A Word to Tim...

I never owned my own horse, but I've straddled a few. In fact, aside from my truck (a fire engine red, standard cab, short bed Ram, slathered in copious amounts chrome and powered by a 4.7 ltr. V8), nothing is better than the squeak of saddle leather astride a buttermilk 'hos. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it! As a matter of fact, I am writing a work of fiction, called The Bone Tree. It's like giving birth...painful, messy and promising many years of after-care. Happy New Year, Tim!
~ James

At Least Until I Die

I sat atop my pony
Gazing ‘cross the Great Divide.
We could go west, or east
It was for us together to decide.

There was little prompting.
It didn’t much matter which.
But we decided we’d head east
Based on a nagging itch.

The mountain passes would soon close
Being overwhelmed in snow.
The main thing was just getting out
Whichever way we’d go.

We backtracked the grassy plains.
Crossed rivers we’d crossed before.
There was little that we wanted
And we needed nothing more.

A couple of hard months later
We stepped into the eastern sea.
I thought of the troubling matter
Of what may come of me.

Talking it over with my pony
We determined to head south this time.
The matter was decided
In the flipping of a dime.

We finally arrived in Brownsville, Texas
But there was little for me there
So I discussed it with my pony
And we turned to take some northern air.

The day we came to Windsor, Canada
Was the day we made another choice.
Everybody must be somewhere
So I harkened to my pony’s voice.

My pony said he wanted a place
Where he could just lay down a bit.
He said he had grown so tired
And it was time for him to quit.

I bought that faithful pony two acres
Of good grass with apple trees.
But I was still good at walking
And any more goin' was up to me.

So I strolled to the Pacific Ocean
Just to see that water roll.
I could step in it and go on walking
There weren't many more places for me to go.

I guessed I could walk to China
Or retire atop a watery crest
Or I could go back to see my pony.
He always knew to do what's best.

So I turned back to my dear pony
And he made a place for me to lie.
Then invited me to stay forever
Or at least until I die.

Now we talk about our journeys
Up till our rambling days came to an end
Discovering the reason that we traveled
Was for a man and pony to become friends.

The Swear Word

The swear word she selected
Surprised me.
I had not expected someone
As slight
As feminine as she
Could even know phonics
Like that.
The way she formed that word
Made it sound appropriate
Even cute
Though it is not.

I raised a brow.
I smiled.
I even laughed a little.

She cocked her head
At my response
So I felt the need to explain.

How could someone as delicate
As you
Even know the meaning of so low a word?

It was now her turn
To raise a brow
To laugh a little.

Our conversation took needful turns
And drifted into some fascinating narrows.
I marveled
At how deftly she maneuvered
Our discourse
Our interaction.

She handled me with the skill
Of a true craftsman.
Before I realized what she was doing
She had pared my biography like an apple
Every detail opening to her
Easily
Painlessly.

Reciprocation was in order.

The next several weeks
And months
Were spent exploring the ways
Our paths wended and intersected.

She never again used that word
That first caused me to look up
Arch a brow
And smile.

Though she clearly understood its meaning.

The Taper

I lit a white taper
Placing it on the mantle.
It has a twin
Somewhere.

Two small flickers
Are all that remain
Of a fierce flame
That once raged
Unmanaged
Uncontrolled
Unending.

It’s like a coal fire
Deep in the earth
Having few ports
To vent heat.
That kind of
Fire will burn
Forever.

I sit back
In early evening
Shadows
In fading light
Content knowing
The darker the room
The more brilliant
Is
Even
A
Very
Small
Flame.

To My Readers ~~

I wish every reader of The Dashboard Poet a very Merry Christmas. May your homes ring in joy, and your hearts be warmed in the blessing God extends...Peace on Earth, and Good Will Toward Men, With Whom His Favor Rests!

~ James

Fur and Feather

I tethered my pony
Near a stand of good grass
Brewed up some coffee
And let the time pass.

The stars begin to wink on.
They took their place one by one
And soon they were everywhere
With the going down of the sun.

I sat against a rock wall
And slowly sipped my brew
As I considered all my blessings.
You know, there are quite a few.

The evening air grew chilly
So I built up my little fire
And huddled down in my sheepskin
To listen to creation’s choir.

An old hoot owl was the conductor.
The orchestra was composed of geese
That, while winging high or’ head
Gave the melody full release.

A lone coyote, in the distance
Sang the tenor part
While the bass was sung by bullfrogs
Who knew their lines by heart.

My pony filled in as soprano
As she whinnied soft and high.
I closed my eyes and listened
As the hours seemed to fly.

My own heart gave the drumbeat
As everything came together.
Not a single thing was missing
By furry critters, or birds of feather.

The whole night long I listened
To one melody after another.
Each performance was amazing
Every voice was fine and sure.

Daylight dawned far too quickly.
My campfire had grown cold.
But had I remained there forever
I doubt the music would’ve grown old.

One day I hope to return
For my soul ever yearns and longs
To pause at the edge of midnight
And again hear creation’s song.

The Badge, the Uniform, the End of Days

Several years ago I created this site as an outlet for my poetry and prose. My intention was, and is, to maintain that endeavor. But sometimes events occur about which I cannot be silent. Such is the case with the assassination of two New York police officers, who were simply sitting in their squad car, on a "10-7"…having their lunch.
Officers Wenjian Liu and Rafael Ramos loved their city, and were committed to its welfare. Officer Liu was married two weeks earlier. Officer Ramos’ thirteen year old son made a public statement saying he’d had the “best dad in the world.” There are no words equal to the loss in describing the horror of these killings.
As many of you know, I wore a police uniform for 22 years. I was not a patrol officer, or detective. I was a badged and uniformed chaplain. I was the one who knocked on your door at 2:00 a.m. to inform you your teenager had been killed in an accident. I was the one standing beside the dead bodies, waiting for the Medical Examiner to give me something to tell the survivors. I wore my uniform proudly. I loved my city, its citizenry, and the men and women with whom I served.
In that time, I conducted four police funerals, one officer dead by his own hand, having indicated he could no longer face those things officers experience every day. I removed my badge and retired my uniform, when I began to experience severe symptoms of PTSD. When it became obvious I was not going to get better I knew it was time to step back.
Last night I asked my family what they would think were I to return to duty. Their response? “No! You would just get shot.” What an awful contemplation forced upon the family of one who simply wants to serve. I have been shot at, though at the time I was just an unfortunate pedestrian caught in a cross fire. It was over in seconds, but for the next half hour I sat on the curb, throwing up and shaking. Liu and Ramos likely never saw their attacker. They had no opportunity to defend themselves.
Days before their murder, activists led a crowd loudly chanting, “What do we want? DEAD COPS! When do we want it? NOW!” There has been no strong language coming from the White House or Justice Department to come alongside police officers who just want to do their jobs and return home at the end of their shift. Nothing. The best that has been offered is tepid compared to the strong language supporting offenders. Were I young again, and contemplating a career, the very notion of entering law enforcement would be laughable. In terms of "Line of Duty Deaths," it's less dangerous to be an infantryman in Afghanistan that it is to be a beat officer in any major American city. You may laugh at that statement. I hope I'm wrong. I'm not.
Pray for the families of Officer Liu and Officer Ramos. Pray that the "Thin Blue Line" that remains the only barrier between uncontrollable violence and your loved ones, remain intact, and safe. Approach an officer (slowly and carefully, as they are hyper-vigilant now) and thank them for their service. Folks, it is going to get worse. It is not going to get better. Our poor land has already tipped over the edge, and there is no return to Mayberry. There are no longer any Sheriff Andys or Deputy Fifes. There are only heroic and embattled law enforcement officers. Are there any bad cops? Sure. Just as there are bad taxi drivers and bad garbage haulers. But I must cast my lot somewhere. I cast it with my fraternity in blue, confident that the vast numbers of them are good people doing an impossible job. I hope you agree. If you do not, then the next time you need help...call a thug.
I tell you, this world is, to me, a Picasso. All the familiar lines have been skewed. Nothing makes sense. Well, that’s not entirely true. There is one thing that makes perfect sense. It makes sense that I have permanently retired my badge and uniform.

Sadly,
James

PS....Five hours after this post I discovered the Line of Duty Deaths of six officers, nationally, just in the month of December. One was murdered by a handgun, in Florida. Four others in pursuits and vehicular accidents, and one murdered while transporting a prisoner. And so the story goes.
PS2....Flagstaff, AZ, Officer Tyler Stewart was gunned down and killed last Saturday, when he calmly asked a Domestic Violence suspect permission to pat him down. After being wounded, and on the ground, the officer was repeatedly shot until dead. News services offer no detail concerning Stewart's family. He is the second northern Arizona officer killed in the Line of Duty. The first was killed after a traffic stop involving a vehicle with too-loud a stereo disrupting a neighborhood.
PS3.....After the New Year I have no intention of updating the numbers of firings on law enforcement officers. This site is not for that purpose. But until we cross that magic line at midnight, Wednesday, I will provide those troubling, grim statistics. Last night two Los Angeles officers were fired upon while in their squad car. A man with a rifle and a handgun was arrested and charged. Thankfully, even with a rifle, the suspect was a horrible shot. But even horrible shots, when they miss, sometimes kill innocents, like the little girl that was killed while sitting on the front steps of her grandmother's home.
PS4.....On Tuesday, Dec. 30, six Boston teenagers attacked two officers as the officers made an arrest in an apartment building, sending the officers to the hospital. Trend, anyone?

