lifting your chin
The way it must
Across the wonder of our home
From the ebony of space.

These years later
I don’t remember why we went
I’ve lost the reason for our going…
But every blush and blaze
Across your sweet face
I remember.

Waiting on the Rain

I’ve been always waiting on the rain.
Clouds thicken
The air grows heavy
Sparking a neural response in my body.

My chest aches
And pain radiates like solar flares
In concussive ripples.
Rain is the detonator
And I await the inevitable sear.

Nobody really knows.
They think me drunk
When I stagger
Like one under a kinder influence.
They think me addled
When my conversation halts on words
Like clothes caught on briars.
They think me profane
When I damn this curse.
They think me poor
When I shrivel within what shell I’ve left.

I await the rain
Whose suffering drenches me
Like an outcast.

But I have always believed it better
To meet heartache head on
As one accustomed to pain
And equal to its misery.

Let go my hand for now.
I am going to greet the rain.

A Man of Contradiction

I’ve been always in the sun
And usually in the rain.
Most days I feel fine
But mostly I’m in pain.

A cane helps me walk
But a good run helps me sleep.
I give the devil his daily due
And God my soul to keep.

I’m an evil, virtuous man
That isn’t worth a damn.
But somewhere deep inside
I’m God's gentle little lamb.

I’ve carved my name deep
On the very gate of hell
Then climbed up high to heaven
To ring the angel’s bell.

I am a foolish, wizened man
And a man of contradiction.
I only tell the truth
Except when I tell fiction.

My story ain’t worth a damn
But surely you should hear it.
I start the tellin' every night
But when I start, I quit.

Every midnight I think
I really should go home
But then I think again
And start once more to roam.

My enemy, I’ll be your friend
And we’ll have fun together
Until the morning dawns
When I’ll be your fair-weather.

It All Depends

Hush, my prideful heart
Be still my troubled soul.
Let the past be past
And let your sorrows go.

You cannot redeem yesterday.
There’s mercy to be had
For the one on his knees
Who releases the bad.

Stand in the light
Come out of the dark
And all that has cut you
And left its cruel mark.

Lay down your shield.
The war is over for you.
It’s time for redemption
And make everything new.

It all begins now
If you will let it be so.
But it all depends on whether
You will let everything go.

The Lion or the Fawn

The angels hold my yesterdays
God holds my tomorrows.
Both look to my security
But I to my sorrow.

Who am I to understand
The workings of my heart?
Who am I to know
Where wrath gets its start?

I’ve become an angry man
Ready for a fight
And less home in high noon
Than in the veil of night.

I’m able with a weapon
Of any caliber or size.
I’ve learned how to keep
The element of surprise.

But tactical training
And strategic skill
Only add to the conflict
Of a man who won’t kill.

I’ve been a target
Most of my life
But I don’t want to use
A gun or a knife.

Do not mistake my reticence
There’s rage deep beneath.
It's secreted within
Like a blade in a sheath.

Please pray for a lion
Who'd rather be a fawn
But refuses to be used
Like the devil’s own pawn.

Thank You!

Dear Readers...
As we soon turn the page on our calendar to November, we must start
to think of our many blessings. I want to jump on that cart early and thank
you for reading my poetry. I never imagined the draw poetry continues to
enjoy among the most thoughtful (and intelligent) readers. You honor
and humble me by your readership. "Thank you" especially to those who leave
comments. They are all read, and serve to grow me both as a writer and a
human being. I will continue to write...because writers shrivel when they
stop doing so. I hope you will continue to read, and come back again, and
again! I know it sounds silly, but I think of this site as a log cabin front
porch, with plenty of rocking chairs, gallons of sweet tea, and the buzz of
cicadas to grace our time together. I hope you feel a bit better, and maybe
a little more thoughtful when you visit. I can't promise my work will be in
the Helen Steiner Rice category...but at least we'll have something to
think about.After all, we're all in this together!
Thanks...James
PS...don't you just love this new "paragraphing" style? My Lit Prof would
kick my butt. But he probably died 30 years ago.

No Man’s Land

Earth geysers in fire
Smoke
And rage
Like hell itself
Clawing
To get out.
Rock and clods of earth rain
With a hail of metal shards
Powder and cordite.

The ground tastes sweet
The grass delicate
Trapped
In no man’s land.
But terror rises like bile
At the back of my throat
And I would trade places
With the poorest beggar
The most afflicted leper
For five minutes
Away from this living grave.
My fingernails scratch
The earth
In a vain effort
To stay attached to the planet.
My body rises with every
Concussive blast.

Zipping above
Ballistic bees
Buzz from behind and ahead.
If I wished to die
I had but to raise my head.

No man’s land
Is not the place for
Any man.

No man’s land
Is a place
Where a man loses control
Of his bowels
His mind
And heart.

No man’s land
Is a place
Where a man screams
For his mother
And promises God anything
For one more moonrise
One more sunrise

One more heartbeat.

Be content to be anywhere
The coldest tundra
The lip of the hottest volcano
Be extremely happy to be anywhere
Other than
No man’s land.

Every Good Thing

When you’ve held a woman…
Held her so well
The scent of her hair
Is imprinted upon your brain
And your hands understand
Her intimate terrain…
There is no return
To the artless
Life before her.

When you’ve kissed your woman…
Kissed her so passionately
Your hearts thrum as twins
And any map you’ve made
Of the future
Surely includes her…
All your hopes
For all your life
Wrap around her
The way ocean currents
Trace deep water canyons.

When you love your woman…
Love her so keenly
You would gladly die
To assure her safety
And provide her the surety
Of every terrestrial
And celestial treasure…
Meaning and significance
Fix to your soul
Like dew to a petal.

When you receive your woman…
As the early sky
Greets the rising sun
As the songbird welcomes
Her cheerful tune
As the hearth salutes
Its roaring blaze…
Every good and precious gift
Are yours in her arms.

The matchless love of a woman
Is of inestimable worth
And every good thing
Is in her arms
Her kiss
Her warmth.

The treasure beyond pearls
Silver and gold
Is in the soul and flesh
The glint of her eyes
And the softness
Of her breath
Awaiting your ready heart.

The Danger of Love

I try not to think
To revisit memories
Inspired by
Fallen leaves
And crisp air.

Why incite pain?

It’s better to
Drink stout coffee
Allow hunger
To occupy my thoughts
Or absorb myself in books
Devoid of romance.

Still…
The decision to engage
In a fast
From memory
Is never completely effective.

Yesterday
A little red Pathfinder
Like she drove
Turned a corner
In front of me
And I was taken back
To moments within that vehicle
Whose steamed windows
Veiled our embrace.

A scent in the fall air
Reminded me of an afternoon
Walking with her by the university.

There are too many hidden mines
That explode reminders of her
All over my mind and heart.

That is the danger of love.

It never ends.
Even when it does.

Under the Canopy

The sky silvers
Into an autumn blanket
Frigid at altitude
But tolerable under the canopy
Of oak and maple.

I sit on the page
Of an aging day
On a tick of the clock.

The insistent chill
In the afternoon breeze
Scatters brittle brown leaves
Lying like fallen warriors
Of a warmer clime
Now living but in memory.

Soon, this year
Will be catalogued
With a four digit number
Shoved onto a dusty shelf
Unspectacular
Forgotten
Chiseled onto memory marble
In gardens of stone.

But there is time
To ponder what is
What was
And what will never be.

