A Moment in Midnight

A single candle’s glow
Resisted the night.

The soft buttery gleam
Glazed her face.
Her body
Backlit by the tiny flame
Spoke of quiet beauty
Precious as spun gold
And burnished bronze.

Her half-opened eyes focused
On an indefinite
Distant point
While her fingers
Slowly twirled dark tresses.

I would have interrupted.
I wanted to tell her
How lovely she is
How I desired her
But doing so would be
Intrusive.
It would break her charm
Nestled like a bird
In the nest of the moment.

I contented myself
In the mystery
Of her silent gaze
Wondering where
Her heart had fled
Hoping her journey
Would return her again
To me.

Almost Five Seconds

Mustang and rider froze in mental snapshot.
It remains in sensory detail.

I smell rank manure
Littering the corral’s red soil.
Heavy in moisture-laden noon heat
Powdery dust suspending
Talcum-like
Lightly coating everyone
Everything.

Midday heat pressing down
Sheens of sweat glistening man and beast
Cotton shirts affixing to skin.

The melee of sounds were astonishing.
Cursing snorting grinding thundering.
Stringy muscles bulging in the mustang’s arched neck
Withers, torso and flanks
Etched in well-defined strength.
Straining just beneath his flesh
He snorted
Blustering and blowing mightily
In desperate buckings
He did all possible to master the corral
And dislodge his momentary rider.

Never had the mustang been ridden
And never would he be!

High atop the steed
Leaning forward
Eyes inches from the horse’s flying mane
One hand wrapping reins
The other twirling and flashing
Through the air.
The rider whooping
Hollering screaming
Responsive to rhythmic detonations
Propelled by the mustang's legs
Which never had more than two
On the ground at any moment.

The horse was a sunfish
Twisting in the air
Seeming to take flight
Then splashing again into whirling dust
Beating a tattoo with mighty hooves.

Watchers
Eyes shaded by wide brims of hats
Squatting atop the corral’s fence
Shouting over the combat they witnessed
As men unable to divert attention
From the struggle before them.

ONE! TWO! THREE SECONDS!
FOUR SECONDS AND FI....
It ended.

The thrown cowboy
Landing ingloriously upon hands and knees
In sprays of red dust
Grabbed his tossed hat
Then scrambled to safety.
The mustang
Satisfied with his win
Trotted calmly to a rail
To which he had been previously tied.

A little harmless cursing
Some soft laughing
And an “Aw Shucks, Jeb. Git ‘em next time.”

It was
Doubtlessly
The most amazing
Almost five seconds of life.

But I would rather gnaw cactus
Than ever saddle Sunfish
For a twirl around his corral kingdom.

A Remembrance

Rising from hard packed soil
The shell of the old Dodge
Sprouted as a rust blossom
Of truck weed.

Years of sun
Wind-whipped sands
And ten scores of ages
Of snows and ice
Reduced its paint
To that little retained
In creases and contours...
A dull cornflower blue.

Sharp edges of its shattered glass
Caught and reflected the dazzle
Of a climbing sun.

The old work horse was abandoned
Sightless
Dismal.

Tall grasses sprouted from
Its engine compartment
And missing floorboards
As green exclamation points
Of lost history.

Ghost emblems
Arched the doors:
Rowling Camp & Sons.
Whoever they were
And whatever they did
Was lost to record.

Leaning against a fender
I breathed grease and oil
Even the scent of age
Hung in the air
Penetrating the fragrances
Of the prairie
Upon which the Dodge slumbered.

Everything
Sinks into soil
Leaving a hole in the air
A remembrance
Of what had been.

What Time is it in Detroit?

You cut the right forefinger
Off your glove
To better curl around the trigger
Of your Garand.
Hopefully the action has not frozen.
You continue to blow your warm breath
On the receiver
But then you fear the vapor might freeze on the slide
And you’ve made things worse.

You fear your breath
Rising like steam
Will betray your position.
But if you can't see them
How can they see you?
They aren't supermen after all.

Just within the range of your rifle
A heavy mist has settled.
If they are coming
You won’t know until they’re too close.
Hopefully their equipment will clink
And give away their surprise.

You have to piss so bad it hurts
But if you try to go
That’s when they’ll come
So you hold it.

You don’t remember when you last ate
A warm meal
But what you really crave
Is a cigarette.
The glowing ash is too dangerous to risk
So you push that need away too.

You re nineteen years old.

The fog enhances sound
And you think you hear German voices
Out there.
And beyond the voices
You hear Panzers on the move.
Their engines roar and their treads clang.
To you they seem dragon-like
And you shudder involuntarily.

Shit.

Shit, shit.

The Sergeant hears them too.
He's an old man at twenty six.
He looks at you from his hole
Ten yards to your right.
He taps his helmet and shrugs.
You nod in response.
You both hear them.