Realization

You opened my life
The way I open an orange:

Firstly
Delighting in the appearance
Of what entices me.

Secondly
Carefully tugging away
The thin outer skin
The casing that holds the flavor.

Thirdly
Pulling the sweet inner life apart
In sections
Understanding the content
By degree.

Lastly
Savoring the tart taste
By the slow reduction
Of its parts
Until it joins my life.

So have you done with me.

How Funny

It was an amazing sunset
The kind that forms tears
In the corners of my eyes.

I had very recently been abandoned
After twenty eight years
Of a very troubled marriage.

I felt like ash.
I felt that way constantly.

Coming from a meeting
With the police brass
I was still in uniform
As I fell into my lawn chair.

I had an open bottle
Of red wine
I bought years ago
From a little place
I occasionally visited.
I am not a very good drinker
But a little wine seemed about right
This evening.

I looked at the sun.
Beautiful.
But it was also alone.

I took a sip.
Then a sip more.

The golden orb of the sun
Sparked from the thinning branches
Of my maple tree.

It was becoming chilly
So I huddled deeper into my blue jacket.
It felt wrong to drink wine
While still wearing the badge.
But I was alone.
Nobody would notice.
Who would care?

Hell, I was always alone.

This time I took a long pull
From the shapely bottle.
Then another.
And another.

I drank half the bottle
And didn’t feel a thing.

Weak wine.

Hell
I drank it all.
The whole thing.
It was about as potent as grape soda.

I didn’t even notice
The sun had set.
In fact it had become full night.

I must have fallen asleep.
The bottle
Still in my hand
Was amazingly empty.
And weirdly funny.

Damn weak wine.

I stood up.
Or, I tried to stand up.

I fell flat on my face.

I started to laugh.
Laugh hilariously.
I crawled all the way
To my back door
Laughing all the way.

The grass was wet with dew.
My uniform would need dry cleaning.

That seemed so funny!
I laughed again.

I crawled into my bedroom.
I crawled into bed
My badge catching
On the blanket.
That was funny!
So I laughed.

The empty bottle
Remained in my right hand.
How funny!
So I laughed.

Tomorrow I would write that winery
And tell them how weak their damn wine is.

And I laughed.
Then I slept for twelve hours.

Damn weak wine.
How funny.

Cherokee Poker, 1876

To any novice
Watching the card game
Our conversation
Seemed harmless
Banter.

It was not.

It was threat
Lethal in escalation.

Isolating on words
He used repeatedly
I perceived intent.

So I did not disengage.

I countered his thrust
With my parry.

I made contact.
He flinched
But slightly.

His next effort
Was a bit less invisible
And the eyes of others
At the table
Fixed upon us.

He called me a bald-faced liar
And a cheat.
Fairly direct, I thought.

Long ago I learned
When it’s time to play your hand
Do it deftly.
With purpose.
Boldly.

So I did what I knew.

I told him if he did not apologize immediately
I would show him to be
The dainty
Foul-smelling
Pig-kissing
Slop-eared
Snake-bellied
Son of a bitch
Cherokee
Mule skinner
I knew him to be.

He could not walk away from that.

This time he flinched more noticeably.
His honor now much in question
He would have to match my mouth
Or leave with his tail tucked
Between the crack of his hog-like ass.

Or he could kill me.

He sputtered
Blew fumes
Turned crimson
And blustered
Declaring my scalp
Would flutter from his lodge pole
In the morning.

Or words to that effect.

That provided grounds
Upon which any jury of my peers
Would agree.

So I shot him.

And I was right about the jury…
Except for one detail.
They are hanging me in the morning.

But I can keep my scalp.

No Dream*

Closing my eyes to sleep
I thought of her
Hoping to steer my dreams
In her direction.

Concentrating
Upon the spark
In her hazel eyes
I considered
Their autumnal blaze.
The welcome in them.

When I awakened
It was 1:11 a.m.

I’d had no dream.

Face into my pillow
I tried again.

Her lips were turned
In a perpetual smile
Though not in expression of humor.
They extended invitation
Passion
Desire.

When I awakened
It was 5:45 a.m.

I’d had no dream.

I lay on my side
In the early predawn.
I thought of her body
Delicate
Soft skin
Perfectly proportioned
Designed
And anxious for love.

When I awakened
It was 8:22 a.m.

I’d had no dream.

But I will try again tonight
Knowing that the only thing worse
Than having no dream of her
Is having one
Knowing she sleeps
At the side of another.

*Reminding you these poems are sometimes personal and autobiographical, sometimes purely fiction. I'll let you guess which is what. Just enjoy them for what they are. I'm betting we have all tried to direct our dreams in Hollywood fashion, usually with no success (whether the dream did or did not occur!).

We Are the Less*

Watching heroes fall
Is an especially ruthless experience.

To have a hero
Requires action
Requires enthronement
And no little trust.

When in painful times
I assemble the thinning ranks
Of the few I’ve so ennobled.
I think on them
And they bring relief
Hope
Charity.
They bring honor.

So, when one of them
Is made to step from behind
A false front
I encounter pain
Rooted in an unwise
Foolish nomination.

Yes, I know this is America
Where innocence is presumed.
I also understand any charge
Can be reduced to
He did / She said.
But there may never be a court of law
In which the matter can be resolved.

That forces deliberation.

Mr. Cosby
I doubt you much care
What one person may think.
But you were on a remarkably
Lofty strata
Among the few that could
Arbitrarily and instantly
Mollify my melancholy.

You are no longer funny, sir.

You no longer have substance.

We who adored you
Are among the victims
(albeit nothing like those you violated)
Of your pathetic behavior.

We are the less
For having made you the best.

*My personal thoughts on Bill Cosby's impersonal behavior.

Worthy

Her bones are those
Of a finely timbered ship
Crafted for the seas
And not the harbor.

Her flesh is that of canvas
Full of salt and spray
Billowed with purpose
Prepared for endless crossings.

Her mind is as the wheel
Steady 'neath her Master’s hand
Ready and longing
To be free of line and gone.

Her eyes are those of the compass
Sighting the sun
Fixing her place under
The stars and moon.

Her spirit is the ship’s creaking
Pressured by the tossing sea
Battering waves
And tensions of her rigging.

Her hearing is as conch shells
Passing 'neath her keel
Searching whale songs below
And storms aloft.

Her nostrils, filled with breeze
Drink both salty savors
And coastal strands'
Earthy scent.

She tastes the tang of oceans
The bitterness of lost mariners
The sweetness of discovery
And relish the spices of harbors.

She rolls in the seduction of trade winds
The sharp pang of storms
In the volatile Caribbean
And sorrows tendered in her wake.

How I would serve her
Canvas full
With decks awash
Leaning into the shoulder of storms!

A worthy vessel is she
Made for the lifting of seas
A matchless maiden so free
From Boston to the Leeward Antilles!

A Texaco Station

It had no charm.
It smelled of gasoline and grease
It had a gigantic red star
On a high post
Near the street
Emblazoned with:
TEXACO.

You can trust your car
To the man who wears
The star
The big
Bright
Texaco Star!

Along the front of the station
Roof top-tall
Brightly colored plastic pendants
Snapped in the breeze.

Near the door
To the small office
Stood a squat
Red Coca Cola cooler
The kind with a maze
Of runners each bottle
Must navigate
To give a boy with a quarter
A painfully cold soft drink.

Mitch ran the place.
He had a pencil moustache
And dark green coveralls
Stained with oil and dirt.
Mitch had a goofy smile
Stretching
Beneath dark eyes.

Laying across the service bay
Between twin rows of pumps
Was a rubber hose
That chimed a bell
Telling Mitch
To get out there
Clean the windshield
Check the oil
Check the water
Check the air in the tires
And pump that Ethyl gasoline.

Deep within the cavern
Of the garage
Was a 1966 calendar
Featuring a naked red head
Cupping her enormous breasts
With a “come hither” smile.

As a kid
I always found reason
To visit the garage
When Mitch was busy elsewhere.

The white tile station
With its cracked concrete bay
Dirty glass
Girlie calendar
And the tactile textures
A boy must not forget
Is long gone.

It does not matter
What inhabits that address today.
What matters is that
Once upon a time
There was a service station
That remains
In the memory of an aging man
Who cannot forget
He once was a little boy
That loved
A greasy
Dirty
Noisy
Smelly
Amazing
And forever gone
Texaco station.

The Broken Stradivari

It fell to pieces in his hand
As he took the stage
His violin, from another age
Simply broke apart, crumbling
As his heart did.

Replacing the instrument in its case
The violinist sat to grieve
His tears daubed by his sleeve.
The ancient violin, now gone
Had been his friend, so dear.