I quiet my spirit
Letting the waning sun
Gentle me
In October arms.

An Aging Shadow

Years pile like dust
And I slow
To time's
Steady rhythm .

It is not quite wine
But sweeter than rain
Falling on my weary frame.

Like a boxer
Answering the bell
I am too early for wisdom
But too late for the joy
Set before me.

Staring into the sun
Since squaring my shoulders
Against the flare and sizzle
Has blinded me
And deafened
By the lunar siren song
I am uncertain
Of my place in this
Expanding cosmos.

As a child
I thought myself
The center.
Now an aging shadow
I am only sure
The center
Is far from me.

I am tangled
In the web
Of electric lines
Telephone lines
Checkout lines
Bottom lines
And come-on lines.

Tonight I sit
In the cold distant
Flare of stars
Amid the clutter of questions
Too weighty for me
Hoping only for mercy.

That Which Defines Us

Come into the silence
Without speech
Without thought
Without rambling conversation.

Neither will I speak.
We will sit
In stillness
And each know
The other
By the accord
Of minds and hearts.

I want to comprehend
Your intangibles
By how acquainted you are
With peace.

Outside
The world grinds to powder
Its own children
The manufacture
Of its self-importance.

Life turns up the volume
On every molecule
Of things produced
By its wisdom
And expertise.

But, come with me.
We will hush the noise
The blare of that lost
In the spin of time.

Then, my love
We will touch one another
Not in desperation
But in the fullness
Of that which defines us…
The tranquility
Of kindred hearts.

Say On

Words spill over her lips
In a wild waterfall
Of strange phonics
Alien to my ears.

They seem to weep
Over her tongue
In syllables of honey.

She may be cursing me
In viper venom
But the sound is melodic
And charming.
If it be curses she utters
I want to be cursed
Always
In her enchanting muse.

Under her tongue
Rests the honeycomb
From her mouth
Flow rivers of joy
Never navigated by explorer
Or valiant oarsman.

Say on, sweet miss.
I grow younger
With each new phrase.

Narcotic Rain

The rains began Friday
And fell in a steady soaker
All day
And into the next.
It was a slow drench
Doing no damage to the land.

Rain intoxicates me
Gentles me
Into lethargy
Draining my pain
In a steady flow
To the sea.

My spirit
Rises like mist
From the grasslands
Into a heavy
Thick air.
I bracket all my life
Everything that hurt me
Cut and sliced me
Between the drops
Of cool downpour.

I do not understand more
Than before
But once filled with narcotic rain
The opium of atmosphere
I realize that whatever tore at me
Is no longer important.
Those felons of the heart
Become absent of meaning
Devoid of further ability
To maim and destroy
To distort my life
From reason.

I stand below
The weeping sky
Face upturned
Mouth open to receive
And sate my relief.
It is my baptism
And communion
It is my biology
Cosmology
It is redemption.

For as long as it rains
My life is not in contest.
I have no compulsion
To win
To rise victorious
Above a struggle
I never wanted.

Let the rains come.
Let the rivers fill.
Let the sweet earth wash
And let the waters of heaven
Fall fresh on me.

Tamped and Banked

Tamping the fire
I banked it
Against the stone
Of the old fireplace
Then sat to admire
The dimming glow.

Somewhere in the night
I would check the embers
Insuring there would remain
Sufficient heat
To restore the flame
Come morning.

For now I visited ghosts.

Ghosts hold an inner heat
Tamped and banked
By time
And restlessness.

In that receding golden glow
She appeared
Clad in the dark blue dress
I always admired
The one with white polka dots.
Long hair swept
Behind shell-like ears
A smile played
At the corners of her mouth.
We never required much conversation
Finding better use for lips.

How real are phantoms!
Hands gentle on my flesh
Her long auburn hair
Spilled around me.
Her body moved gently
Beneath the silky fabric
Undulating and insistent.
The vanilla aroma
Of her favorite perfume
Aroused me still
Though I’ve not experienced
Its seduction in years.

Perhaps she came through
Dream portals
Or maybe ghosts are real
Unbidden or summoned
By flagrant desire
An unsatisfied compulsion.

Whatever space she attends
Perhaps she manages a fire of her own
Tamped and banked
Patiently awaiting a renewed blaze
When the rose of dawn
Blushes the eastern sky.

The Kiss

She leaned into me
The idea hers.
Her head held back just enough
To communicate
What she wanted
Eyes half open
Pupils wild and wide
Lips slightly parted.

My senses slowed
Until I felt
I was in
An old black and white
Silent film
The kind that revealed
Its plot and action
One flickering frame at a time.

Her tongue paused
On her lower lip
Like a small cat
On a shelf of shadowed sun.

Contact.

She continued pressing
Into me
Her tongue darting
Past my lips
Exploring
The way an adventurer might
When finding herself
In a welcomed
Yet uncertain environment.

Nevertheless…

Her eyelids fluttered
And closed.
The warmth of her nearness
Was like that rising
From hearth fires.
Her right hand
Cupped the back of my head
Gently pulling me into her
Her tongue exploring my mouth
Inviting mine into hers
As silent welcome.

Our lips softened
Silky
Becoming part of one another
Strange yet familiar.
Time stuttered and stopped
And I realized I was not breathing.

Then it ended
Slowly
So slowly.
She inched away
Eyes probing mine for response.

Words now would seem unholy.

I was
Stunned
Charmed
And it now seemed…

My turn.

You Can Never Tell

You can never tell
What happens
Behind the walls
Of a house.
The frustrations
The hopes
Fears
The sighs and groans
Of passion
Both deferred and realized.

Especially the white frame ranch
On the middle of the block.
The one with the dark haired girl
With hazel eyes
And sultry voice.
The girl I thought I knew
The one who professed
Undying love
Who told me
I was
The breath in her lungs.

You can never know
What a woman needs
Once the heat has cooled
And the shadows lengthen.
It’s impossible to know
If the last kiss
Was the last kiss
If the last I love you
Really meant
It’s time for you to go
Cowboy
But thanks for the rodeo.

You can never know
If a lady means it when she asks
What you think any children
Of your union
May look like
Or if she’s the one
You’ve been looking for
Your whole life long
Or if you mean it
When you say
Being with her
Is heaven
Come to earth.

No.
You can never tell.

The Angels of 9/11

There were angels on the ladders
And angels on the stairs
There were angels in the lobby
There were angels everywhere.

There were angels holding jumpers
And angels on the ground
There were angels with the screamers
There were angels all around.

There were angels in the fire trucks
And angels dressed in blue
There were angels in the towers
There were angels with me and you.

There were angels at the Pentagon
And angels in the planes
There were angels bearing stretchers
There were angels in our pain.

There were angels in that wide field
And angels with brave men
There were angels giving courage
There were angels at the end.

There’ll be angels in the future
And angels in the day
When the time has come for dying
To bear us all away.

Tomorrow

There is no future
In the present.
Speculation is all there is.
And speculation is powerless
To provide a wise guide
A sure footing
A sound grasp.

The first step into the unknown
Is always an act of faith and hope.

It is not that the future is a blur
Or an indistinct image.
Rather
The future exists but in our hearts
And minds.
It is what we cause it to be
By our decisions
Diligence and labor.

Tell the architect his building of tomorrow
Waits on the corner
And he will ask who supplied
The steel
The concrete
The pipes and wiring.

Tell the surgeon his patient is healed
And he will ask who
Manipulated the scalpel.

