Kansas

Buffalo once roamed
This prairie
So thick
It seemed the very land
Was alive in undulations
Of herds moving.

Buffalo hunters
Cattle drovers and soldiers
Arrived
Followed by pioneer families
Who built crude soddies.

This land is virtually soaked
With the blood
Of animals and men
Choked with shock
Grief and despair.

Civilization
Requires a hefty deposit
In blood.

Every sunrise
Dawns upon improvement.
Every new day arrives
With expanded hope.
Progress comes in pockets
Not shovels.

Long ago
I would have squatted this patch
Of chance
With a Henry rifle
And sharp knife
To earn the three dollar price
Of a buffalo hide.
I would have stank of sweat
And coppery blood
Slathered in guts
Meat and tendon.

Today this same land
Is crossed with utility lines
Telephone poles
And highways.
It has been sterilized
Even gentrified
And its gory history polished
Until gleaming with myth.

But if you care
You may softly caress the earth
To feel ancient reverberations
Of pounding hooves.
You may smell the rancid piles
Of hides rotting in the heat.

I caution you…
The past is hardly past.
Just beyond the rise
It waits to join you
In a new blood-letting.

Dear Anonymous Commentator,
Thank you for your kind words, and for reading The Ice Queen (March 12, 2014).. To answer your questions, the woman I wrote about was a true love, whom I have not seen in many, many years. She is the subject of an imaginary reunion, in which she cannot show me the love she once so freely shared. She is the "Ice Queen." In time past, she was everything but that. Of course, I miss her very much. But time goes on for all of us. It changes us at our core. But the old passions remain sweet, and cherished in memory.
I would love to see her again, but cannot actively seek her out. I've learned to not kick down doors time has wisely sealed. Although, to be honest, to learn of her life these years later would be wonderful. Memory is an incredible thing, isn't it? In my memory she's still here, and always will be. I hope she reads my poetry, but unless she tells me, I'll never know. One can hope.
You suggested I have had many loves. Well, a gentleman can't rightly affirm, nor deny that, can he? It's the old "kiss and tell" rule. She was an amazing lady, and I'm certain still is. I hope she still thinks well of me.
Thanks again for reading. I hope you'll come again.
~ James

Eggs and the Cardinal

A cardinal
Clad in bright
Scarlet feathers
Perched on a rail
This morning
Beyond my kitchen window.

His sharp singular chirp
Followed by another
Another
Then a successive chain
Of others
Drilled my brain
As an awakener
Forcing me to look beyond
My morning coffee
And the eggs frying in the skillet.

His Mohawk-trimmed head
Turned in quick jerks
Until a tiny black eye
Seemed to connect
With my own eyes.
We studied each other
For several moments.
Maybe he thought my actions
Strange
When understood against
The context of
Cardinal mannerisms.

It is not necessary
To understand
That which is simply meant
As marvelous.

The cardinal hopped a bit
Along the fence rail
A light wind playing
Along the layers
Of his crimson feathers.

He seemed to nod
As though to wish me well
(Though I know that is just my opinion)
Then he took flight
Seeking anything
More interesting.

Perhaps he was disturbed
By my choice
Of eggs
For breakfast.
Or maybe he was showing off
His ability to fly.
Or he may have been embarrassed
Strutting
For an old guy
In boxer shorts and a tee shirt.

His gallant red slash
Against a blue denim sky
Was breakfast for my soul.

Nevertheless
I ate the eggs.

Without a Bookmark

She was like a book.
A freshly printed edition
Of fine literature.
An amazing story
That stirred
And riveted my attention.

Every turn of the page
Was a gain
And a loss
Of equal proportion.

She was a story
That brought great pleasure
And deep sorrow
In the realization
She was slipping from me
With the turn of every page.

Her scent was papery pure
Her body as white as the open pages
Seemingly aglow in the window's
Bright light.

The ink of her story was indelible
And black as midnight against the page
A story of amazement and passion
A story of bittersweet romance
And tender expression.

Her very touch was a new chapter
An escalation of promise
But also a drifting away of her presence.

Her story was bound in the finest cover
Her title scribed in flecks of gold.

All her edition lacked
Was a bookmark
To remind me
Where I was in the unraveling.

Years later
Her book rests
In the library of my heart.
I rarely retrieve it
Because the tale
Is too painful.

Her's is
After all
A narrative
And without a bookmark
I loose myself in the account.

But the truth is…
I simply love the weight of it
When it rests
Open in my hands.

The Tick of the Clock

I do not want this
But the draw is irresistible.
I feel the blood in my veins slow
As if to pool.
The breath in my lungs
Still
To the faintest
Respiration.

All the world seems to pause.

