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.