It begins to snow.
You think of home
And the snows of Christmas past
Of sledding with your friends
Down Powel’s Hill.
You think you smell your mother’s cookies.

To your left
Freddie clears the action on his heavy .50
And you think any German out there
Surely heard that.

Shit.

Down the line
On both sides
You hear boys clicking bayonets
Onto their rifles.
You do the same.

Somebody out there
In the milky white
Coughed then laughed.

Too damn close.

Then you dimly see ghost forms
Clad in white camouflage
Break through the mist
Stepping slowly
And hunched over.

An instant before you hear
The first ferocious bursts
Jet past your left ear
You see the blazing yellow orange blossoms
From the muzzle of an automatic weapon.
The infamous Schmiesser.

Christmas Eve.

What time is it in Detroit?

The Hanging Road

As a kid
Living out in the country
I spent many nights
On my back
In the grass
Gazing up into
The Celestials.

I remember marveling
At the Milky Way
Its billions of stars
Planets
And heavenly bodies.
It was a star speckled sash
Across the breast of night.
I was always wide-eyed with wonder.

The Cheyenne and Lakota call it
The Hanging Road
Believing it to be the path traveled
By spirits departing this life
For the other.
I understand their estimation
As I think back
Upon my own astonishment.

I guess The Hanging Road
Got canceled by the network
Or repossessed by the bank
Or maybe it’s simply
No longer a source of wonder
Having been replaced by
The NFL, the NBA or MLB.
We seem much more interested in
The Stanley Cup
Victoria’s Secret models
Hover Boards
And who did what to who(m).

I’m going, though.
To The Hanging Road, I mean.
I don’t know when, or how
But I am going to walk
The bright path
Play Kick the Can with stars
And twirl around planets
Like Fred Astaire twirled around lamp posts
While Singing in the Rain.

I mean it.
I am going.
Close your eyes
And go with me.

My End of Year Rant*

I have a device in my cell phone
Insuring I will never get lost.
And yet, that is precisely
What I want to be.
I yearn to go somewhere
Where the street names
Local scenes
And stuff of life
Are completely unfamiliar.

I am weary of spirit
Living in a world
With vanishing edges
Where everything
Even regional accents
Have been homogenized.

You can sleep in any hotel
Eat in any restaurant
(With or without a "Drive Thru Window")
Watch any newscast
Shop any mall
And you could be
Anywhere in America.

The points of the compass
Are nothing but reference points
Without cultural significance.

The athletes on any pro team
All come from other states
Even other countries
Attracted not by regional pride
But by dollar signs.

I was born out of time.

I am supposed to be on horseback
Somewhere west of St. Louis
And south of Des Moines.

I am supposed to live without
House slippers
Microwaves
A GPS
Laptops
Cell phones
And toll booths.

I know
I know…
Life would be difficult
Hazardous
Full of privation.

That’s okay.
It would also be a life of flavor
Of passion
And purpose.

That’s all I have to say.
Now..…is there anything on television
On any of my 948 channels?


* This is not a poem. I never intended it be. It is a rant. Every so often I push one button too many, and get all out of sorts. Life is far too fast. I just micro-waved a cup of water (90 seconds, on high) in order to make a cup of instant coffee. And, to make it worse, I got upset that it took me nearly two full minutes (120 seconds, by gosh!) to produce my coffee. That's the moment I got all "electrified" inside, so I wrote the above. It ain't pretty. It ain't no poem. It ain't memorable, and will never be shown to anybody after you read it. This is just my way of flipping out. I'll be okay....and that's mostly the problem. I'll get over it.

Who You Is

I don’t need me no new hat
And I got some good 'nuff boots.
About them city-fied suits and ties
I don’t give two hoots.

I got me a good saddle
To throw across my trusty pony.
All the stuff they say a cowboy needs
Is mostly pure baloney.

I got me a sweet, red-haired gal
Far down Austin way.
I see her every now and again
And she spends all of my pay.

I keep company with a short-haired mutt.
He ain’t no particular breed.
When I’m out on the trail alone
He’s all the pardner I ever need.

Got me a passable Remington
I keep tucked down in my pants.
Them fancy tied-down holsters
Is mostly storybook romance.

Reckon I'll make a fire tonight
Tether my pony and set up my camp.
My dog and me will sleep together
To ward off the chill and the damp.

Being a real cowboy these days
Is pretty much a quiz.
It ain’t so much about what you do
As it is about who you is!

The Click of Detonation

Detonation

Silence occupied the room. 

Nothing

Not even as much

As the hiccup of a mouse

Was heard.

Complete and total silence

Prevailed.

As did tension.

In a millisecond

Just before the detonation

Of a bomb

There is a tiny metallic

Click.

This is the detonator

Charging the explosives.

No living person hears this.

Were you to notice the click

You are already dead.

I heard that click

At the back of her throat.

The movement of her tongue

Against the soft pallet

Of her mouth

Charging the detonation. 

“I hate you.”