A handbreadth above
The western horizon
The blazing orb
Is swallowed by a hungry mouth
Of dense clouds
And has no more glare
Than the sides of a blast furnace
In the din of manufacture.
It is a dirty light
In a dirty sky.

I want to think
Of pleasant things.
I want to study the warmth
On my back
And the lush spring grass at my feet.
I want to drink deeply of the energy
I know must be here.

I want to live.

But as the sun comes to ground
Good is in the shadow of bad.

I know it is not true.
I believe the structure
Of the universe is in sure command
And tomorrow the sun will rise
And breathe life into the whole world
And this amazing light
Will resuscitate me.

I live in the tick of the clock
So tomorrow is a leap of faith.
I will eagerly await
The blush of dawn
In tomorrow’s sky
But the night will be oppressive
And long.

Come
Morning.
Come
Quickly.

I believe.
Help Thou mine unbelief.

Tell Me

Tell me.
I am listening.
I have been waiting for you.

Tell me.

I need to understand.
What is it you’ve been feeling?
I need to know.

Tell me.
Where did you go?
Will you ever return?

Tell me.

I ache for perception of you.
I yearn to understand your life
Your hidden ways
The path you have chosen
What you see when you awake every morning.

Tell me.

Do flowers grow outside your window?
Do you rest beneath the shade of a favorite tree?
Is there a coffee shop that’s earned your patronage?
Do your arms shelter a puppy?
Are there songs you must sing?

Tell me.

I starve for knowledge of you.

Please tell me
Do you ever think of me?

Tell me.

Shake!

There are moments
I shake my body
In a vain effort
To dislodge the
Pain
That grips me
Constantly.

I know it is of
No use.
But this mighty urge
To toss this monster
Is anything but logical.
It is primal.
It is a reaction
In the same way a dog shakes
To shed water.

Except
For the dog
The effort
Is successful.

For me there is only
Laughter
Emanating from the pain
Itself.

You see
I have assigned my pain
A personality.

It is an ugly
Red-eyed
Massive creature
That has its teeth in my body
And shakes me
The way I would
Shake it.

Here’s to my fellow sufferers…
Shake!
Do it in the knowledge it is
Of no use.

Shake anyway.

Do it as protest
Do it as defiance
Do it as you would raise your fist
In rebellion against the pain.
Do it as a way to
Register your self determination.
Do it as insolence toward your tormentor.

Even action taken in hopelessness
Is better than
Useless surrender.

Shadow Lands

Thunder rolled across
The barren fields
Last night
Speaking but once
Then was silent.

But it was enough
To stir me
Enough to open my eyes
To the shadow lands
Playing upon the wall
And ceiling.

Strange
How thunder stirs the soul
Strange
How the mind travels time
Strange
Its deep reverberations
Strange
Its peculiar dance
In the shadow lands.

I listened for a second peal
But none followed
Except the thunder
Of memory.

Remembrance burst
Like the echo of storms
Upon stone canyons.

Sleep is impossible
When the shadow lands stir.
I buried my face in my pillow
And followed the traces
Of memory
Both kind and cruel.

The shadow lands are for
Visiting only.
No wise man would ever
Own property there.

Fair Warning

I feel it
This deep
Dangerous current
Flowing from my belly
Transiting my veins
Boiling my blood.

I keep
This knowledge
As silent as midnight
Rarely acknowledging
Its truth.

But it’s there.

Rage as certain
As frost in November
As sharp as a tinker’s blade
As hot as the fire of the forge
As extreme as venom
In the mouth of the cobra.

It remains sheathed
Behind my smile
And holstered
In my good nature.

There is no danger
To family and friend
Nor to the innocent
Sharing the pathway
Of blended shadow.

But touch the one I love
Disturb the soil I’ve carefully tilled
Throw my world into disarray
By wanton aggression
And I promise you
No bandage will staunch
The flow of misery
That will issue from
What remains.

Evermore

Looking into her
Unknowing eyes
Returned me to those
Of a distant time.

The one
Into whose eyes
I looked
Were not the ones
Looking back.

An ancient memory
Bubbled to the surface
Like a spell
From a cauldron
And I was taken
To one
Whose eyes
I cannot forget.

I’m sure it was unnerving
To my visitor
And I am sorry for that moment
Of awkwardness.

It was most disconcerting.

I could smell
The dampness of the grass
Upon which our blanket spread
Hear the caw of a crow overhead
Feel the tussle of the breeze
And the unnerving tease
Of that long-lost summer day.

Even the scudding clouds
Sailing the horizon
Were as the passing of a fleet
Full assail
Then as now.

I wagged my head
In vain effort to dispel
That vintage memory
Hoping to reengage
My innocent and unknowing visitor.