For three centuries it sang
Melodies so sweet they made him cry.
It seemed as he may die
And trembling deep within
Could not keep from it.

The manufacture of Stradivari
From so very long ago
The body, neck and scroll
Had finished the race prescribed
And to thousands, was grace, incarnate.

All we, like the violin
Will soon complete our course
And will, by death, be forced
To silence our voice, our song
Yet must rejoice we had one.

For the present, in this day
Make melody and song
Be confident and strong.
Sweeten and endure your tribulation.
May your allure be charming!

December 4, 1919, Green County, Arkansas

Today, December 4, is my dad's birthday. Had he lived he would be 95 today. He was not an easy man. He gentled as he aged, but as a young father, there were times he was hard. Distant. He never wanted to take our family to fireworks on the 4th of July. As a kid, that made me angry. I couldn’t understand. There’s nothing more awesome than fire in the sky! I hung on relentlessly one summer. We argued in the kitchen. I was intent on wearing him down. Finally, he reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew a pack of matches, lit one and threw it into the sink. “There’s your fireworks,” he said. Of course, I whined and threw a fit which he ignored, having walked into the bedroom. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I understood him on that night. When he saw fireworks, he didn’t see “fire in the sky.” He saw German 88’s raining down hot shrapnel, sometimes exploding in tree tops, making millions of lethal splinters as well as shrapnel, that sliced into the bodies of his friends. In retrospect, I loved him all the more. He contracted cancer after he retired. He was not doing well. I took a week to spend with him. Most of that week we watched wrestling, which I wordlessly despised. After an hour of this, one afternoon, dad said to me, “I killed a boy.” His eyes never left the TV screen. I was sure I misheard him. But he said it again. “I killed a boy.” His track was stranded, out of gas, in the French countryside. A burning house illuminated them in the night. They were cut off. Stranded. Two Hitler Youth came down the road, pushing a motorcycle that was also out of gas. Schmeiser Machine guns were strapped across their chests. Dad shot them. The next morning they made contact with their unit, got gas, and left. But before they did, dad went to see the boys, lying in the road. A tank had run the bodies over, making them only dimly recognizable as human. He told me that story with zero inflection in his voice. He did not cry, or choke up. He just told me what he did. Then he did look up at me. He said, “Every night, when I go to bed, I ask God to forgive me. And every night I see that dead boy.” No amount of wisdom or counsel could fix him. I’m sure I’m doing dad a disservice. He was an intensely loyal man. I saw him take a swing at a bully neighbor whose bully kid had harmed an innocent. He worked in weather any of us would hurry from, to be sure we were fed, clothed, cared for. I’ve spent a lot of time doing a poor job. I’ll just say that my dad is still my hero. I’ve spent 61 years trying to be something near what he authentically was. I thought he would take pride in me the first (and only) time he saw me in uniform. But it had the opposite effect. He nearly cried. And not out of pride in me. He was afraid (rightly so) that I would become a target. So I never told him about the times his fears came close to being well-founded. I’ve always wanted to match him. But he’s gone now, so that’s pointless. The best I can do is just be the best imitation of him that I can. I miss him so much. He is my hero. Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.
~ James

Stream of Consciousness*

Oh, God.
What’s in his hand?
Oh, shit.

Got him aligned
Center mass.

Drop it!
Drop it!
Do it now
Or I will shoot!

He’s coming.
Hard and fast.
Eighteen feet
And closing.
Twelve.
Ten.

Stop!
Get down!
Do it!
Do it now!
Get down
Or I will shoot!

He’s not yielding.
Shit!
SHIT!

Stop
God dammit!
STOP!

Nothing.

Blade center mass.

FIRE.
FIRE.

Acrid cordite.
Gun smoke
In my strobes.

Staggering.
Tripping.
Lunging.

What’s in his hand?
Something metallic.
Still coming!

FIRE.
FIRE.

Twisting.
Falling clumsily.
Crimson bubbles.
Four bullet holes.
Blood from his mouth.

God DAMMIT!
GOD DAMMIT!

Pedestrians watching.
Too quiet.

Go see.
Go.

Oh, Jesus.
He’s a kid.
A fuckin’ kid.

Oh, God.
Oh, God.

Twelve seconds.
Oh, Christ.

*I spent 22 years with one department. I've had the training. Very thorough. I know personally officers that have had to take a life. It is, I assure you, nothing like what you see on Law and Order. As I write this, tears stream my cheeks. I have seen the bodies. My hands are shaking. Nobody ever wants this. I have used, in this work, profanity no gentleman uses, until he has to draw his weapon. Then vocabulary is of no consequence. My life was threatened. I understand. Vocabulary is simple phonics, at that time. If I have offended those of you looking for Helen Steiner Rice, well...I cannot apologize. I'm dealing with PTSD. Or, it's dealing with me. This is not an attempt to re-live Ferguson. The dynamics there were different than those I suppose here. What happened in Ferguson is terrible. I do not know Officer Wilson. But he is my "brother." I understand him. Most of you cannot. But I do. This is a shitty poem. It's far too real. I thought, and re-thought whether to post this work. At the end of the day, I think it's right. Think these thoughts. Put yourself out there. Try it.
~James

The Ripper*

The are shadows
In the night
Where I hide
From others' sight
There are shadows
Giving fright
Where dwells nothing.

In these empty realms
Where thrives shade
Where nothing lives
That was made
In the darkness
Colors fade
All is bloodless.

Nothingness resides here.
Gone all created things
Barking dogs
Voices that sing
It all has gone away
From beggar man to king.
The dark is lonely.

But I am watching you
From here.
From the bleakness
Where is no air
Within the shadows
You have no prayer.
You are mine now.

* This gruesome little verse is a brief glimpse through the eyes of a twisted killer. I spent 5 years working in a prison. While there, I met the most frightening man I've ever known. He was a serial killer; a hired gun, an assassin. I was alone with this murderer up to 5 hours every week. He had "shark eyes"...dead, dark, forbidding. I never turned my back on this criminal. If ever a mortal had a satanic soul, this man did. He never threatened me. That was not how he did business. He would simply, coldly, and brutally take your life. Watch your "donkey," people. Stay in the light.
~ James

Facing Goliath

What were you thinking?
That I would not pursue?
That I would shrug this off?

You imagined me weak.
Indecisive.
Thought me mild.
Tepid.
Lamb-like.

I will explain our confrontation.

I surprise you.

You are off-balance.
Must reexamine
Your reasons
And resources.

Natural law dictates
For every action
There is an equal
And opposite
Reaction.

I am your exception
To this rule.
Nothing is equal
Tween thee and me.

I am relentless.

I will smite you
Hip bone and thigh.

I will be merciless.

Compression

Strange what is noticed
When the universe compresses.

She was rationalizing goodbye.

I unplugged
Not listening.

A button was missing
From her coat
Third from the top.

The midday sun haloed her auburn hair
Causing her to appear angelic
Beatific.

A honeybee hurried between us
On an invisible highway
Shoulder high.

From somewhere
U2 blared
I Still Haven’t Found
What I’m Looking For.

Her eyes misted
Tears forming
On each lower lid.

She reached for my right hand
But I withdrew.

She finally ran out of words
Like a geyser exhausts its steam
Then asked if I hated her.

The gathering tears
Slid down her cheeks.

I also had no words.

Across the parking lot
A man changed a flat.

Personal to Tim O'Keefe

Thank you for your comments on my work. "Aachen" is a lethal scene that harks back to my father's WWII service with the 2nd Armored. I truly believe that generation was our greatest, as said by Tom Brokaw in his memorable tome. I find it hard to imagine the brain-bending fear of knowing you were going to cross a river when the sun set, and that guns already trained on your position would then open fire. My God. Combat, in every detail, land, sea and air, is horrific and brutal.

As for A Chicago's Winter Eve, I once worked for the Illinois Central Gulf Railroad, as a tariff agent. In winter, I arrived at work in the early dark, and left my 27th floor office after dark. I'm very familiar with the emotions a person often had when looking down into Chicago's Magnificent Mile. I remember being overwhelmed at the composite of human drama in the vast scene at my feet. Down there, somewhere, was a girl with a sparkling new engagement ring, and another woman, devastated at the betrayal of her mate. There were people blossoming, while others wilted. There were happy men, in luxurious Mercedes automobiles, having that day, won a million at the Market, while others limped away completely broke. And there were the many, like me, in the middle, just waiting for the trains to run. It is as fresh in memory as though it had just happened. I do not miss it. It is a terrible thing to see the world through a God-sized lens.

Fiddle Dee Dee happened to me, but the recounted meeting across a table is imaginary. In reality her lawyer did the cutting. I did the bleeding. My ex, and the guy she left me for, were the financial winners. I learned that being in the right is irrelevant to our legal system. The lawyer with the biggest bite will win. I had no money because she cleaned me out. So yeah...the story is true. I'm not bitter (any longer). But I am educated as to the way the system works (and doesn't work). My ex I leave to God. I hope he is merciful, because I would not be. Okay...I admit to harboring a little bitterness after all these years.