Tell the general the war is won
And he will ask the battle losses.

But tell lovers they have tomorrow
And they believe you.
Yet, the fabric of their union
Is as much in question
As the structure
The patient
The battle.

I have stepped into that dark uncertainty
And discovered there is only as much reason
To believe
As there is dedication to endure
Hardship and sacrifice
Gritty determination and resolve
To create a love worthy of timelessness.

A building is more than an address.
A patient is more than an operation.
A war is more than a battle.
And a love is more than emotion.

Today is the tomorrow of yesterday.

Night’s Cadence

The eastern seaboard
Is blushing with the first
Rays of morning
But in my bedroom
The clock keeps
Night’s cadence.

Four o’clock
And all’s well.

The house sleeps.

My granddaughter
Who fussed a moment ago
Returns to dreams she had so recently
Abandoned.
Beside me, my wife breathes deeply
Arms crossed ‘neath her breasts.
My little dogs awakened
To wonder at their master
The nocturnal scribe
Before returning to
The boarders of dreams.

Soon the wakening rays
Will race the land
Tapping the uppermost branches
Of ancient trees
The tips of church spires
And the lips of factory towers.
But for now the nation sleeps.

But not all.

Long haul drivers forge ahead.
Morning lovers tumble.
Traffic cops sip hot coffee
From paper cups.
Drug dealers ply their trash.
Trash haulers load their junk.
Gas station attendants yawn and stretch.

But not here.
Here the house sleeps.

And I will try again.
Perhaps dreams may yet return me
To lilac fields.
To rain-wet Chicago streets
Aglow by vapor light.
To the belly fire
Of snow-clad Sangre de Christos.
To arms that embraced me
And whispered devoted love.
Or perhaps I too
Will have a purpose
Possible only in four’oclock
Fantasies
That will make me laugh
By day’s glare.

But just now
It is enough
To hear my little dog snore
Content in the knowledge
Green grasses await him
When the rose of dawn
Stirs my sleeping home.

September Pond

September comes in the back door
Lazily
As if it means no harm.
The sun of early autumn
Begins its slant
Portending cool weather
Easy days.

On a September afternoon
Long ago
We lay in the grass
Near a pond
Sipping cool drinks
Eating sandwiches
And talking about all the time
We pretended to have.

By winter she was gone.

I have returned to our pond
Thinking to find some trace
Of her
Of us.
But time is an effective eraser
Rubbing away all but memory.

Many years later
When I see a pond
I remember that one.

Our pond.

How the sunlight sparkled on the water
The early cool in September’s air
The heat of her body
Beneath the light cotton dress
The taste of our kisses
And imagination of the good
Awaiting us
Just beyond the pond
And the hazy autumn clouds.

Fate is an adversary
Rending from us
What we thought in our grasp.
But love is faithful.
It never leaves
Though the object of that love
Is far away and forever gone.

I tip my brim to young lovers
Who occupy our spot in the grass
Beside the pond.

Hold one another lightly
So the inevitable parting may be
A bit less painful.

But you won’t hear me.
You will bleed
As did I
Cry
As did I .
And you, too, will return
To this lovely pond
To remember a day in early autumn
And a love that cannot fade.

Feature Story

Friendly Readers,
The Beacon News, owned by The Chicago Sun Times Group, featured this blog in their Friday, August 23, 2013 issue. I am very flattered. Below is that article:


Blog Log: James Woods, The Dashboard Poet

By Joy Davis For Sun-Times Media August 21, 2013 3:22PM

Yorkville resident James Woods, 60, shares his poetry on his blog, The Dashboard Poet. | Submitted

Updated: August 23, 2013 9:35AM


James Woods published his first poem in 1970, in his high-school literary journal. More than 40 years later, he’s still at it. Woods, 60, now shares his poetry on his blog, The Dashboard Poet.

Woods, of Yorkville, grew up reading classic poets like Byron, Keats and Browning, and says he has been writing poetry since he understood what poetry is.

“For me, poetry is the stream of life. The longer I wade in that stream, the swifter is the current,” Woods said.

Woods is inspired by various elements of life, from love to death to mystery. Readers of The Dashboard Poet can find a wide range of poems about any of these topics, some sharing intricate details, while others offer a more cryptic and metaphorical view.

Because Woods finds inspiration in his life, many readers will relate with similar feelings of love, trauma or loss.

“The ordinary stuff of life often carries the most profound weight. I just received a new granddaughter. One lives with me. I cannot interact with them without knowing I am in touch with one of life’s greatest wonders,” Woods said.

“A sunrise in New Mexico goes down as one of the best few seconds of my life. That kind of light endures for a moment.”

The Dashboard Poet has readership in 22 countries. Woods considers his writing to be constantly evolving, allowing readers to accompany him as he grows.

Woods is working on his first book of poems, featuring 80 of his pieces, and is also working on a novel, titled “The Bone Tree.”

To read his poetry, visit his blog at thedashboardpoet.blogspot.com.

Yep.....I blushed. But not enough to not share it with you.

Special Note

Friends and Friendly Readers,
Sometimes my neural pain (TBI) takes my breath away. I am forced to use a cane (feels so wrong). I have the inner spirit of a Walt Longmire, but right now the outer body of a Barney Fife. I'll get back to where I should be in a few days, but right now.....feels like I'm dying. But it's only a feeling. I just wanted ya'll to know why I'm quiet.

James

Was the Sex Good?

Was the sex good?
He asked
As casually as though he’d asked
The score of the game.
How was the weather?
Did I enjoy the cigar?

I couldn’t tell him
I cried when I held you.
How could I tell him
We lay together naked
The whole night
Talking and laughing
Talking and crying
Talking and singing old songs?

Was the sex good?

Does the sun blaze in the dark of space?
Do ancient rivers carve rocky bluffs
Into yawning canyons?
Do birds nest and feed their young?
Does the moon irresistibly pull the tides?

Was the sex good?

I can’t
I will not tell him
When we joined as one
I suddenly understood ancient mysteries
And touched
The face of God.

Yes
I said.
Yes.
The sex was good.

He smiled
And poured the coffee.

The Best Critter

He circled the clearing
As I watched him draw near
And I fingered my Henry
Thinking I’d make him pay dear.

Eyes red as embers
Gleamed in the night
Filling me with dread
And no little fright.

Clothed in bear skin
And feet soft in snow
He could kill quickly
Where ever he’d go.

I sat still as granite
Not making a sound
The only noise my fire
Crackling there on the ground.

As I watched his progress
I knew he'd attack from behind
He’d do it next pass
And he wouldn't be kind.

But he came at me head on
Much to my surprise
And I shot him in front
Of where my bedroll lies.

I skinned him right there
And cut me a shank
For my fire that night
With his blood, which I drank.

It put me to thinking
Who was better, him or me?
As I tossed his ears in hot water
To brew me some tea.

Aw, it don’t matter
Someday I’ll do it again.
When we fight the good fight
May the best critter win!

In a While

I held her small feet
In my hands
Her long toes moving slowly
Unconsciously.

She stretched her body
Thrusting her feet
More firmly into my embrace
And I kneaded them softly
Like a baker would bread dough
My palms across the ivory
Of her skin
My fingers working
Her arches
Down to each tender toe.

Time crept slowly
Our shadows
Traveling across the floor.
Her eyes half closed
I watched her chest
Rise and fall rhythmically.

A long sigh
Escaped her red lips
And she opened her eyes
To look at me.