But, oh!
Her eyes were
The vehicle of transport
Removing me
To that distant day
When her flaring eyes
Burned the retina of memory
And seared her image
Into my view
Evermore.

Scattering

The universe neither knows me
Nor seeks to know me.
She does not regard what I think
What I’ve done
Nor does she intend to do so.

The universe is ambivalent
Concerning me.

Though I have made considerable effort
To draw her attention
She enthusiastically ignores me.
It is not that I am dead
To the universe
It is that I have never existed
Nor ever will exist.

I have sent signals
Messages
Launched flares
Kindled fires
Proffered deals
Wooed her
Pled with her
Bowed my knee to her
And behaved salaciously
Concerning her.
Still the universe ignores me.

I’ve developed my last strategy.
Beginning now
I will act as though the universe
Does not exist.
I will return ten-fold
The humility she has exacted
Upon me.

I have shamelessly pursued the universe.
Now she must chase me.
It will be
A kind of collapsing back
Upon myself
That may get her attention.

Perhaps that is what the big bang was…
A massive ploy
To attract by scattering.

Now I will scatter
To see what may be gathered.

I Will be Free

My spirit claws my flesh
To be free.

My flesh presses my spirit
For containment.

Neither is successful.

The contest will be decided
At a future time
When the rains swell the streams
When fires burn the sky
When winds lash the mountains
When the seas yield their dead
And the land and the sky storm
In a convulsion of smoke.

Then will I be free.

Unrepentant

I am the unrepentant
Cherokee
Whose tears stain
The long trail from
The ancient homeland
Whose back strained
At the point of Jackson’s
Bayonet
To mourn beneath
Your western sky.

I am the unrepentant
Confederate
Who never furled
His colors
Who set his jaw
At your impudence
Who faded into the
Woodland
Of your society.

I am the unrepentant
Sharecropper
Who did not accept
Your terms
Who did not profit from your
New Deal
Who wore his ragged jeans
The way you did
Your gaudy ties
Who scratched his way
To life on his
Terms.

I am the unrepentant
Protester
Who raised his fist
Into the smoke
Of your cities
And refused to die
For your Industry
Grit and urban
Gehenna.

I am the unrepentant.
Forever unrepentant.

And I will not yield.

Delicate Petal

Open to me
Delicate petal.

Offer me
The marvel
The lovely mystery
Of you.

Sweet creation
I desire you
As one transfixed
Before the wonder
Of you.

Gentle flower
Fill my nostrils
With your intoxicating
Aroma
And set me spinning
As a hummingbird
Seeking your nectar.

Open to me
Delicate petal
That I
Only I
May know the wonder
Of you.

Wings of the Condor

There comes a breaking
Sometimes
That cracks open
My soul
Laying me exposed
And bare
Before mortal eyes.

I resist the swimming
Within my skull
As the universe collapses
Falling
With devastating consequence
Demanding I answer
The shame
Of it all.

I cry for mercy
For clarity
In the fog
For a light
In the darkness.

I submit
To the pain
Within the growing
Numbness
I yield
To the vast
Emptiness
Spreading like the wings
Of the condor.

Then comes
The breaking.
The shock
Pressing like weights
From the great void
The breaking
That suggests
Seduces
Insinuates
Then demands
The price
Be fully reconciled
And I become
Carrion
To the bird of prey.

The Night of Snows

All is silent
In the night of snows
Hushed
As a bride is hushed
In the moment
Before intimacy
As a groom is hushed
At the consummation.

All is silent
In the night of snows
Still
As a mother is still
With her child
At her breast
As a child is still
At her mother’s cooing.

All is silent
In the night of snows
Wearied
As a man is wearied
At the close of day
As the day is wearied
When the sun falls
Below a horizon of snows.

All is silent
In the night of snows
Sleeping
As the earth sleeps
Blanketed beneath billowing skies
As the sky sleeps
In the hand of God
Silent
In the night of snows.

From Beyond the Footlights

These years later
My memory drapes you
The way your cotton gown
Once draped
Your enticing young body.

Every nuance of your frame
Was suggested
Against the summer fabric.
It stirred against you
With the lightest
Breath of sky
And I eagerly strained
To see what my eyes
Were always privileged to view
Within
And without the fabric.

Now you have given me
The privilege of memory.

You danced for me
Lover.
Every step you took
Was a ballet
Every turn
A pirouette.

When you stooped
It was as though
You were taking applause
From an audience of one
And the roses I threw
Were the kisses I gave.

I fear there is no return engagement.
I don’t even have a play bill
A signed memento
Or silken kerchief.

Ah, but I have your memory
Dear girl.
And it drapes you well.

Perhaps somewhere
You hear
Even faintly
A cheer
From beyond the footlights.

I hope it pleases you still.