As for Giving Thanks...my life has been in question so many times, to recount each incident would sound melodramatic. I am grateful for each breath.

Thank you, Tim, for reading my work. Anyone who returns as often as you is my friend! I hope others, reading this, will give your site a look as well. (Anyone who enjoys thoughtful, excellent writing can read Tim at Justordinarythoughts.blogspot.com). I must say, however, your thoughts are anything but "ordinary."

~ James

Giving Thanks

I raise my cup to Heaven
And my heart to the throne.

I raise my thoughts to the skies
And my ears to song.

I raise my hopes to the impossible
And my efforts to the task.

I raise body to renewal
And my soul to faith.

I raise my mind to the infinite
And my spirit to the eternal.

Fiddle Dee Dee

She sat across the table
And said nary a word
Though she’d protested loudly
That her voice be heard.

Her lawyer shuffled papers
And adjusted his soiled tie
As he peered over greasy glasses
Thinking he had bigger fish to fry.

I sat there by myself.
I could not afford representation.
I prayed hard and wished harder
For just a little bit of salvation.

The lawyer asked how much I made;
The gross amount bi-weekly.
I crunched some numbers in my brain
Shrinking into my seat, so meekly.

I explained I had a part time job
And it took everything I earned
Just to keep flesh on my bones
As I prepared to get burned.

“Perfect!” Exclaimed her lawyer.
"That’s all we need to know.
Just put all your income in the mail
And we’re all set to go!”

“But…but,” I said so boldly
“There’ll be nothing left for me!”
I gulped hard as the lawyer said
“We don’t give a freaking Fiddle Dee Dee.”

I now tell you all my story
In the hopes it will forewarn you
When you’re in a stupor over another
Be careful what you do.

Never make any money
And never ever buy a thing
Or you’ll pay thousands times more in spousal support
Than you ever spent on a ring!

A Chicago Winter's Eve*

At the crown of the world
On the twenty seventh floor
The city spreads below
Sharply defined
By amber street lamps
And diamond and ruby
Lights on taxis, cars and busses.

In the thickening snowfall
Even the lights blur
And soften their intensity.

This high
All traffic noise is mute
And the city seems at peace
Though this is clearly illusory.

The lake stretches into darkness
Toward Michigan’s distant shore.
Far out are marker lights
Of buoys and ships.
Three hundred feet below
White surf breaks
Upon Chicago’s frosty beaches.

Gazing back
In the dark window
Coffee mug to my lips
My gloomy image reflects
Thoughts loosely defined
In the murk and snowfall.

When I arrive home
I will shovel my walk
And clear my drive.

Oh, that I could do the same
With this freezing clutter
Piling my brain
On this hoary winter’s eve.

It is not as much
The cold outside
As the freeze inside
That chills the heart
And stills the mind.


* I tend toward melancholy. Don't mind me. My hope for all ya'll (smile) is that the happy spirit of the holidays engulf and enrich you in every good thing! I'll come around...always do. But I'm like an old snow blower. Prime my motor, give me a yank or two, and I'll sputter then come to life. Sixty one years in Chicago might make anyone a slow-starter!

Aachen

The river will soon speak
In fire and blood.

Until it does
It sleeps.

On the far bank
Men shelter.

Rifles, like branches
Jut in frigid air.

Bayonets, like thorns
Thirst for blood.

We wait for dark
To cross.

When night falls
Men will die.

Snow mantles the earth
Evergreens drape in its freeze.

Beyond the far shore
A shattered steeple pierces the gloom.

War has two seasons:
Dying and waiting to die.

We will lay down covering fire
Soon.

They will answer
Bullet for bullet.

We will kill them.
They will kill us.

A body floats face down between the banks
Its uniform uncertain.

But I know who he is.
He is all of us.

Communion

Her eyes stunned me.
I was without words.
They had never failed me before
But they failed me that day.

I learned some truths.

All true communication
Begins in the eyes.

All true communication
Is rooted in communion.

You may not have both
But you must have one.

If either one
Or both fail
Communication will be difficult
But possible.

If both are intact
Conversation is not required.

Without saying a word
She taught me those truths.
And though we have not had contact
For many years
We still have communion.

I can shut my eyes
And vividly see again
The fire in hers.
I can still see
Every single fleck
In her iris’s
Can still see more deeply
Than her biology
And into the core
Of whom she was.

That being true
What did it matter
The things said by
Our lips?

Cathy Died

Cathy’s desk was moved
To the back of the room
And draped in purple bunting.

The teacher made a short
Terse announcement:
Cathy died.

Cathy.
The sweet
Little round-faced girl
With freckles
Who always smiled
Always had nice things to say.

Cathy died.

There were no panels
Of counselors
To help us grieve.
It was simple and direct.
It was the first
Among my many encounters
With Death.

Cathy died.

Now open your math books.

I was eight years old.
More than half a century later
I still see Cathy’s desk
Buried in bunting
At the rear of the room.

Eight year olds do not die.
Unless they do.

Cathy died.

And somewhere
In my little child brain
We all died a little bit
Between the Pledge of Allegiance
And Arithmetic.

Apricot Moons

I listen to my pony’s breathing
Feel her hooves against the cold river rocks
Her muscles working
As we cross the shallow stream.

Blowing steam from her nostrils
It rises and dissipates
In the chill autumn air.

I mindlessly slide a hand
Along her silky mane
Telling her she’s a good mount
Assuring her we both will find rest soon.

I’ve a little jerky in my pouch
A little coffee
And far too many thoughts
Regrets
Too much to dwell upon
Along the banks
Of so placid a water as this.

In a few minutes
I will picket my pony
In the tall grass along the bank.

I will tuck into a likely place
My back against a big rock
Brew my coffee
Chew some jerky
Heat some beans
And watch the evening stars play.

A man alone is a dangerous thing.

It’s a dodgy matter
Being alone with memories
That challenge even the most sturdy soul.

She is somewhere behind me.
Somewhere beyond my left shoulder
Just under that rising apricot moon.

I still hear her breathing, too.
Feel her muscles working
My hands in her long hair
As I tell her all will be well soon
Tell her she is a good woman
That all I need do is cross
One more river
And very soon we can rest
And settle into a new life
In the tall grass
In the rich prairie
Along a slow river.

But that was a long time ago
And many miles distant.

Damn these thoughts
Damn this jerky
And damn those distant stars.

Sometimes
A man ought not stop
Ought not think.
Sometimes
A man is better moving
Until he cease looking over his shoulder
At apricot moons.

Her Arms

December Ice

She loves snows
Relishes winter
With the enthusiasm
Of a child
Huddled within sweaters
Scarves and mittens.

Hot chocolate is
To her
As wine
To the sophisticate.

She lights candles
At Christmas
Promising there would always be
One lit for me
Every holiday season.

It is right
She so love winter.

Her love is frozen in time
Glistening
Like December ice
Sparkling
Like tinsel on trees
Flashing
Like nativity stars.

My mind runs to her
When I see
Children sledding
Snowball fights
And twilight walks
Down bright holiday streets.

This year
I will open my coat
To the chill
Embracing winter
As though it were
Her arms
Pulling at me
Laughing in my ear.

Nothing But Honor*

Pinning
His battle ribbons
Upon his lapel
I stepped away
From the casket
Came to attention
And in the soft light
Saluted my father.

Honor answering honor.

Lying before me
Was the body
The casing
Of the man
Who gave me
A name
Who provided
A model
Upon which to construct
A life.

The tri-folded colors
He served
Rested near his head.

I held my salute
Long moments
Finally
Slowly
Stiffly
Returning my hand
To my side.

Later
Would I tell him
I loved him.

Later
Would I thank him
For his love.

But my first debt
Was one of honor.

I saw my father
Laugh
Saw him
Angered
Frustrated
Happy
Saw him
Kiss my mother
Saw him
Weary
But I never
Saw him
Fearful.
He had to have been.
But he never let me
See him
Shiver.

Honor.

That which lay before me
Was the vehicle
That transported my father
Across eight decades.
It was scarred
Worn
And thin.
But it accomplished its purpose.

Honor.

When I left him
In that military sod
I took away nothing
But memory
And left nothing
But honor.


* My Veteran's Day tribute to my father, Cpl. H.L. Woods, Co. C, 1st Army, 2nd Armored Division ("Hell on Wheels"), serving from North Africa, the Normandy Landing, and on through France, Belgium and Germany.

Personal to Nic E....

Thank you for your comment on Erosion. I would be pleased for you to try to put some music to it. I'll be interested to see what develops! And, thank you for reading my poetry by e-mail.
~ James

Erosion

You struggle
To recall my face
Although my eyes
You cannot forget.
In them
Is remembered fire.

My embrace
Could be that
Of any other
With the exception being
I held you in more
Than mere arms.

I held you in hope
In promise
I held you with purpose
And no other has ever
Touched you like that.

Time is a teaser.
It whispers my name
But takes away my face
Remembers my eyes
But robs you of my smile
Returns my words
But erases the sound
Of my voice.