I love you
She said.

You love this
I smiled.

A long moment passed.

I love you
Much more than I love this
She said.

She lifted her long legs
Sliding to her knees
From the sofa
Onto the carpeted floor
Her hands moving
On my thighs.

A crooked smile
Played upon her lips.

In a while
She said
You may tell me the same.

Share the Air

Share the air
I said
Before our lips met.

I inhaled
As she breathed into me.

She inhaled
As I breathed into her
Our breath damp and warm.

We continued our
Singsong
Until we grew lightheaded.

And we laughed.

Share the air
She said
Placing her head
And flowing hair
Upon my shoulder.

I sighed lazily.
And we shared the air again.

Trail Mates

Telling him was unnecessary.
He knew.
We both knew.

Human eyes communicate
In ways impossible
With other creatures.

He smiled softly
Then turned his head.

It’s hard for men sometimes.

I love this man
Who sometimes angers me
But usually delights me.

We spoke of another time.
We would be trail mates
Whose conversations sometimes lag.
One of us may even lead the other
By as much as a mile
But we never lost sight of the other.

We would share the campfire
Look into the face of the same stars
And complain about the grounds
In the coffee
The next morning.

But we are not trail mates.
He carries a star in his wallet
And I carry a badge in mine.

Our eyes and bodies are aging.
We have both seen too much
Of the same heartbreak.

We have each other's back.
We can laugh together
But we cry separately.
One mile ahead.

He is my friend.
And we are trail mates.

A Personal Note.....

Yesterday, in my office, a young Latino woman asked my age. I thought...oh, we're gonna play that game.
When, unasked, she said "46." I thought...46....that's 14 years younger than I am. Then I began to mentally itemize her real reasons for her estimate. There were two:
1. I am, indeed, a young, handsome, virile man, to whom women naturally gravitate.
2. She wanted something that was in my power to provide. (Do not have a dirty mind. I control a rather
admirable account that could pay a bill or two).
As I was happily choosing reason #1, she said, "I do have an electric bill I'd like you to look at."
Oh well...they say 60 is the new 50. Yeah. Right.

In the Thicket

The cab of my truck
Becomes the Holy Place.
I park in a dark lot
My face awash
In the soft glow
Of dashboard lights.
It is a lantern glow
Against the stone
Of my face
Against the altar
Of my heart.

There is no Gregorian chant
Hallowing this small space.
Nothing but the hush
Of my exhalations
What sacred texts call
Ruach
The breath
The wind
Of God.

I bind the sacrifice
For the slaughter
The flow of blood
For sprinkling
Upon the
Mercy Seat.

I am both offering
And priest.

My head against
The wheel
Like the animal
Against the altar
I release my thoughts
Give away the content
Held captive
In secret places
Hoping it acceptable.

Vespers concluded
I ignite the power
Beneath my blood red hood
And drive away
In benediction
Marveling that the truck I drive
Like Abraham’s sacrifice
Should be what was caught
By its horns
In the thicket.
A
Ram.

Submission

Her ribs lie
Just below
The velvet
Of her skin.
I press into her
Arms protectively wrapped
Yet wantonly
About her body.

Her heart beats
Near mine.
I match her breathing
Breath for breath
My head tucked
Into the space behind her
Left ear
As though I might
Listen to her thoughts.

This must be slow
Like a stout brew
Nothing hurried
A full roast
Brings the best cup.

I hush her to silence.
Let’s do this wordlessly
Trusting our bodies
To communicate.
There are better uses
For tongues
Than phonics.

We exchange our
Mysteries here
Each becoming more than
The whole
When we join
The clay of our flesh
Mixing
With the untamed light
Of our spirits.

And we kiss each other
Into submission.

Still Time

I forget reason is unnecessary
When viewing the world.
It is simply there
To be seen
Taken in
With no qualification needed.

It was the same with her.
Reason was unnecessary
When drinking in her
Long legs
Lanky body
On her belly
Tangled in sheets
Eyes half open
The seed of a smile
On her reddened face
Hair tussled
And dark
Against porcelain flesh.

Her image
Is etched
Like an old daguerreotype
In the folds of my brain
Eternal
Never aging
Unchanged.
I still see her white robe
On the cream carpet
At the foot
Of the bed’s dark wood.

I still hear her voice
Content and troubled
At the same time
A contradiction
Just like her.

Stay
She said.
Do not leave.
Not yet.

There is still time.

There was
And there wasn’t.
My contradiction.

I kissed her
And left.

If I could rewind time
Do at all again
I would stay.
I would never leave.
I cannot remember what urgency
Made me go.
But I can recall every reason
I should have stayed.

Time is like that.
It smirks at us
Plays us for the fool we are.

She remains in memory
In that brilliant wash of afternoon light
Streaming through her window
The swell of her breast curving
Into the Egyptian cotton sheet
Her softly begging me
Stay.

There’s still time
She said.

The Veteran’s Toast

I stopped feeling years ago.
Numbness is a blessing
And far to be valued
Over giving a damn.

Caring has a steep price.
It slices the heart
Poisons the soul
And stings the eyes.

But years of stuff
Designed to take the edge off
Dull the senses
And soothe the mind
Wear away the years of pain.

I’ve stepped away
From the precipice
Its dizzy heights
And fathomless depths.

Those whose nerves
Are still sharp
And whose hearts
Are still filling with things
They will
If they are lucky
Live to regret
Jeer at me
Shaking their heads
Saying I am jaded
I have become fearful
And a shame to their vaunted
Esprite de Corps.

If I cared
I would turn
My face to the wall
So they could not see
All the pain
All the years
All the sorrow.

But I’ve stopped caring.

Damn their foolish pride.
Someday they will understand.

So, here's to all you
Young ones
Who know it all
Who smile smugly at old vets
Like me.

Open another one
And turn down the damn lights
So you can't see
What I know
About where you'll go.

Lost

Like an Oklahoma storm
She blew into my life
Obscuring all but her.

She was prairie fire
And towering smoke.
She was the echo
Of eagles
Off walls of stone
And the cry of the wolf
Against
The New Corn Moon.

She loved me
The way sight
Loves flashing color
The way scent
Loves garden blossoms.

She was water
From deep cisterns.
She was lightening
Blistering my flesh
With the rake
Of crimson nails.

She was fire and ice
Feast and famine.
She was ointment
And balm
Answering need
And desire.

She was perfect contradiction
And complete understanding.

She was a blazing comet
Whose trackless paths
Are forever lost.

Young Man

Young man
We are only three generations
Apart.
Our lives are
Radically
Different.

You sweated in cotton fields
Whose blossoms
Were as white
And dreadful
As the man who
Owned
You.

Owned you.

Those words are intolerable
Unthinkable to me
Three generations after you lived
Died
And were shoved
Into a red dirt grave
In the Mississippi
From which we both sprang.

Young man
I do not even remember your name
Though I saw it
On surviving slave rolls.

I want to feel the numbing pain
Of your life
But all I can do
Is imagine
And that is
Not
Enough.

Young man
I am sorry.
Sorry for your tears
And agony of your years.
But that changes
Nothing.

Young man
I would kill the man
Who enslaved you.
That is
Of course
Impossible.
He died long ago
In the comfort
Of clean sheets.
And my wanting to make things
Different
Changes nothing.

The one who chained you
Whipped you
Sent his dogs in pursuit
Of you
Laughed at your misery
And kicked your corpse
Into a poorly marked grave
Was my
Great Grandfather.