Detonation.

Everything changes
In that second.
There is
What came before
And what came after.
But what came after
Will never again be like
What came before.

The explosion vaporized everything.
All memory
Of pleasant times
Loving times
Hopeful times
Times of joy and celebration
All destroyed
At the click of detonation.

Grandpa’s Christmas Wish*

She always loves
This time of year
With trees and lights
And songs of cheer.
Hot chocolate to sip
And candy canes
Houses softly lit
Behind window panes.
As Christmas carols play
She decorates our tree
As I play with grandkids
Balanced upon my knee.
Christmas Eve night
Presents will all be set
Beneath the tree
And every wish be met.
As for myself
All of my wishes
Is for a honey baked ham
And someone to do dishes!
I know what you’re thinking…
What a silly verse!
But I assure you, Reader
Grandpa could do worse.


*For over 30 years, my custom is to do the Thanksgiving and/or Christmas dishes, including the gooey mess of related pots and pans. I figure that's my contribution to the production. I take no particular pleasure in the chore...that's why it's called "chore." Come on, all you men who read this blog..."man up," put the apron about your manly loins, grab the scrubber, sponge and towel, and get in there, up to your elbows. Still...if somebody else volunteered to tackle the task (they never do), that'd be great!

Peggy*

Here she lies
Old Peggy
My steed
My faithful mount
My companion
My friend
Along many a weary path
And lonesome lane.

We chased our shadows
As one being
And not two.

Where I slept
Peggy slept.
I ate my beans
Drank my coffee
With but my small fire
And her
Munching nearby
Upon sweet grass
Oats, when I drew my pay
And the occasional apple.

We knew both
The sands of coastal dunes
And blistering desert days
And frigid nights.
We knew
The cobblestone of fine cities
And packed clay
And muddied ways of mine towns.

We sang the doggies quiet
‘Neath pale moons.
We forded streams
And swam rivers.
I sometime slept in the saddle
While Peggy navigated the dawn.

We dodged Lucifer's bolts
Hunkered 'neath drenching storms
And watched blue St. Elmo's fire
Flicker across bull horns.

But here our journey ends.
Here Peggy lies
Returning to the earth
From whence she came.

I will have another horse.
Another mount will wear her blanket
Another girth
Will feel the cinch of my saddle.
Another steed will take her bit and bridle.

But there will ‘neer be one as she
Who knew my mind and heart
So well as did Old Peggy.

Rest here, old girl.
Perhaps we may again
Run Elysian fields
Beyond the thunder heads, high.


* See 'The Sorrowful Man' in the right side column. In this shifting world, there is yet an enduring tie between man and beast. May it ever be.

Restless Moon

It all fell suddenly…
The mountains on the moon.
Standing in frigid
Stark winter fields
I felt caught in the debris
Of distant tremors.

This is impossibility.
Shaking myself
I tried to disengage
To repossess my rationality.
Nevertheless
I wait in the empty land
Beneath
The dirty coin moon.
She stares at me
Through elongated eyes
Like a gilded Greek icon.

The moon probes
My wayward heart.
She knows
There are places
I’d rather be.
She knows
There are places
I must never go.

Perhaps the moon
Yearns to change her orbit.
Maybe she
Would rather strike across the cosmos
Eager to, once again, be
Thought a goddess
Rather than an arid
Lifeless disk.

We went to the moon
Plundering her secrets
Robbing her of romance
Leaving her naked
Before our critical gaze
Having mapped her mountains
And wandered her valleys.
We are travelers
Of her terrain
And she offers no further allure.

A virgin no longer
She is nothing more
Than afterthought
And nothing less than
A dry, dusty vacuum
About whom nobody write poems.

I understand her
And she sees me.

Maybe the moon is restless, too.

To Protect and to Serve*

I have learned
The oath
To Protect and to Serve
Is less an oath
Registered in roll calls
And pay vouchers
As it is one
Registered in Heaven.

An eternal oath.
A costly oath.
An oath encased
Within Divine Records
Impossible to void.

I have tried.
I have asked to be dismissed
From responsibility
Complaining I had already
Given enough
Bled enough
Cared enough.

I explained my weariness.
I suggested others are
More capable
Younger
Smarter
Eager to serve.

The answer was firm.
It came as a simple response.

Request denied.

Standing there
I had nothing further to say.
I retrieved my burden
And walked back.
Back.
Not away.

The call
To Protect and to Serve
Is without repentance.
It is a life-long commitment.
It may
Or may no longer wear a badge.

But it cannot be surrendered
Or recanted.

It is forever.


*Every parent who loves a child, every marital couple, even every pet owner (no, I'm not kidding) is expected to Protect and to Serve. You may walk out on your responsibilities, but your responsibilities never diminish, nor disappear. Although the phrase is found on patrol car panels, it is expected that all those who love someone, or something, is expected To Protect and to Serve. That's how I see it.