It is disheartening
What time does
To erode the passions
Of remembered love.

How do I know?
Because it has done
The same
To me.

Wood, Hay and Stubble

Into the mind of every man
Who has labored
Under the sun
Comes the notion
That all is not permanent
All is at risk.

The growing fear rises
That a man’s hands
Cannot form a single thing
That can testify
The laborer was here
Was significant
Had merit.

A man’s hands
Become leathery
Calloused and cracked
After a life of endeavor.
It seems fair trade
For an honorable life
Fair trade
For value.

But a swelling apprehension
Rises like bile
In the throat
That there can be no
Assurance
That anything may stand
The test of time
That all may be but wood
Hay
And stubble
When tried in the fire.

With time running out
A man's hands work harder
Work longer
Hoping the application
Of a little more
Of the same old stuff
Will make a difference
And assure his legacy.

But the sun sets
The hands ache
And the head turns restlessly
Upon the pillow
Hoping for one more day
To add just
A little bit more.

But the clock ticks
Relentlessly.
And so the story goes.

Outside the Cafe

What were you thinking
That afternoon
Outside the cafe?
Your eyes
Did not betray your thoughts.

Your smile
Was pleasant
But reserved.

You shook my hand
And I thought how odd
Knowing soon the formality
Would evaporate
Like dew upon a morning petal.

Your voice
Was well-modulated
A business voice
Offering simple truths
Pretending interest.

You sat opposite me
Across a Formica table top
Leaning into your chair back
As far from me as possible.

Before the leaves dropped
So would all pretense.
Before the snow flew
So would all reserve.
Before the spring grass grew
So would love.

But what were you thinking
That afternoon
Outside the café?

The Company of Fear

Her body trembled
In my embrace
The enormity of her fate
Becoming formidable.

She was frightened.

I would have been as well
Except that
In this hour
She needed
Unshaken flesh
To contain hers.

Later
It would be my turn
To shake.

The sun traveled
The wall
Behind her
Until its naked glare
Reduced
To evening shade.

Her head
Buried in my chest
Finally moved
Her eyes
Finding mine.

It will be okay
I said
Embarrassed
By my insincerity.

No
She said
It will not.

She kissed my cheek

But thank you
She said.
I know you wish it so
But it will never be okay.

The next morning
She drove me to the airport
The depth and breadth
Of her emergency
Yet before her.

I never saw her again
But every time I see the sun
Transiting my wall
I remember the silence
Of those hours.

Like fading light
She has gone beyond time
And I am left
With the memory
Of her shaking
And the company
Of her fear.

The Earth

From above
The earth makes sense
Arrayed
In perfect geometry
Sliced by rivers, tracks and roads.

At eye level
Rows of grain blend
In confusions
Of random application
By plows and seeders.

Occasional clusters
Of brush and trees
Mark where once stood
Farm houses and ramshackle
Barns and sheds.

From above the earth
Is girded in mist
A modest skirt
Of virginal apparel
Lovely and engaging.

At eye level the earth
Is fragranced
With all manner of growing things
River-scents
And animal scratch.

I love the earth
In every presentation.
I am charmed
With its gritty reality
As much as by its romance.

From the windshields
Of Chevrolet or Cessna
Whether by the golden strand
Of its distant horizon
Or ebony highways

The earth is marvelous
In eye level joys
Its tractor and trailer days
Or prop wash at three thousand feet.
The earth is my home.

Saw Grass*

The saw grass whispers
Her name.

The wide
Treacherous terrain
Along the Powder River
Deceives the eye.

It seems level
Expansive
Causing the mind to assume
It a level plain.

But there are deep
Sudden fractures
In the land
Deep enough to hide
Many dog soldiers
With Spencer rifles
Decorated with brass studs
In walnut stocks.

They hold their lances down
As they work to encircle our troop.

Tonight
Before the stars wink
In the purple azure sky
Our scalps will hang
From their lodge poles.

I am afraid to die
In this wild
Crazy land
Where nothing is
As it seems to be.

Where the saw grass whispers
Her name.


* My mind seems fixed on this theme, as shown in this poem, and the one to follow. I often do not write what want. I typically express what seems to have worked its way within.

Lost Patrol

Like a great glaring eye
The sun is directly above.
My mount and I
Cast no shadow
But that immediately below.

Both near and distant cap rocks
Comprise the entire geography.
It is wild and terrible
But familiar
To the extreme.

Schooner clouds
Sail the chambray skies
Silently drifting
Like remembrances
Of lost patrols.

My chestnut mount is weary
But courageous.
Her muscles work
Under my thighs
Like faithful machines
Grinding relentlessly.

Behind me a corporal
Grips the staff
Of our banner.
There being little breeze
The colors droop listlessly.

I keep the company
From exposing itself
Against the sky
Holding to the contour
Of the land.

Enough water remains
For one day
All remaining sources
Being long expired.

Our blue tunics
Are the dusty color
Of the land.
No man speaks
The only sound
Being the regular plodding
Of our mount’s hooves.

I am far
Too far from Baltimore
And the embrace of my
Lovely Lenore.

Why does a man
Sign his name
To wear a plumed hat
And brass and nickel sword?
What is the exchange rate
On service vs. the comforts
Of home and hearth?

And what must it feel like
To die
Under a sky as unkind as this?

And how does one take the arrow
To his breast
And die a man
Whom only Lenore
And poets remember?

Courage by the Pint*

It went down smooth
But burned my throat
Then splattered my belly sore
Like the bursting of many suns
And, Lor’, I wanted more!

The dark brown bottle
Still held a splash
(Maybe nine or ten!)
So I drank some more
And I drank down more again.

By bottle’s end
I was feelin’ fine
And I loved this wicked brew
So I went back where I got it
And stole another, maybe two.

Call it liquid brains
Courage in a bottle
Call it romance by the pint.
It may look shabby by day
But it’s poetry by night!

Sure, it makes me wobble.
My speech will even slur.
I pr'bly will puke up my shoes
But that’s the way of real good likker
What some say is just payin' dues.

It goes down awful hard
But always comes out smooth.
I'm ten feet tall and bullet proof!
And I'll show you just how mighty I am
When I go flying off my roof!


* Nope. Not autobiographical.

Flash Fire*

Placing the small white pill
Under my tongue
I begged God
To let it work quickly.

Sharp
Burning pain radiated
All along the edges
Of my body.

Like a blaze
It was fast eating its way
To my interior
Roasting every cell it seized.

It felt like a dying.

I clenched my fists
Not just in resolution
But as though I could
By effort of the will
Squeeze the torment
From me.

The fire raged in defiance.
The fire found its voice:
I hate you.
I will kill you.
I will kill you now.

The searing burn
Erupted in
Flash fire.

I begged God for relief
As I chased the first pill
With a second.
With a third.

And I waited.

Minutes later
The fire won.

But I no longer cared.

I was far away
On the moon’s craggy
Talcum-dusted orb.

I saw my body
From a great distance
And pitied my writhing flesh.

But I was not there.


*Any reader who has suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury will understand perfectly. Can I get a witness?

Words

What you do not say
Is much louder
Than what you do say.

Your words fall
Screeching
Rattling
Like scrap metal
In a bin.

When you speak
I listen to the words
Between your words
To the sounds
You form in the words
You choose.

When you speak
I take great time
To reflect
Because I do not want to
Respond to what you said
But what you meant to say.

I do not want to
Answer your complaint
But the pain
Behind your complaint.

My silence
Is not silence.

My silence is response.

More Deeply

Come dusk
A man leans
On a fence rail
And considers the day.

Was the day's work done well?
What could have been done better?
What more needs done?
How much will it cost?
When should it be complete?

As the sun sinks
Into the horizon
A man is shrouded
In the deepening dark.

He thinks more deeply.

How has my body worn?
Is there energy remaining?
Is all I’ve done worth all I’ve given?
Has my life had significance?

In the deepest darkness
A man disturbs his mind
In an effort to probe
More deeply.

Am I loving well?
Have I given my best?
Will I leave something to lighten
The way for those following?

Just before the morning birds sing
A man hears an answer
That is higher than language
And interpreted only in his spirit.

The answer comes as mystery:
More deeply.

Give more deeply.
Hear more deeply.
Work more deeply.
Live more deeply.
Love more deeply.
Rest more deeply.

More deeply.

Vengeance*

Closely listen
You will hear the drums
Death is moving
It this way comes.

The crashing cannon
The rifle fire
It is too much
It is far too dire.

Unloose the warrior
Bridle the horse
Give answer to
The wicked one’s force.

Rain down hell
Let it fall wide
Let not one escape
Let not one abide.

Pursue! Pursue!
Let wicked blood flow.
Sound the trumpet!
Let vengeance roll.

* I wrote earlier of my repulsion with war. It is, in every regard, the very last recourse following the failure of reasonable dialogue. But there can be no dialogue with godless creatures like ISIS or Al Queda. When reason fails, the ambassador of bullets must follow. Just hours earlier another westerner lost his life at their evil blade. This poem (it does not merit such a peaceable designation) may have been written concerning the Napoleonic incursions, or Hitler's carving up of the European continent. But the horror of war remains with us. "Wars and rumors of wars" will come before the end, Jesus said. Even so, Lord Jesus, come!