I visited the weedy patch
In which you lie.
You name is weather-worn
Illegible.
He is buried up the hill
From you
And the marker stone
For his body is gleaming granite.

I spit on that stone
Though there was
In that defiance
No redemption
For you or me.

Young man…
I am sorry.

A Self Pat on the Back

My poem, "I Felt Nothing" has been picked up
by a national police gazette, called "The Journal
of Law Enforcement" for their summer issue.
Every writer's goal is publication, and to be printed
in such a fine and reputable journal is an honor. I am
proud to be thought useful. Their editor is
Dr. Olivia Johnson, who resides in Metro
St. Louis.

Not Enough Miles

I dreamed I was
On a wide open range
And the skies were
A translucent blue.
A mighty fine horse
With white socks and crown
Moved powerfully
Between my knees.

I smelled snow
On the wind
But it was a long way off
And it held no concern
For me.
The sun was high
The mountains were far
And I was as free
As a dying man might be.

Molly was my horse
But my name I forgot
Though that was of no matter to me.
There was plenty of jerky
Packed in my bag
And enough coffee
To last several days.

I tried to remember
Why I wanted to run
Why I had such a need
To make tracks.
There seemed no reason
Save a powerful desire
To not be found standing still.

In my breast pocket
Was a daguerreotype
Of a woman with long
Flowing hair.
Her eyes were half open
Mouth not quite closed
With some matter
Sure on her mind.

I knew she lay behind
I would ne'er see her again
And was why Mollie
Pressed hell for leather
In our run.

But it was only a dream
Mollie does not exist
And the snow may yet fall
Over me.
But the beautiful woman
With long flowing hair
With sleepy eyes and sensuous lips
Remains a daguerreotype in my breast.

And there are not enough miles
In God’s expansive heaven
That can rend her memory from me.

60 ! *

I have achieved a mile marker! I thought I’d share it with you,
as an achievement like this merits a declaration! So… how
shall I put this? Hmmm…okay, got it! By the standards of AARP,
I may now celebrate the 10th anniversary of qualification to be
included on their annoying rolls! Yep! I am now 60 years young!
And, I have now used 6 exclamation points in one paragraph,
including this one! That’s something I have not done
since 3rd grade! I am so happy! Why am I happy to be 60? Great
question! Here’s my list:
• I am no longer expected to run for any reason, except fire!
• I am not expected to stand at sporting events!
• I can eye a pretty girl without getting slapped!
• I can drive 55 and not get cussed!
• I am not expected to understand “computer-speak” (LOL!)
• I can crash into a public building with no other
reason, other than I'm a 60 year old driver!
• I am not required to change my grand daughter's diaper!
• I can smoke a cigar without getting a speech on the perils of smoking!
• I am no longer asked if I want to sit at the bar at Chili’s!
• I can use 30 exclamation points in one brief note and absolutely
NO ONE CARES!!!!!!!!!!!!

* This exclamation point does not count in the aggregate total!

Independence Day Lament

Where have you gone
My Fathers?
And where have you gone
My Mothers?

The land of our birth lies
Disfigured
Nearly unrecognizable
From that given
So precious
Long ago.

We have worn the uniform
Borne the battles
Shed the blood
And for this?

Where have you gone
My brothers?
And where have you gone
My sisters?

From coast to coast
From lofty mountain’s precipice
To tropic island sands
From golden wheat lands
To tundra prairies
We have traded our freedoms
For supposed securities
All unrealized and intangible.

Where have you gone
My uncles?
And where have you gone
My aunts?

Our hearthstones are shattered
And our ovens are cold
Our quilts are tattered
And our banners faded.

I fear we have strayed
So far from the hard-carved path
So far from the ink on that treasured parchment
We may never return.

I weep for my country.

My Fathers
Mothers
Brothers
Sisters
Aunts and Uncles
Have not left you
Our homeland…

How is it you have turned from us?

Thoughts While Walking Away *

I’ve packed my gear
It sits by the door.
My dog’s on his rug.
I can hear him snore.

The kids are in bed
My wife’s still asleep.
There’s nothing preventing
Me making this leap.

My nerves are steeled
It’s time that I go.
But the plan from here
God only knows.

So, pray for me.
Better yet, pray for them.
I don’t want’em thinking
I left on a whim.

If I stick around here
I’m likely to snap.
I see the pattern in me
Like roads on a map.

The violence done me
In a far away land
Will eventually come home
The way wind blows the sand.

Better it find me
When I’m all alone.
I’ll explain it to her later
When I call on the phone.

Maybe this’ll blow over
And I’ll find me some peace.
If not, I’ll have spared my family
At least.

* Again, not autobiographical, but
I deal with those for whom this is
very real, and sometimes tragic.
Freedom, as is said, is never free.
This 4th of July, thank a soldier.

PTSD or “Alphabet Soup” *

I have seen blood enough
Syrup thick
Warm
Stinking like copper.

I have seen brains exposed
Pale
The consistency of pasta
Splattered and smashed.
I have seen a beating heart
Cupped within a split chest
Ribs, like fingers
Stretching toward me.

Life is in the blood
Knowledge in the brain
The memory of times
Making love
Flying
Running
Every past breath
And the whole of a man
Friend or foe
Stripped and lain
Across place and time.

What is man
O, Lord
That thou art mindful
Of him?

Long after the removal
Tagged
Bagged
And dragged
In the snarl of cops
Death remains my partner.

I sleep with grisly dreams
Freely roaming my unconscious self.
I limp with memories
No man should share.
I breathe death
And am acquainted with its coarse ways.

How, then, am I to live
And what may become
Of him
Who has borne the wounded
And buried the dead?

Time
Inexorable
Will tell.

*Recently I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD.
I promise you, there is more encapsulated in
four letters of the alphabet than poetry can
possibly detail. I hope you, who know those
who suffer with this “alphabet soup” will
show them the kindness their own souls
cannot.

I Felt Nothing*

When I shot him
I felt nothing.
He fell in a lifeless heap
And did not move.

I remember everything
About that night.

I remember
The street light sparking
Off the cheap gun in his hand
The tang of gunpowder in the air
The loud pipes on a motorcycle
A block away
And my partner running past me
As I holstered my weapon.

But I felt nothing.

Squads with flaring strobes
Closed on the scene.
The EMT’s arrived.
Investigators placed numbered signs
To detail the spread of spent shells.

But I felt nothing.

I was interviewed by Internal Affairs
By detectives
By my sergeant
And I answered the same
Every time.

But I felt nothing.

I did not discuss it with my wife
But the recurring nightmare
Was a continual loop
Every damn night.
So I slept less and less.

When I returned to duty
I was easily angered
Jittery
Prone to check
And recheck my weapon.

My home life imploded.
My wife left
Taking the kids
And when the bottle became my solace
I felt nothing.

I was placed on administrative leave.
My friends stopped coming around
My anger consumed me
But I insisted I felt nothing.

Then came the night
I went to the park by the river walk
And in the dark
Outside and inside
I placed a 9mm to my head
And pulled the trigger.

After that
I felt nothing.

*Obviously, this is not autobiographical.
But this does reflect my experience after
22 years in law enforcement, and the loss
of more than one friend and officer.
Police Suicide is not widely discussed
But within the “Thin Blue Line"
it is deeply felt. But the duty
continues its demand every shift.