A Better Place

Behind my eyelids
Is an intimate
Screen
Upon which is displayed
Every manner of sensory
Delight.

Last night
I journeyed in
A horse-drawn surrey
Across idyllic meadowlands
Into a leafy canopy
Of splendid timber.

My mind
Filled in the blanks.

I knew the presence
Of an unseen
Companion
That journeyed with me
Silently
Warmly.

I inhaled the zephyr of
Aromas.

Blond grasses
Freshly mown
Were bundled onto trailers
For storage as winter feed.

Wildflowers
In and out of season
Pale blue
Yellow and burgundy bloomed
Fragrancing the red clay road.

The regular clomping
Of my horse’s hooves
Counted cadence
To the passing of seconds
Minutes and hours.

No contrails
Unzipped the sky.
No jangle of devices
Marred the moment
No hurry
No distraction.

The destination
Was not the matter.
Every particular was contained
In the pleasant passage.

So unlike the buzz and bluster
The hurry and hoo-doo
Of contemporary transport
My imagination
Became a conduit of conveyance
Taking me to a place
Unreached by a century and a half
Of “refinement.”

I must close my eyes more often.

Transition to the soul’s
Better place
Is but a membrane distant.

The Recommendation

Illusions
Abound
Some lethal
Others harmless.

It is for the individual mind
To discern
Credible threat.

A harmless walk
In the sunshine
Is joy to the soul.

Resting
Half asleep
In one’s backyard
Is restorative.

Yet
Disaster lurks
Ready to pounce
On the unexpecting.

A stray bullet
Finds the head of a child
Playing
In his grandparent’s yard.

A brick falls
From a century-old church
Striking and killing
An innocent pedestrian.

All peace
All safety
Is illusory
In this fractured world.

No one may truly know
Whether the next moment may bring
Pleasure
Or pain.

The remedy?
There is none.

But there is a
Recommendation:
Live life to the fullest
Knowing that the sands
In the glass
Hidden to us
May drain at any time.

Live!
Love!
Laugh!

Disregard
The fear inherent
In this age of terror.

Live every moment
With tenacious enthusiasm
As though it were your last.
And thereby defeat
The lurid threat
Of this darkening age.

Merciless Patience

My grandmother
Chased wasps through her house
With a pair of scissors
In her hand.
Patiently she pursued them.

Suddenly
Like Arkansas heat lightening
She struck
Snipping a wasp in twain
In mid-flight.

It was both a chilling
And wonderful spectacle.
And it was a lesson
To her little grandson.

She taught me
To pursue my troubles
Rather than to hide
From torment.

And further
To initiate a pre-emptive
Strike.

Never wait for misery
To assail you.
Strike swiftly at misery.

This is, of course, impossible, unless
You have a pair of sharp scissors
And the merciless patience
Of my grandmother.

Secrets

Secrets may bind hearts
As surely as love.

Secrets shared
Are secrets compounded.

It is no longer the secret
But the secret that there are secrets
That knot the attachment.

Quietly held
The way evening holds shadows
Unspoken mysteries
Like darkening hues
Grow more potent
As time passes.

At an undetermined point
Parallel lines converge at infinity.
The secret
And those who held the secret
Become known.

The secret dissolves
And loses its mystery.
The power that bound the two
Instantly disappears
And its particle remnant
Is known as shame.

The two secret keepers
Once fast friends and collaborators
Now cannot tolerate the presence
Of one another

The world clicks
Its collective tongue
And a new secret is born.

The new secret is
That secrets themselves
Are not based in love
But desperation.

An Eager Student

What can you tell me?
Believe me, I’ll listen.
I’m you’re eager student.
Tell me what, why and when.

There is much I don’t know.
But I’m ready to learn.
I’ll receive all your teaching.
I’ll study every concern.

I sit in rapt attention.
Tell me all that you know.
I’ll take it and determine
The way I must go.

I’m watching your life
The way that you live
That I might make use
Of all that you give.

I will be your best student.
Make me as wise as you can
That I might grow tall
In the garden of man.

Guns on the Hill*

They put guns on that hill
Overlooking this straight
Polished cannons of brass
Gleaming, bright and ornate.

They put guns on that hill
To train on these narrows
Impervious to rifle shot
Lances and arrows.

They put guns on that hill
To rain down fires of hell.
How many were slaughtered
God only can tell.

Warriors climbed these slopes
With ropes, chains and claw
Only to perish
At the cannon’s fierce maw.

But all the guns in the world
Cannot prevent those
Who arise from within
To challenge and oppose.

As testimony, silent
The cold guns now stand mute.
The folly of war
Only fools will dispute.

*I have never been a "dove." In truth, I have been a "hawk" all my life. But I hate war. It is all foolishness and folly, and must only be waged with wise and prudent council. Once waged, it should be full and swift. But God forgive us all for creating a world in which freedom must be secured at the cost of blood, and the sacrifice of a generation of young warriors.

I Have Learned

I have learned
A man can sleep beside someone
And be utterly alone.

I have learned
You can shave a face
For sixty years
And not know
The man in the mirror.

I have learned
What touches the soul
Must touch the body
But what touches the body
Need not touch the soul.

I have learned
That true satisfaction
Is often wordless.

I have learned
The higher I sit
The further down I look.

I have learned
That music of the soul
May be tuneless.

I have learned
That the man
Who is your friend
Need not tell you he is.

I have learned
That the summation of life
Is always too early reckoned.

I have learned
The darkest clouds
Sometimes contain
The least rain.

I have learned
The best love-making
Is usually less energetic
And endures everlastingly.

I have learned
My best wisdom
And keenest insight
Was learned in childhood.

I have learned
The deepest
Most profound misery
Was inflicted
With a dull blade.

And I have learned
That nothing I have learned
Is final and absolute.

The Diner

In morning life
The Diner thrums.

Swirling
In sensory mosaics
Aromas mingle
Into amazements
Of coffee
Bacon
Eggs and buttery toast.

An auditory feast
Of clinking dinnerware
Plates
Cups
And conversations
Cresting
Then lulling
To crest again
The way the surf casts itself
Breaking
Onto tens of thousands of beaches.
To recede again.

Eyes rejoice in prisms of color
Brightened by morning light
Filtering through high clouds
And filmy café windows
Washing across a kaleidoscope
Of patron’s shirts and caps
And the hurry of servers
Lofting plates and pots
Like circus performers
Above their heads.

Tangled into a corner booth
Order taken
I watch faces
Eyes
And the quick movement
Of fingers hooked through cup holds
Of mouths hurriedly chewing breakfasts
Of waitresses and busboys
Of the leaving of dollar tips
And the jovial cashier
Making change and jokes
The retrieval of caps
Purses and coats
Feeling the cool autumnal air
Invade the inner warmth
As the glass door admits new
Hungry morning crowds.

I come to the diner
To immerse
Into lives
Webbed temporarily
By a common need:
The fellowship of food
The blending of motion
Splashes of living paint
And cacophony of noises
Fixed to a menu
Beyond that listed on paper.

It is a conurbation of hurry
Electrons of diners
Orbiting
A nucleus of victuals.

It is drama and comedy
Stewed and steamed
Into early morning delights.

All this
And coffee too!

Sunken Galleons

Sunken Galleons 

The sea and moon
Wrestle
Like midnight lovers
Tangled
In filigree foam
Like tangled sheets
Enfolding
Glistening bodies.

On my back
Eyes star-ward
I listen
To the passion
Rolling
In the great ebony deep.

Later I dream.

The voice of the sea
Murmurs wantonly
Begging
Promising
Becoming her voice
Words half-said
Sentences ill-formed
Knowing I understand
Even before her thoughts
Her desires
Fully express.

I match the tossing
Of the surf
Alone in my bed.

She was here.

Her scent lingers
In the brine of day.
But the dream
Dissolves
The way tides
Dissolve
Into vague memory
Returning again
When the lunar pull
Insistently draws.

In morning’s pale shine
The moon is a pastel orb
Blushing
Two hands above
The horizon.
It seems to evade the sun
In its flirtatious dance...

But the sea and moon
Will embrace again
In the roiling spray.

And I will reach
Into the night
Sorrowing.

She is forever lost
The way
Sunken galleons
Whose uncharted treasures
Are lost
In the dark
Salty deep.

The Plan

Over more than half a century
I developed expectations
Of my body.

It served me well
Answering every demand
Required.

I have pushed it uphill.
I have slowed its descent.

I have withheld adequate provision.
I have supplied more than required.

I have enforced extreme hardship.
I have allowed excessive pleasures.

But it betrays me.

Like a pilotless helm
It sometimes does not answer
The rudder
Setting me adrift
In a sea of need.

I often stumble
In modest incline.
I make use of a cane
To support my stride
No longer the man
Of confident gait.

My formerly well-lubricated form
Now pops and creaks
Groans and moans
When stressed.

I must take sleeping aids
To promote proper rest.
I rise hours before dawn
At the slightest disturbance.

My appetite flags
Before generous portions.
That which effected pleasure
Now seems like work.

Daily
My face appears a dim shadow
Of the confidence it once inspired.

What am I to do?

This is my plan:
I will celebrate the capable vehicle
And powerful engine
My body once was.

But from this time forward
I believe I will take the bus.

About & To "Nic E"...a Reader

Nic E is an amazing artist living in the UK, whose photography is incomparable. After visiting this site she made kind remarks concerning my poetry. It turns out that she is also skilled in music (No fair! Why can't I have multiple abilities?!). She has inquired about setting some of my work to music, which I enthusiastically endorse.

I encourage ya'll to visit her craft at AnInstantOutofTime.BlogSpot.com.

To Nic E...I would love to further your notion, and see what may come. Please write me at ColdRainAndWind@aol.com. Thanks!

~ James

Oh! *

Oh, what I saw
In Omaha!
What an amazing scene
Direct from a dream!

Oh, she danced
Nearly nude.
It was rowdy
And lewd!

Oh, she made
Me blush.
She gave such
A rush!

Oh, please don’t
Tell mother
Daddy, sister
Or brother.

Oh, I’m goin’ back
Some day!
Gonna take
All my pay.

Oh, gonna give that gal
My money.
Gonna make her
My honey!

Oh, please don’t
Tell mother
Daddy, sister
Or brother.

* This fanciful, humorous ditty rises from an over-the-road trucker I knew, who loved the Omaha run for reasons beyond his pay. As you may guess, he never got the girl. Oh, but, he did loose all his money.

The Dimming Day

The forest floor slants
At the angle of the setting sun
Lengthening shadows downhill
Dappled in purples and blues.

High in the bowers
Birds of prey await their meal
Searching movement
Among downed limbs and grasses.

The very air lives
With golden gleam
As mists collect
And dew is born.

Tonight a doe and her fawn
Will make their woody bed.
Stars will soon sparkle
Like embers tossed skyward.

Come day, the eastern horizon
Will blush tangerine.
The doe and fawn will rise
And earth will hurry again.

But in this moment
A hush is collecting
And the world holds its breath
In the dimming day.

Be Still, Little Darling

A morning will dawn
You will find me gone.
A day is coming
You will be alone.

A sky will darken
And you will miss me.
A midnight’s coming
You will feel like a refugee.

Be still
Little darling.
It will be alright.
Believe
Little darling
And hold on tight.

The day still dawns
The sun will shine
Life still makes sense
It’s the masterful design.

When you think of me
Remember and sigh.
Some things continue.
Some things never die.

Be still
Little darling.
It will be alright.
Believe
Little darling
And hold on tight.

Lion Tamer

I keep the pain
At bay
The way a lion tamer
Holds back the beast
With the legs of a chair
And a whip.

Pain must be taunted
Made little of
Or it will flare in rage
And tear one’s heart out
With mighty paws
With roars
And fury.

The tamer of beasts
Does so
With a cavalier spirit
Daring death
With glinting eye.

I tame the pain
Because I share the lion's cage
In which there is no door
And the bars too narrow
For escape.

I take up the whip
And chair
Because not to do so
Is to bare my chest to the lion
And submit
To its cruel pleasure.

It is not
Tame or be tamed.

It is tame or perish.

He Who Discerns

Suddenly
Without announcement
He was beside me:
The enemy.

As much surprised by me
As I of him
We both quickly
Recovered
To skirmish in mortal combat.

All combat is mortal
Unless it is immortal.

Let he who discerns understand.

There was clawing
For supremacy
There was growling
As menace
There was cursing
For bitterness.

It was brief
But it was final.

Let he who discerns understand.

At the end was exhaustion
Was the pulse of expended terror
Was the sweet knowledge I prevailed.

The victor is he who lives
To tell the tale.
But only to the few who bled
And make bleed.

Let he who discerns understand.

Light a Cigar

There are times
I wish I could just sit
In the dirt
Light a cigar
And say
“Damn!”

There are moments
I grow weary
Needing to lay my burden
Down
Shrug it off
The way a pitcher shrugs
The call for a curve.

There are entire seasons
I cannot remember why
I still care
Wanting to turn my back
To the world
The way a matador
Turns his back
On the bull.

But mostly
I want to sit
In the dirt
Light a cigar
And say
“Damn!”

Succor of Peace

There is a silence
Behind all the clutter
The busy-ness
That remains
The way the last blush
Of light stains western skies
On the down-going of the sun.

I hurry toward the hush
Needing the quietude
The way lovers need
The kiss
The co-mingling
Of affection.

It is not the absence
Of sound
As much as it is
The presence
Of peace
The presence
Of gentleness
The presence
Of dignity
Needing no assurance
But being that assurance.

The child finds it
In its mother’s arms
The lover
In love’s embrace.

You may find it
Between the notes
Of the best opus
Or between the words
Of masterful speeches.

Silence waits patiently
Unhurried
Knowing the time is coming
For its grand entrance
When it will be all that remains.

Until that time
I listen to the quiet
As succor of peace.

Personal Reflection on the Passing of Friends

Not to my sorrow only, but that most keenly felt by family and others intimate to their lives, is the loss of two friends in the last two weeks. The poetry of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, is a comfort. He pictures death as a "crossing of the bar." The "bar" is a shallow shoal in a bay, and the "moaning" of which he wrote is that sound made by the winds playing across the narrows. He likens it to the moaning of grief, but says "may there no moaning" when he passes. The poet notes that death is not a shallow hazard, but a deep, purposeful draught needing no fear. He speaks of his "Pilot," as one who takes the tiller and provides sure navigation. The poem I offer below, is Tennyson's beautiful work "Crossing the Bar." I hope none now grieve. But when they inevitably do, I hope this brief poem gives them the comfort it now gives me.

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

A Belated Note to George Gordon, Lord Byron

I keep a volume
Of your beautiful
Love poems

On the nightstand
Beside my

Bed.

They calmed
Me

Provided a
Keyhole
By which

I might view
With prurient

Interest

Your involvement
With all manner

Of females.

I say “females”
Rather than

“Women”

Because at least
One

Was twelve years
Young.

Twelve.

Your apologists remind us
It was a different
Time.

But twelve years young
Mr. Byron
Is always

Twelve years young.

Twelve.

Four thousand
Three hundred
and eighty

Days old.

Might I quote thee
Mr. Byron?
By day or night, in weal or woe
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.


Tis no wonder
Lord Byron
Thou must not show
Your truly

Silent ache!

She was
Twelve years
Young
Mr. Byron.

No longer
The masterful work
I once enjoyed
Your volume of

Lust poems

Now make a wonderful

Coaster.

Tutored by Snow

Snowy Tutorial

I remember pristine
Snow
Falling like filigree
From a buttermilk sky
Piling against fence posts
Blanketing sidewalks
Muting sound.

Christmas lights
Artfully decorating shrubs
And brush
Glowed softly
Beneath the freezing mantle.

I was a young man
Holding the hand
Of my first girlfriend
And the moment was
Magic.

Suddenly I understood
Life
Its complexities
Simplicities
Its random connections
And profound intentions.

But more than landscape
Was snowed that December eve.

It would be decades
Before I learned:

Poor choices arrive
In gleaming presentations

Warm bodies camouflage
Cold hearts

Beautiful music can hide
Discordant undertones.

I am getting older
More cynical by the hour
But wiser by the minute.

As beautiful as it may be
Sometimes snow is just snow.

Two Nouns

Door.
A noun suggesting
Restriction
Protection
Opportunity.

As a child
I was taught to respect
Closed doors
And I wondered at the irregular
Timing
At which my parents’ door
Was shut and locked.

Later
I grew alert
To open doors
And what secrets may be revealed
Were I to cross the entryway.

Doors
Became more
Than a slab of wood
With knob and lock.
They became things
Of adventure
And misadventure.

My life has been shaped
By doors
I’ve opened
And doors
I’ve sealed.

Wisdom
Comes to the one
Who knows
Which handle to palm
And which to avoid.

I am still a novice
At doors.

One night
I opened her door.
One day she closed it again.

More than a decade has passed
As I linger near her door.
I have not knocked
Nor has she opened.
Were she to do so
I am uncertain I would enter.

Every door has a threshold
A noun
Suggesting the point at which
Something begins
Circumstances change.

Only a fool
Would see the door
Ignoring the threshold.

Thresholds do not protect doors
But doors protect thresholds.

I have never tripped across a door.
But every threshold may conceal
A line of demarcation
That has power to destroy
A fool.

No Bells

No bells announced your going.
No cast iron tones served your herald.
News came by cold
Matter of fact
E-mail.

It seemed rude
Unholy
To learn of your passing
By the arrival
Of black pixels.

You were my friend.
We shared holidays
Celebrated birthdays
The accomplishments
Of children
Arrival of grand children.

How is it you’ve gone?

Two weeks ago
You sent me a message
Saying you were in town
Asking whether
We might meet for coffee.
I asked pardon
Being otherwise busy.