Reply to Comment on "After Goodbye"

Dear Reader,
Thank you for your comment. You are very insightful. Maybe I can provide a glimpse into the Monarch matter. I have had loves since she left. All love, of any variety (pets, kids and grandkids, etc.) bring a variety of joys and heartbreaks. I don't know why, but when there's a full moon, or a particularly rainy day, my heart looks to its aches before its joys. Most days are laden with all the pleasures of life. But there are those seasons when the heart looks back, and that's when my Monarch flies. I will never get past her, because her memory centers me, mellows me, and causes me to better appreciate the good that remains. A Monarch butterfly flew past the windshield of my truck yesterday, and I nearly missed the light turning green...my mind went to my Monarch. Crazy? Yes. Absolutely. Maybe I'm like the fisherman, who always laments the "one that got away." On the other hand, isn't that one of the virtues of poetry? To give readers a boxcar to hobo on as we look to our past pain? But pity me? Please don't do that. I was given the rarity of her love, even though briefly. I suggest that anyone who was loved like that be envied. At least, that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!
I sincerely appreciate your comment, and hope you'll keep on reading.
Thanks.....James

After Goodbye

I did not touch her
After goodbye.

The door had closed.

No matter my desire
No matter our history
The door had closed
And I walked away.

These years later
I rethink my choice.
Perhaps I should have fought
To hold her
To keep her
But we both walked away.

I wonder
If she wonders.
Does she regret the goodbye?
Does she feel the pain I feel?
Is she as full of conflict as I?

My ears miss her voice.
My lips miss her kiss.
My eyes miss her presence.
My fingers miss her skin.

But I did not touch her
After goodbye.

Come To Me Again

Her hands were small
Almost tiny in mine.
When they moved on me
I was a man transfixed
In that moment.

Her eyes were flame
But not in a searing way.
They burned as does the sun
In a September sky
Generous and filled with promise.

Her lips were soft and gentle
Warm
Open
When I leaned into her.
Her mouth nourished me
With the passions of life.

Her long, auburn hair was a banner
And would shine
In the morning sun
Would luster by moonlight.
Her tresses
Would mantle me in each embrace.

To touch her was to know
The firmament of heaven
The tides of seas
The lofty climes of rare air
The purity of snows
And the musk of earth.

A man may no more keep her
As he might catch the breath of butterflies
Or the majesty of lions.

She is singular.
There is no other.
And like the amazement that comes
With undulating Auroras
I may only dream
She might come to me
Again.

The Sister of My Son*

You are my first born.
You taught me thrill
Adoration
Responsibility
And love.

Nothing on earth could touch you.
I was your protection.

I cleaned and bandaged your cuts.
I cheered your grade school performances
Your high school events
Took you on your first “date”
To teach you how boys must treat you.

I bargained for your first car
A little yellow Mustang.
I drove through a winter storm
To rescue you when it stalled
And pushed it a block
To safety
While you warmed under my heater.

I lectured you
When you selected an unworthy dating partner.
I carefully schooled the man
Who would become your husband
Before granting my blessing.

But I failed you, too.
I was absent when I should have been present.
I was harsh when I should have been gentle.
I was silent when I should have spoken
And spoke when I should have been silent.

Without discussion
You dismissed me
Withholding my precious grand daughters.
You knew precisely where to insert the blade
For maximum effect.

We have circled the sun
Time times time
Since I have seen you.
I may nevermore see you.

You were my most fond joy
But have become my greatest sorrow.

Like the Prayer of St. Francis
I learned to accept what I cannot change.
Nothing remains of you in my life.

You were once my daughter.
But by the volition of your will
You are now the sister of my son.

* Sadly, this poem is truth. I suppose I was a terrible father, being too chained to
my career. There is a price for such foolishness. Why is life most clear, viewed from
the perspective of age? My daughter is a lovely, good woman. But, like myself, will
one day see more sharply through the lens of advanced age. As for me...I seek
redemption through grace, undeserved. I held too lightly that which deserved a firm
grasp, and too tightly to that which held far less merit. Perhaps this confession
will serve as encouragement to a parent for whom the clock still ticks.

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,Joplin and Moore
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.

Personal Note----It Hurts Sometimes

Yesterday I attended the funeral of a dear friend. Ken was 66 years young. Friday evening, while at his desk he suffered a massive heart attack and stepped into eternity. I have stared into the face of death many times. I was often present when life winked out, like the dying of an ember. When I saw Ken, the mortician had already applied his handiwork. But I gotta tell you...this death got to me. Ken and I served side by side at the police department, and together we had been through some pretty terrible things. Yesterday, looking at Ken lying in his box, I felt very alone. There is one fewer voice I loved to hear. One fewer shoulder I knew was always available to me. One less ear to listen to my confessions. One less heart to love me. Writing this, I realize how selfish this all sounds. I know I will see Ken again. I know he is okay, right now, in the arms of his Savior.

But I feel the loss of a brother right now, in this moment. And it hurts. I hate death, and look with eager anticipation to the time Death itself will die.

~~James

Post Script....Tell someone you love you love them. Tell them what they mean to you. How indispensible they are to you. How greatly you rely upon them. Do it now.

The Dream

I had a dream
Or the dream had me.
I was in shadows
Or shadows were in me.

I saw forever
Or forever saw me.
I was filled with sadness
Or sadness filled with me.

I saw my lover
Or my lover saw me.
I moved to embrace her
Or she to embrace me.

I wept when I held her
Or she wept over me.
I knew I must leave her
Or she knew she must leave me.

The dream finally ended
Or the dream ended me.
I knew the dream had gone forever
Or forever knew the dream had gone from me.

I Knew Then

I took the full fruit
Of my love
And held it out to you.

You took it mildly
Eyes downcast
As only you might do.

I took your chin
Within my palm
To lift your face to mine.

I beheld
Your angel eyes
A look within, sublime.

I sat with you
In the rays
Of a golden, setting sun.

You took my hand
And I knew then
Your heart was fairly won.

Never

We never loved ‘neath the stars
Nor strolled down winter lanes.
Our toes never tumbled leafy streets
Nor did we kiss in summer rains.

But, oh, we loved with passion
As few on earth may do.
And didn’t we give our hearts
As might the braver few.

We never sat on canyon rims
To gaze creation’s art.
Our eyes did not behold the moon
To light our purer hearts.

But, oh, we knew the poetry
Of love that binds the soul
And didn’t we take its fruit
In every moment that we stole.

We never paid the price demanded
A sacrifice for adoration’s fee.
Passing years have dimmed that time
But we once loved, oh, didn’t we!

The Question

I need the fire again
The burn and scald
Of the urgent
As primal need.

I have grown complacent
Far too accepting
Of the mediocre
The banality
Of ordinary days.

There is no longer
An itch
Propelling me
To want more.
Without wanting more
There can be no
Achievement.

Suffering has become my meat
And pain my mistress.
I am devoid of the want of life.
The only thing
Upon which I can depend
Is for misery to hold my hand
To sleep beside me
To be my companion.

The enemy of complacency
Is desire.

The question remains…
Is the desire to desire
Enough
To destroy complacency?

In the Meantime

In a moment of crisis
I begged God
Give me more time.
It seemed reasonable
And he was gracious.

That was sixteen years ago.

Now I sit here
A reasonable man
Looking back
Sixteen years
Wondering if any good
Came from it.

My doctor tells me
Just keep taking my meds
And come back in six weeks.
In the meantime
Complete this battery of tests.
Schedule a colonoscopy.
Cut back on the salt
And consider a treadmill.