It now seems cruel
The casual way
I begged off your invitation.
Maybe next time
You said.
I now more understand
That futility.

Though we lived far apart
The world now seems
More hollow
Colder.

The world has much changed
From the time it was common
But how is it no bells announced
Your passing?

Personal Thoughts on ISIS Murderers

Sometimes I feel the need to step beyond the intent of this blog to address happenings that cannot be ignored. The murder of James Foley at the hands of Islamic militants must cause righteous anger to rise in the hearts of any caring, thinking person. It inspires me to lift this ancient prayer of King David...

Psalm 139:19-22
If only you, God, would slay the wicked!
Away from me, you who are bloodthirsty!
They speak of you with evil intent;
your adversaries misuse your name.
Do I not hate those who hate you, Lord,
and abhor those who are in rebellion against you?
I have nothing but hatred for them;
I count them my enemies.

The Lesson

I was a little boy
Very much wanting
To be like my father.

Look nobody in the eye
My father told me.
Looking people in the eye
Is to challenge them
And to challenge them
Is to fight them
He taught.

I spent years
Avoiding eye contact.

The few times
I made contact
Were accidental.

Even after that person
And I
Separated
Were miles apart
I continued to feel the watery fear
Making my legs weak
My breath shallow.

As a young man
A day came
Eye contact was unavoidable.

American cities flamed
That summer.
Distrust and fear abounded.
My eyes
And those of another
Met.

I felt the raw challenge
In the electric stare
Pulsing from eyes
In the face of a black teen.

I stared back fiercely
Unblinking.

He did the same.

I furrowed my brow
To appear menacing
To seem ready to fight
To go to war.

He did the same.

We passed one another
On the sidewalk
Each allowing the other
Wide berth.

Passing my adversary
Head on the swivel
I kept my eyes on target.

He did the same.

I remembered my father's lesson:
Avoid eye contact
Or be ready to fight.

His did the same.

We might have been friends
But that we had eyes.

The Invisible Tiger

I awoke this morning
To its familiar
Insistent
Guttural growl.
The invisible tiger
Lay heavily across
My lower body
Wanting me to feel
Its voracious appetite.
The first move
On my part
Would be countered
With brutal savagery.

I remained still.

The invisible tiger
Chewed on my
Lower right arm
Slowly
Deliberately
Wantonly.

I remained still.

The invisible tiger
Lay a heavy paw
On my sternum
Making it difficult
To breathe.

I moved slowly
Painfully
Trailing misery
Like great streams
Of oily blood.

The invisible tiger
Smiled.
How he loves the game.

I swung my legs
Over the edge of my bed.
The invisible tiger
Sunk its teeth
Into my right side.

I dragged the beast
To my medicine chest.
I fired into it using
Large caliber
Full metal jackets
Of pain killers.

The invisible tiger grinned.
I’ll be here
He said.
I will always be here.

And I will be hungry
Said the invisible tiger.

Steaming and Strong

I sit in the coffee shop
Back to the wall
Like a beached Marine
Against the sea
Daring all comers
Hoping to remain
In the shadows.

A new book
Opens before me
Its pages fresh
Papery pure
Creamy
Midnight ink scribing
Ancient wisdom.

It’s mysteriously
Wonderful
Transformational
How coffee strengthens
Understanding
Underlines
Truth
Heightens
Perception.

But knowledge
Is a jealous lover
Unwilling to share time
With frivolity
Distraction
Or even innocent
Conversation.

Pour it slowly.
Fill it fully.
Take it hot and black
Steaming and strong.
Savor every drop.

Take your coffee that way too.

Sweet August Night

A sweet August night
A sheen of sweat
On her chest
And condensation
On a glass
Of sweet tea
With a hint
Of bright lipstick
On the brim
Make deep
Memory
And pleasant hours
Sitting beneath
A melon moon.

Beyond the limits
Of our yard
Float the
Om-pa-pa
Of Mexican music
From a garage party
Down the block.

A small dog
Yips
And a child
Laughs
Just as she says
You know I love you.

I swat a mosquito
And ask
Do you want a refill?

Flee*

The finger’s on the trigger
The hand is on the hilt.
There can be no full accounting
For the blood that will be spilt.

Comes the galloping Pale Rider
To stir the dust within the camp.
Coming too, the Grim Reaper
With death’s finger, cold and damp.

The cruel, black veil is falling
Over the boundaries of the world.
All so soon the coming judgment
Will, like a fireball be hurled.

Flee now to the mountains
If it seems good to you.
Run into the deserts
If that is what you choose to do.

But no amount of running
Will stop the horseman’s path
When the God of Battles rises
To distribute his righteous wrath.


*Having closely followed the devastation of ISIS in northern Iraq, and Syria, and the incredible tales of atrocities coming out of that region, I am ever-more certain that a just God will not long permit this effusion of blood. But I am also sure that judgment is not confined to these monsters, but will come to all who do not love grace, and fall upon a merciful God.

Reply to Comments on "Five Minutes"

Tim,
Thanks for your comment. You are so encouraging. And, yes, we have all had those moments when we fear, but deep within the challenge has already been accepted, and the only thing remaining is to engage the action and overcome. At this age, however, I would never attempt the things that, as a younger man, I accepted. I still have challenges, but walking an icy ledge is not among them!

Ron,
Um. I think you have accepted the same challenges as I. Maybe more so. What I'm trying to say is...
you are the next chapter, little brother!

Anonymous,
Please don't misunderstand...the challenge in "Five Minutes" was not an appeal to suicide. It was in screwing up enough courage to do a job I was paid to do, in order to provide for my young family. Had I not made that climb, there would be no paycheck. And worse, the company for whom I contracted work would simply stop tossing work my way. So, in a real sense, the reality was that, had I not finished my assignment, there would be no groceries, rent, utilities, and the loan on the truck I'd purchased for work would go unpaid. No truck, no job. So, all those things made me determine to climb through those wires, walk that ledge, and finish my job. Nothing heroic here either. It was all about family, and being a provider. We all do that every day.

Five Minutes

Do it
The inner voice said.
You know you can
It insisted.

The ledge was ice packed
And only accessed
Through a maze
Of electric wires.

If you walk away
You’ll always feel a failure.
You’ll never know
If you could have completed
The job.

I sat in my truck
My hands under the heater
Staring at the icy ledge
Thirty feet in the air.

If I survived the electric lines
I might yet slip from the ice.
I would fall through those deadly
Wires.
I would be dead before
I hit the ground.

Do it
The inner voice said.
You know you can
It insisted.

I closed my eyes and prayed.
My hands trembled.
I felt light-headed.
My stomach churned.

Do it
The inner voice said.
You know you can
It insisted.

There were bills to pay.
My baby needed formula.
My family needed food.

I pulled on my gloves.
I strapped on my belt.
I tightened my boot laces.
I walked to the metal ladder.
I looked up at the crisscrossing wires.
I focused on the ledge of ice.

Thirty feet is not far.
Thirty feet can be lethal.
Electricity will be fatal.
It will all be over in five minutes.

Do it
The inner voice said.
You know you can
It insisted.

I thought of a co-worker
Who fell through the wires.
I remembered his widow.

Five minutes.
Thirty eight years ago.

A Cottonwood Lesson

I staggered out of our double-wide
Hoppin’ up on the tailgate of my ‘ol truck
With head in hands, full of misery
Contemplatin’ my fate, destiny, and luck.

You took every stick of furniture
Even took my ‘ol hound dog, Blue
Emptied all the money from our cookie jar
Took everything we had, old and new.

Dang it, girl, I know where you went.
You’re chasing down that four lane double nickel.
You’re pointing’ your little Chevy south
Red lips poutin’, like you’ve been suckin’ on a pickle.

I sat there, both hatin’ and cursin’ you
Talking to myself, with a hitch in my voice
When a shout like lightening and thunder
Told me I had to make a choice.

I lifted my eyes to the heavens
Askin’ God what he wanted of me.
He commanded me to go cut myself a switch
And I would very soon see.

So, I unsheathed my deer knife
Went over to a big ‘ol cottonwood
Cut myself a long, green switch
Thinkin’ if a pole could catch trout, this’n should.

God and I went down to the fishin’ hole.
I brought us some hooks and a spool of line.
I dug up some big, fat, juicy worms
That I believed would suit us fine.

About that time God spoke again.
He said I’d picked the perfect tree
But he and I weren’t goin’ fishin,’ he said
And the Lord bent me over his knee.

He took that switch I’d selected
And gave me a good old fashioned spankin’.
He said all the havoc in our marriage
Was of my very own makin’.

He said he’d see you give me one more chance
To make our marriage work.
He also said I had some growing up to do
Be a man, and stop actin’ like a jerk.

So, baby, here I stand on bended knee
Hopin’ you’ll take me back again.
Seems I only thought I had all the cards
But this ain’t a game I wanna win.

Baby, please come on back with all our stuff.
And don’t forget to bring my ‘ol dog, Blue.
Bring back whatever’s left in your cookie jar
But most of all, babe, don’t forget to bring back you!