My counselor tells me
It’s one step at a time.
Don’t overdrive my headlights.
Take some time out every day.
In the meantime
See the accounts receivable secretary
On the way out
And come back next Friday.

My wife tells me
I never focus on the essentials.
I’ve checked out.
Where did the romance go?
In the meantime
Watch this Hallmark Movie.
Some flowers would be nice.
Maybe some Fannie May.
And try a little harder.

My boss tells me
The stats are overdue.
The payout ledger needs updated.
My schedule is packed solid.
And my hours are cut.
In the meantime
Multitask better.
Read the new HQ bulletin.
Eat lunch at my desk
And park in the distant outer limits.

My friend tells me
Better me than him.
Stand up to the world.
Man-up.
Shut up.
Quit belly aching.
In the meantime
It’s my turn to flip for breakfast.

God asks me
How I’ve enjoyed these
Sixteen years of grace?
He tells me it’s best
Not to ask permission
To alter his perfect plans.

And he wants to know
If I want sixteen more years
Of mean time.

Our Nasty Zen*

Have a cup of coffee
Maybe some eggs and toast
With me.
(We can talk of the course
Of our lives
And the distance ‘tween you and me.)

Yes, it looks like rain.
Been a long, hard winter
Too.
(But what I’d like to ask
Is what the hell happened
To me and you?)

Sure, I’ll get some sugar
And some more cream
For your cup.
(But how do I delicately
Probe, beyond the arcane
“Whas’ up?”)

Yeah, that’s my new truck
Parked out there
In the lot.
(Do I dare ask how you are?
That’s too intimate a question
So I guess not.)

Tell me about the kids
And all the surface
News.
(I’ll pretend to show interest
About your Caribbean
Cruise.)

So, your husband got promoted
And a new red ‘Beemer
Got him rollin’?
(I’d rather hear about his
Prostate and trouble
With his colon.)

Yeah. It’s been great.
We need to do this
Again.
(But in my heart I know
It’s karma, and this our
Nasty little Zen.)

*Sometimes poetry is just fun!

Broken Pavement and Strobes

Midday rains slicken the avenue
As umbrellas bloom
Along the financial district
Like mushrooms on the forest floor.

The city murmurs business here
But further south
Where broken pavement mimics
Broken lives
There is boredom
Bluster
Violence
And death.

Blue strobes flash from cruisers
Red from ambulances
And fire trucks.

Twenty blocks divide
The wealthy
From the broken.

She was six years old
Sitting on her front porch.
He was fourteen
Walking to his grandmother’s
For dinner.
She was an honor student
Huddled with friends.
She was six weeks old
And her father was changing her diapers.

These children
And hundreds more
Were shot and killed
In one of the most elegant
But violent cities of the world.

The innocent dead stare from the tomb
Their blood on our hands.
How may we celebrate our gain
As we bury our loss?

Perhaps that is not rain falling
In the financial district.

It is God weeping.

A Baptism

Fog and rain join
To birth a soft silence
Muted tones so still
I hear my heart beating.

Traffic sighs from the streets
Busses belching diesel.
Puddles along the curb
Invert the world in monochrome.

Leaning against a doorpost
I swallow fresh air
Heavy with ozone
And the scent of damp earth.

I wish my hands were full
Wish my heart was full
My life full
Filled with purpose and meaning.

But this is not so bad.
Better to have one chance
Than none.
Better a little hope
Than none.
Better blurred vision
Than blindness.

Better fog and rain
Than fire and ice.

Empty pockets remind me
I am clothed.
Hunger reminds me
I live.
A headache assures me
I feel.
Even traffic reminds me
There are places to go.

I allow the rain to soak my bare head
A baptism in resolve.

To Readers Who Ask About my Mystery Woman……

First, I sincerely thank you for your amazing comments on my poetry. You encourage me more than you may realize.

Secondly, I must say there is little more I can tell you about my “Monarch;” my “Darling.” I promised her she would always remain in hushed solitude among the chapters of my life story. All I can tell you is that she was a tremendous source of joy and wonder to me in what was the darkest times of my life. I have had no communication from her for thirteen years. I often wonder her whereabouts; what course her life has taken; if she is happy. She taught me that life has meaning, even when it is at its most bleak. She showed me that the most incredible pleasure may be had even in a touch, or in her eyes. She would stay on the phone with me while sharing the beauty of a golden sunset. Her waters flowed deep. Though a very private person, when alone, would share everything freely. She was almost shy, until suddenly she was not. She was surprising; her laugh the tintinnabulation of bells. Her's was the most cherished of loves and friendship. I wish she could have stayed, but she could not. While that was devastating to me, I supported her need to follow her heart. I wonder whether she reads my work here. Sometimes I feel she does. I hope so. But she probably does not. I know there is no chance of rekindling our lost flame. Life moves us beyond that which has passed, opening new doors as it seals old ones. My poetry reflects the wonder of her, and a time moving always further away. I wonder what she looks like today (beautiful, I am sure); how her life is going. I think of her, and the time we had. I think of her all the time.

Monarch…if you are reading this…...well…...you know.

~~~ James

Borders

I remember sweet morning air
Fragranced with growing things
Earthy scents
Mixed with the aroma of coffee
Wafting from the kitchen
Where my father sat
Smoke from his cigarette
Floating in shafts of sunlight.

The morning news
Mingled with the static of its AM signal
Issued from our radio’s tiny speaker.
Beyond our window
A neighbor’s lawnmower buzzed
The tang of fresh-cut grass
Adding to the bouquet of morning.

I was a child
And free to mount my bright red bike
To patrol the boundaries
Of my expanding world.

The Burlington tracks beckoned.
I would search for railroad flares
And maybe a rusty spike.
A penny
Flattened on a rail
Would prove my daring
Prove I was there
Alive
An explorer no less eager
Than Columbus or Magellan
Mapping his ever-growing world.

What became of the wonder of it all?
When did the smells change
The sounds dull
My senses tire?
And what became of my treasured penny?

Expanded borders
Are not the same
As giant worlds.

Amazing

It is amazing
How quickly distance
May be closed.

Ten thousand yards
May be reduced
In seconds.

A dozen years
May be resolved
In one embrace.

The mathematics of life
Are circumstantial.
Our arithmetic is porous.

Darling
You are far
From me.

Yet you might find
Lost intimacy
With the flash of your eye.

You may find me
Where you left me.
I never moved.

My arms
My heart
My love is near.

It is amazing
How quickly distance
May be closed.

Sometimes

Sometimes
The universe seems to pause
I the only one moving
Seeing
Thinking.

Sometimes
I am the only breathing
Soul
The only
Sentient being.

Sometimes
I weep
Not for the universe
Not for the world
Not for you.

Sometimes
I weep selfishly
And am afterward
Ashamed .
But I must be honest.

Sometimes
I weep for myself.

Right?

Powerful pain killers
Surge my bloodstream
Numbing me
Rescinding the intense burn
Searing every extremity.

I am a castaway
A fugitive
A survivor
A man doomed and destined.

Chambers of horror
Vivid in detail
Slam shut in my brain
And I achieve cruising altitude
That rare place
Where nothing matters.

That knife blade before my eyes
Was never there.
Those bullets inches from my brain
Never sang their tenor song.
Her nightly screams
Her incantations of
Go to hell
Never scalded me.
That gaping maw of the shotgun
Never centered on my heart.
The tip of that iron in my shoulder
Never felled me.
That Crown Vic never crushed my ribs.

Three Oxycontin
And everything lethal melts away
Like April snow.
Three little white pills
And life settles into cruising speed.
Then three more
To maintain altitude.

I am not an addict.
I have a prescription.
That makes it all legal.
All okay.
Right?

Besides
The pain is real.
The emotional release
Is just an incidental benefit.
Isn’t it?

Aw, hell.
It doesn’t matter.
That was another life
When I was a younger man.
Maybe it never
Really
Happened.

Right?

A bullet is a few grams weight.
A knife is silent and passive.
A shotgun shell is simply bird shot.
A Crown Vic is just a car.
An iron is merely a household instrument.
Go to hell is just an epitaph.

Nothing means nothing.
Right?

Not even little white pills.

The Children in Room 3

They are no longer human.
They are now things
Called “Remains.”

An hour earlier
They were children.
They laughed and joked
Talking of who would be at the dance.
They were in the moment
Fully alive
Happy
Filled with expectation.

Now they are zipped in body bags
In Room 3.
They are things.

In Room 2
A human sits on an examination table
Where a silent doctor stitches his forehead.
The human drunkenly complains
Of the sting in the procedure
Complains of the harsh light
Complains he cannot leave
Complains he cannot get a drink.

In minutes frantic parents will arrive
And be escorted
Into Room 1
Where I will tell them
A drunk driver murdered their children.
They will ask questions parents always ask.
Am I sure it’s their child?
Where are they now?
Am I sure?
Am I sure?

In Room 2 the human howls at the stitches.

Yes
I am sure their children died instantly upon impact.
I am sure their bodies were charred in the resulting fire.
I am sure because I forced myself to view their remains
Though I will not tell them that
For fear they will want to see, too.
They must not see that.
No parent must see that.
I know.
I am a parent.

The human in Room 2
Should have been the one to die.
But he did not.
He will have a future.

The children in Room 3
Only have a past.

There Be Dragons

Everything unknown
Occasion shudders.
Not just next year
Month
Week or day
But there is
A certain uncertainty
Pregnant in my next breath.

Please do not misunderstand.
I am not a “Scare-de-cat.”
I tend to run to the roar
And have requisite scars
As proof.

Those who gird up their loins
In anticipation of danger
Will testify.

Tomorrow is less mysterious
Than the next moment.

The stench and tang
Of a burning fuse
Is more frightful
Than the detonation to follow.

You must trust me on this.

The step into midair
From a lofty precipice
Is far more disturbing
Than the tumble to follow.

There must be science to this phenomena.

I track everything dangerous.
I make myself aware
Of probable pain
In any denomination.
But most things perilous
Remain hidden
Veiled
And cannot be marked
Or pegged as a hazard.

It has always been thus.

I warn you
Fellow traveler
I caution you
Fellow pilgrim.
Heed me.

Beyond here there be dragons.

Endure the Thunder

Thunder
When distant
Sounds like artillery.

Lightening
Within cloud tops
Is as detonation.

Reverberations echo
Not only roof to roof
Alley to alley
But cell to cell
Corpuscle to corpuscle.

The footfalls
Against concrete
Are those of playing teens
But they sound like Taliban.

I get it.

You sit across from me
Trembling
Hoping I not think you weak.
Eyes in your lap
Upon your folded hands
You pray there is some way
For you
To live
Away from the terror.

Of course there is none.

Son
The path you must forge
Is through the carnage
Not around it.
But I will go with you.

Together we will endure the thunder.

An Old Rebel

I am an old rebel
And recalcitrant at that.
I have no will
No compelling motive
To conform to your standard
To do it your way.

If I can find a path
Around you
I’ll take it.
If there is no way
I’ll forge one.
If I cannot bypass you
I will go through you.

Let me be clear:
I need no stated reason
To rebel.
Rebellion is not only
What I do
It is who I am.

I am the one
With clenched fist
Against the dawn.

I am he
Weeping bitterly
Who cries aloud in protest
Because I do not accept
Nor will bend my knee
To your reason
And carefully constructed
Explanations.

I am a rebel.
I was born a rebel.
I will die a rebel.
When I do
Do not bury me in your quiet
Little bone yard.

Cast my carcass in the tide
That every day
All night long
Until the very last
I may wash up on your shore
To ever remind you
I will never go away.

Last Night the Moon Rose

Last night the moon rose
Fair and pale
Delicate
Beautiful.
It fixed
Gazing silently
Serene.

I wonder
Did you see it?

Did its soft light
Fall upon you
And did your thoughts return
To our long ago embrace
Below its lunar marvel?

It was witness
To our kisses
And the bond of our union.
Every frozen mar
Upon its alabaster skin
Is now as then.
Nothing has changed.

But you have changed.

I wonder
Did you see the moon
When it rose last night?

The Grace in Her

She was patient.
No prodding.
No urgency.
No demand.
No tapping fingertips.
No exasperated sighs.

She was a Sunday morning.
Patient
Kind
Welcoming.

Her every expression exuded gentleness.
We gave time
To soft conversation
Our fingers entwined.

She never asked my trust
Although every moment with her
Chipped at my defenses
Until one day
I knew she had closed the distance
Between myself and her
Between myself and a woman.

I had been hurt
Deeply
Keenly
Vowing to never again trust
To never again love.

But I needed someone.
I needed her.

Trust was the massive barrier
Separating us.
Finally her kindness
Her patience
Won me.

My soul is healed
Able to continue
Because the grace in her
Was greater than the fear in me.

Apparently

We give those we love
Power to destroy us.
All others we protect against.
All others are kept distant.

Those we love
Know how weak
How vulnerable we are.

We show them our tender places
Where the blood is most near the surface.
We give the ones we love the poison
Most lethal
We put the knife
The gun
In their hands
The words
On their lips
The traitor’s caress
In their touch.

Strangers have never pained me.
But the ones I love
Have grievously wounded me
Again and again.

And I foolishly give them
Opportunity
To do it right next time.

Apparently
I would rather die
Than pretend I am not loved
As much as I love.

I Did Not Blink

The night was like iron
On the platform
Where the offender and I waited.

A point of light
A mile down track
Marked the inbound train.

My thoughts hung
Like mist
In the midnight air.

I thought of his brutality
The scars on the body
Of his wife.

I thought of the damage
To her trembling soul
Her fractured heart.

He was apprehended
Before he began
A fresh assault.

I trembled too.
Not because of fear.
I shook with murder.

Rage pulsed within.
I hated this man
This creature beside me.

I wanted him in a cold cell
But he had yet
To inflict his fresh hell.

We were moving him
Down the tracks
Out of town.

Be careful
I said
You may fall
In front of that train.
The engineer can’t see you.
You’ll die.
You'll be dead.

Dead.
Dead.

He laughed at me.
I grabbed his arm fiercely
Shifting him toward the edge
Of the platform
My left shoulder
Shoving into his right.
The train’s bell clanged
The smell of diesel
And a fresh chill
Having nothing to do with the cold
Filled the air.

Bile rose from my gut
To the back of my throat
The silver and blue engine
Growing as large as my hate.

The engine passed.
The Metra slowed
Then stopped
The door sliding open.
Florescent light
Poured out
Like blood gushing
From the wounds of his wife.

The monster stepped inside
Turning toward me.

Could you really do it?
He asked.

I did not blink
Until the door closed
And he was gone.